Highland Rogue, London Miss Read online

  “Papa, I’m here,” Catriona whispered as she sat on the edge of the bed beside him. She took his hand and held it gently, like the dutiful daughter she was.

  Like the loving wife she would be.

  “I fear his lordship has lost the capacity to speak,” the doctor said quietly, and his grave expression told them he didn’t expect the earl to last much longer.

  Nevertheless, the earl’s eyelids fluttered—or rather, his right one did. His left, like that side of his face, stayed immobile, and the left side of his mouth sloped down.

  “Papa?” Catriona said again. “Can you hear me?”

  His eyelid moved again, this time opening a little. His gaze meandered for a moment before focusing on her face.

  “Papa, I forgive you,” she said softly, and sincerely.

  Esme had believed she would never, ever admire or respect Catriona McNare, but she did then, and forever after.

  She also felt both proud and humbled when Jamie stepped forward, put his hand on Catriona’s shoulder and, with compassion on his face and in his voice, said, “So do I, my lord.”

  There was a fleeting flicker of recognition in the old earl’s face, a moment when Esme was sure he knew who had spoken and what he had said, before the old man closed his eye and let out a long sigh.

  The doctor checked his pulse, then shook his head.

  “Oh, Jamie!” Catriona cried, turning toward him.

  Jamie held her close as she sobbed, while Quinn gently tapped on Esme’s arm. “I think we should wait below,” he whispered.

  She nodded her agreement and together they left the room, and the couple reunited at last.

  The earl’s butler, who had obviously been waiting by the door, stepped forward when they walked out. “Has the earl gone to his reward?” he gravely inquired.

  “Yes,” Quinn replied, taking hold of Esme’s hand. “I believe he has and I only hope he gets what he deserves.”

  The butler frowned for a moment, then assumed an appropriately funereal demeanor. “I shall, of course, be pleased to stay on if the countess wishes.”

  “I’ll mention it to her if she asks,” Quinn replied. “I daresay she has other things on her mind at present.”

  The butler nodded. “The earl’s solicitor is waiting in the drawing room, my lord. Lady Duncombe summoned him, as well. Shall I tell him to return tomorrow?”

  “No, we’ll speak to him and apprise him of the earl’s demise,” Quinn replied.

  Chapter Twenty

  Before proceeding down the stairs, Quinn drew Esme into another bedroom. The drapes were drawn, so they were in the dark, just as they’d been on the terrace, a realization that made Esme’s heart thrum with the most inopportune desire.

  “I suppose it’s necessary, but I have no wish to discuss anything with Mr. McHeath,” Quinn muttered. “I’d rather stay here with you.”

  “I’d rather be alone with you, too, but this is hardly a suitable location.”

  “You’ve come up with the perfect argument again,” Quinn noted with amusement in his deep voice. “This is what happens, I suppose, when you fall in love with a lawyer—or a woman who should have been.”

  Esme felt overwhelmed with gratitude and pride. There probably wasn’t another man in a million who would accept her other passion without quibble or protest. “At least now we can be sure Mr. McHeath wasn’t involved in any wrongdoing,” she said, “although I never really believed he was.”

  “You are far too trusting of those in the legal profession, my dear.”

  “Not at all,” she replied, running her hands up his chest. “I’ve heard too many tales of legal wrongdoing. However, I’ve learned to trust my own instincts, and I felt in my bones that he was an honest man.”

  “Then I shall learn to trust your instincts and your bones, too,” Quinn said as he drew her close enough to kiss, “although there are certain other parts of your body I believe I shall enjoy more.”

  “Quinn, you wouldn’t! Not here!”

  “I didn’t mean here and now, and I must say, if that’s what you were thinking, you are far more adventurous than I ever imagined.”

  “It’s not what I was thinking!” she hastened to assure him. “Not until you pulled me into this room and when we have such news to impart.”

  “Indeed,” Quinn agreed, letting go of her with obvious reluctance. “A day of shocks and surprises.”

  “Yes,” Esme said quietly, remembering the stunned, vacant expression on Quinn’s face when he’d heard about his brother and sister-in-law’s death. “I’m sorry about Augustus and his wife.”

  “I am, too, and that I’ll never have the chance to reconcile with him, or my father,” Quinn said sadly. He sighed, then managed a little smile. “I was also sorry when I thought my letter had brought Jamie to Edinburgh in such haste. I was sure he’d send for you and make you go back. I should have realized that there hadn’t been enough time for my letter to arrive and him to get to Edinburgh.”

  “Quinn?” Esme said in a small voice.

  Puzzled by her tone, he pulled back to try to get a better look at her face in the darkness.

  “I have a confession to make. I intercepted your letter to Jamie.”

