Tempting the Laird Page 7

  “Good Lord,” Furness said. “Do you mean—”

  “Aye, I mean precisely that, milord,” she said quickly before he could say aloud who these women were. “Women who have been cast out, along with their children.”

  That was met with utter silence for a long moment. Mrs. Wilke-Smythe looked at her husband, but he was staring at Miss Mackenzie.

  Privately, Hamlin marveled at her revelation. The sort of charitable work she was suggesting she did was the kind generally reserved for Samaritans and leaders of the kirk. Ladies of Miss Mackenzie’s social standing might embroider a pillow or collect alms, but they did not generally participate in a manner that would put them into direct contact with such outcasts. Or at least, they would not house them. It appeared that Miss Mackenzie was more than a pampered woman of privilege.

  “What do you make of it, Montrose?” MacLaren abruptly asked him. “Seems the sort of thing you’d run across now and again in the Lords, does it no’? Social injuries, poor morals and the like?”

  “They donna have poor morals,” Miss Mackenzie said, her voice noticeably cooler. “Or if they have poor morals, it is because the poor morals were forced onto them.”

  MacLaren ignored her, his gaze on Hamlin. “Well? What would you say to someone with Miss Mackenzie’s passion for the depraved?”

  “They are no’ depraved!” she said, her voice rising.

  “Yes, your grace, what do you say to it?” the countess asked him.

  One reason Hamlin was intent on gaining a seat in the House of Lords was to address social injustice, to move Scotland forward, away from the rebellions of the past. Change was needed. Many people had been displaced by the rebellion, he knew, but even he was taken aback by this. Women and children living in a run-down abbey? He glanced at Miss Mackenzie, who was watching him without any discernible expectation. He realized she didn’t care what he thought of it. That also intrigued him. “One canna dictate or impose on the charitable intentions of another, aye?”

  “One can if it’s wrong,” MacLaren said.

  Miss Mackenzie’s gaze narrowed slightly, and she looked away.

  “For God’s sake, Rumpel, take that arrangement away, will you?” Norwood complained. “I can’t see Cat from here.”

  The butler moved at once to remove the offending peonies.

  “Catriona is a philanthropist,” Norwood continued, looking around at them all.

  “Philanthropy!” Countess Orlov suddenly laughed. “Of course, that explains it! I understood something much different, but now I understand it plainly. The Orlov family is among the greatest philanthropists of Russia.”

  Miss Mackenzie’s face had turned a subtle shade of pink. “’Tis no’ philanthropy,” she said low. “My family is verra generous with their resources, aye, but ’tis a wee bit different for me. I verra much want to help them. By the saints, I donna understand anyone who’d no’ want to help them. Their lives have unfurled in ways through no fault of theirs, and life can be verra cruel to women, it can.”

  “Oh, dear,” Mrs. MacLaren muttered despairingly. “Do you mean that life has been cruel to you, then?”

  “To me?” Miss Mackenzie clucked her tongue. “No’ to me. I’ve had every privilege. But to women born to less fortunate circumstances, aye? Women without a family fortune to gird them, aye? I’ve wanted for nothing in my life, no’ a thing. But these women? They’ve wanted for compassion and love, a place to call their own. They’ve wanted food for their children and shoes for their feet. Some of them have come with hay stuffed into their shoes to keep the damp from seeping in. Can you imagine it, any of you?”

  It was the height of indelicacy to speak of these things at a supper table, but Hamlin found her response to be intriguing and, frankly, righteous. Everyone needed to understand the inequalities that existed in their world.

  “I wouldn’t know about that, but life has certainly been cruel to me,” Mrs. Templeton said bitterly, prompting Norwood to pat her kindly on the hand before she swiped up her wineglass and drank. Mrs. Templeton seemed to have forgotten she was dressed in silk and dripping in jewels. She clearly didn’t understand what cruel meant.

  “What madness is this?” Furness demanded of Norwood. “How is it your family has allowed one of your own to...to consort with such women and in such a public manner?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but my uncle doesna speak for me,” Miss Mackenzie said calmly, although the color was high in her fair cheeks, and her grip of the table so tight that Hamlin could see the whites of her knuckles from where he sat. “Griselda Mackenzie, God rest her soul, turned an old abbey into a safe haven for the forlorn and the lost, aye? I donna know all the circumstances that brought these women to Kishorn, but it never mattered to her, it did no’—what mattered was that they’d lost their husbands and fathers and brothers, with no one to provide for them, or had escaped situations in which their bodies were used for the pleasure of men.”

  Mrs. Wilke-Smythe gasped with alarm. Her daughter’s eyes rounded.

  “None of them had a place to go, no’ until Zelda revived the old abbey for them.”

  “But that’s...that’s hardly proper,” Mrs. Wilke-Smythe said uncertainly.

  “Neither is it proper to leave them in the cold with no hope,” Miss Mackenzie retorted.

  “But what do you do?” Miss Wilke-Smythe asked, clearly enthralled by this unexpected side of Miss Mackenzie, while her mother withered in her seat, clearly undone by the world beyond ivy-covered walls. “Do you mean you are with them?”

  Miss Mackenzie let go her grip of the table and touched a curl at her neck. “Aye, I am. I see after them, that’s what,” she said with a shrug. “I see that they have all they need.”

  “My niece is to be commended,” Norwood said firmly, but it was clear to Hamlin that few others in this room, with perhaps the exception of Vasily Orlov, shared his view. “Frankly, it is unconscionable that there are those who would cast out these women and children from the safety of an old abbey when they can’t properly fend for themselves,” he continued.

  “Who would cast them out?” asked MacLaren.

  “Highland lairds,” Miss Mackenzie said. “They donna like them so close, aye? They can find no pity in their hearts, can see no value in them. They view them as hardly better than cattle.”

  “How do you presume to know what is in the hearts of the lairds?” Lord Furness demanded.

  “Englishmen, too,” she continued, ignoring him. “They want the land for their sheep. They mean to seize the property. The Crown has determined it forfeit.”

  “On what grounds?” MacLaren asked gruffly.

  “I’ll tell you the grounds,” Norwood said grandly. “My niece will not tell you the whole story, I’m certain of it. Her aunt, who I may personally attest was as daring a woman as I’ve ever known, and if I might say so, quite beautiful,” he added wistfully, “in her own way assisted the Jacobite rebels who fought to overthrow our king by hiding them when they fled to escape the English forces.”

  There were gasps all around, which Norwood clearly relished.

  “Treason!” MacLaren uttered.

  “Uncle, perhaps you ought no’—”

  “Perhaps they ought to know the truth, darling.”

  Hamlin’s curiosity about this abbey was entirely kindled. He had not been on the side of the Jacobites—he was loyal to the king. But like most Scots, he was not particularly fond of the English and their ways.

  “This woman’s aunt was a traitor to the king and the Crown,” Furness said angrily, pointing at Miss Mackenzie.

  “Furness, for God’s sake, man, she was a benevolent,” Norwood said impatiently. “When the rebellion was put down, and these men faced certain death, she took it upon herself to help them escape with their lives instead of seeing them slaughtered. Find fault with it if you will, but I think it a very noble thin
g to do for one’s countrymen.”

  No one argued with Norwood’s impassioned defense, but Hamlin privately wondered if it was truly noble to aid traitors, no matter if they were countrymen.

  “Shall I tell you what else?” Norwood asked, leaning forward now, one elbow on the table.

  “No, Uncle Knox,” Miss Mackenzie said, sounding slightly frantic.

  But Norwood had the room’s rapt attention, and Hamlin knew he would not relinquish that attention. It seemed even the servants were leaning a little closer to hear his answer.

  “Our own Catriona Mackenzie helped her.”

  “Airson gràdh Dhè,” Miss Mackenzie muttered, the meaning of which was not known to anyone in this group. “I beg you, Uncle Knox, donna say more!”

  “She’s a daring girl in her own right,” he said. “Her own father expressly forbid her to associate with known Jacobites, and yet my beautiful, compassionate niece could not let those young men die! She brought many of them to Kishorn herself.” He sat back, nodding at the looks of shock around him. Miss Mackenzie looked as if she wanted to crawl under the table. “What’s the matter, darling? You’re not ashamed, are you?”

  “No!” she said emphatically. “But you are needlessly distressing your guests, uncle.”

  “They’ve no grounds for distress!” he proclaimed. “I will have you all know that I mean to help her. What sort of men are we to punish a woman’s true compassion? Is that not what we all seek from the fairer sex? The Lord Advocate contends the property is forfeit for housing those traitors a decade ago, but by God, I shall have something to say for it.”

  Miss Mackenzie groaned softly and bowed her head.

  “And what have you to say for that, Montrose?” MacLaren challenged him. “Is the property forfeit?”

  “I’ll no’ pass judgment on events for which I donna have all the facts, sir, and I’ll no’ do so here for your entertainment.”

  A ghost of a smile appeared on MacLaren’s lips. If he wanted to find reason to deny him the vote, then so be it. But Hamlin would not be goaded into making a pronouncement on Miss Mackenzie’s good intentions.

  “I beg your pardon, Lord Norwood, but what have these women to do with the rebels?” Miss Wilke-Smythe asked.

  “You see, don’t you, my dear, that once the rebels slipped away, it was only natural that women and children who had lost their protectors and providers to the same battlefield and desertion would follow? And once they were gone, others who had no place to go, no way to feed their children came behind them. It was a noble calling that Zelda and Catriona undertook.”

  “I would argue that,” Furness sniffed. “Seems rather foolhardy and ill-advised to me. Precisely the sort of thing one can expect to happen when one leaves aunts and daughters to their own devices without proper arrangements for marital supervision.”

  It was quite obvious to Hamlin—and everyone else, for that matter—that Furness’s misogynistic view of a woman’s place in the world irked Miss Mackenzie, because her head came up and her sparkling eyes fixed like a pair of burning lances on the old man. Hamlin was not surprised by Furness’s stodgy views—he doubted the doughy English nobleman had ever risked as much as a hair on his wig for a cause in which he believed. But if Furness couldn’t agree with her mission, he might at least commend her for her conviction.

  Miss Mackenzie suddenly swept up her wine and drank long from it, then put the goblet down and leaned back in her chair, her gaze averted from the table, as if she was longing to be anywhere but here.

  The sour Mrs. Templeton seized the opportunity to pounce, as well. “I daresay Miss Wilke-Smythe would never be caught riding about with rebels,” she said haughtily. “Here is a young lady who is very well accomplished in the ways a debutante ought to be.”

  “More’s the pity. She looks the type to be quite diverted by it,” Norwood said with a chuckle.

  The lass’s parents both gasped, but Norwood continued without a thought. “But she is indeed an accomplished little songbird. Will you not amuse us with a tune on the pianoforte, Chasity?”

  “Aye, you must,” Miss Mackenzie said, and stood so abruptly that all the gentlemen had to hasten to their feet. “Shall we retire, then, ladies, and leave the gentlemen to their ports and their cheroots and judgments of us? Donna leave us alone too long, lads—we’ll be without proper supervision, after all.”

  The gentlemen stared at her in quiet astonishment, but Norwood smiled broadly. “Just so, just so,” he said, and to Furness, “What did I tell you just yesterday, Furness? My niece is a quick-tempered woman.”

  If Furness made a reply, no one heard it, for the women were walking out, Miss Mackenzie leading the way, her gait determined. As they moved into the corridor, Hamlin heard her laugh rise up.

  The lass was not quick-tempered. She was quick-witted. And she did not appear to allow fools to dismay her for more than a moment.

  Hamlin couldn’t help but admire that in a person.

  CHAPTER SIX

  CATRIONA HAD SUSPECTED Furness was an old swine, and tonight, he’d confirmed it. Now that she’d taken his measure, she’d not waste another moment fuming about him. That was another thing she’d learned from Zelda—never spend a moment of precious sunlight on the likes of him.

  She and the other ladies entered the drawing room, where Catriona very unceremoniously collapsed on a settee. The Wilke-Smythe women retreated to the far end of the room and pretended to examine the sheets of music there, no doubt thoroughly scandalized and concerned they’d tarnished Chasity by virtue of being in the same room with Catriona. She knew very well how the English viewed things—Catriona’s mother was English.

  Mrs. Templeton examined a few books on the shelf. She’d made it clear from nearly the moment Catriona had stepped off that coach that she didn’t care for Catriona’s appearance at Dungotty, no doubt because it divided the attention Uncle Knox had apparently been giving her. Mrs. MacLaren sat on a chair near the hearth and picked up a poker to stoke the embers.

  Countess Orlov was the only one who dared to speak to Catriona, sidling up to her to sit daintily beside her. “What guile you have, Miss Mackenzie. I would not have thought you the sort to take such dangerous risks.”

  Catriona eyed her with reservation.

  “I am impressed,” the countess said. “Were you frightened?”

  “Frightened?”

  “Of the rebels. Were they perfectly awful?” she asked, her eyes glistening with anticipation of Catriona’s answer.

  “Oh, no, I wasna frightened. I was intoxicated with excitement.”

  Of course she’d been frightened. She’d defied her family and risked her own fool neck. But she’d been caught up in the wake of her aunt Zelda’s fierce loyalty to the Highlands.

  Her answer seemed to please Countess Orlov. She leaned closer and whispered, “Then you enjoyed it, no?”

  Catriona blushed. She sat up. “It was a verra long time ago.”

  “Were they very handsome, these rebels?”

  Diah, those men had been as frightened as her, running for their lives. “I beg your pardon, but the circumstance did no’ make it possible to study their faces, aye?”

  “Oh,” the countess said, and sagged back against the settee with disappointment. “I suppose not. Nevertheless, I can’t help but admire what you’ve done. I pity those poor women. I had to send a maid away once when my husband had impregnated her.” She shrugged a bit. “I don’t know where she might have gone.”

  Catriona stared at the countess. It was a callous remark, said without the least bit of emotion. How many had come to Kishorn after being tossed out on their arse by a lord or lady who no longer had any use for them? “I can only hope she made her way to Kishorn Abbey, aye?”

  Countess Orlov smiled a little. “I rather suppose she didn’t survive the Russian winter.” She stood up and glided away.r />
  If Catriona could have fled that room without disappointing her uncle, she would have. She didn’t want to be near these people. She stood and moved restlessly about, her fingers trailing over the furnishings, and was only brought to a halt when Miss Wilke-Smythe said breathlessly, “I can’t bear it another moment if I don’t inquire—what do any of you make of the duke?”

  Five coiffed heads turned toward the lass.

  “Chasity! You’ve only just made his acquaintance,” her mother said. “None of us know him well enough to pass judgment.”

  Catriona would have bet all she had that every one of them had already passed judgment.

  “Well, I rather like him,” Miss Wilke-Smythe said. “And I think him quite handsome.”

  “He is much older than you,” Countess Orlov said, and fidgeted with an earring. “I, too, find him quite appealing, but he must be near to forty years. Has he an heir? If he has no heir, he must be desperately in want of a new wife.”

  “Countess Orlov!” Mrs. Wilke-Smythe said sternly.

  Countess Orlov shrugged.

  “You donna believe he killed his wife then, aye?” Catriona asked idly.

  “I do,” said Mrs. Templeton without a moment’s hesitation. “You can see it around the eyes. They’re too dark.”

  As if the duke could control how black his eyes were. Catriona turned her head so no one would see her roll her eyes.

  “And he’s very cold in his demeanor,” Mrs. Templeton continued. Apparently, she believed she knew him well enough to pass judgment. And a lot of it. “He’s scarcely said a word.”

  “Well, it was rather impossible,” said Mrs. Wilke-Smythe. “Miss Mackenzie took up a fair bit of the table conversation.”

  Catriona laughed at the slight. “’Twas no’ I, madam. ’Twas your curiosity that filled the time.”

  Mrs. Wilke-Smythe lifted her chin and pressed her lips tightly together. But she did not deny it.

  “I mean to discover the truth about the duke,” Catriona announced to Mrs. Templeton’s back. “It is passing strange to me that a man’s wife can go missing and no’ a thing is done about it. What of her family? Have they nothing to say?”