  “Intercepted?” he repeated warily.

  “It never left the house,” she confessed. “I took it from the hall table before it was posted. I feared Jamie would want me to go back to London, but I wanted to stay here, with you. And since your fears proved unfounded—”

  “I wouldn’t say that just yet,” Quinn interjected. “We still don’t know who dropped that lantern. Despite what the good Mr. McHeath suggested, I assure you that I wasn’t in the garden with a lantern, or another woman.”

  “I know that, Quinn. And speaking of Mr. McHeath, I think we’ve kept him waiting long enough.”

  “Aye,” Quinn quietly agreed.

  When they entered the drawing room, they found Gordon McHeath, his hands behind his back, marching back and forth on the carpet in front of the marble hearth like a soldier awaiting his marching orders.

  When he saw them, he came to an abrupt halt and his brows rose. “Where’s Lady Catriona?”

  “Upstairs,” Esme said, moving toward him. “Her father has passed away.”

  As Esme sat in a delicate gilded chair, the solicitor’s expression flickered with dismay before he assumed what she recognized as a lawyer’s dispassionate mask. Quinn stayed where he was, halfway between the door and the hearth, as if, even now, he didn’t care to get too close to Mr. McHeath.

  “She wrote in her note that he had taken ill,” the solicitor said, “and her handwriting suggested…” He cleared his throat, then spoke in a more normal tone, albeit with sympathy. “How is she taking it?”

  Quinn answered before Esme could. “Better that we might have expected, but I suppose we could put that down to the arrival of her fiancé.”

  The poor man rocked back on his heels as if he’d been hit, confirming Esme’s suspicions that his feelings for Catriona weren’t strictly professional. “She is engaged?”

  “Yes, to the young man she wanted to marry years ago,” Esme said. “Please, sit down, Mr. McHeath. We have other news to impart, as well.”

  “Other news?” he asked as one in a daze as he sank onto the sofa.

  “Yes—good news. It seems the earl was lying about his financial difficulties. He confessed as much to Catriona this morning.”

  “This morning?”

  “After he was taken ill,” Quinn said.

  “And she told you?”

  Esme looked at the young man with compassion. “Yes. You see, Mr. McHeath, that was one reason we came to Edinburgh. Catriona has been afraid her father was being swindled and she wanted help to discover the truth.”

  McHeath shot to his feet. “She asked you, not me? Good God, she didn’t trust…?” He looked even more upset as he exclaimed, “Surely she didn’t think I—?”

  “I’m afraid she couldn’t be sure about anyone in E
dinburgh, so that’s why she wrote to my brother,” Esme explained.

  “Your brother?” Mr. McHeath repeated. “Who the devil is he that she would write to him?”

  “Perhaps, my dear, further explanation can wait until another time, when emotions are less fraught,” Quinn suggested.

  Thinking he was right, Esme nodded her agreement just as Jamie and Catriona appeared on the threshold. Catriona’s eyes were red and puffy, but she nevertheless looked happy.

  McHeath stiffened as his gaze swept over Jamie before coming to rest on Catriona. “I’m sorry for your loss, my lady,” he said stiffly, “and that you felt you couldn’t trust me. If you still doubt my honesty—”

  “I don’t! I never really did,” she said as she left Jamie and went to him, looking up at the solicitor with her soft, gentle eyes. “But I couldn’t be completely certain. I know that you have…certain feelings…for me, and I’m sorry if anything I’ve done has hurt you.”

  Mr. McHeath stepped back as if he feared contagion. “I understand that your affections have been otherwise engaged,” he said as he bowed. “I…” He took a deep breath and when he spoke, it was with a little less bitterness and more sincerity. “I wish you every happiness, my lady.”

  “Thank you, Gordon. Your kindness and concern have always meant a good deal to me.”

  “I had better consult with the doctor about the death certificate,” the solicitor brusquely replied.

  Esme’s heart ached for the young lawyer, even though there could have been no other outcome given Catriona’s love for Jamie, and his for her.

  McHeath started to leave, then hesitated. “If you need me for any other help, my lady,” he said, “please ask.”

  “I shall,” she replied.

  With a nod, McHeath hurriedly left the room.

  “Well,” Quinn said, the word an exhalation of relief. “Now that the legalities are in hand and you two are finally reconciled, I suppose Esme and I are free to go? There’s an important matter that we ought to take care of right away.”

  “What’s that?” Esme asked, baffled by his tone as well as the look in his eyes.

  “Why, our marriage, little plum cake. Thankfully we’re in Scotland, so we can attend to it right away. Or would you rather wait?”

  “No!” she cried without hesitation.

  “You’ll need a witness,” Jamie offered.

  “They’ll need two,” Catriona said, showing a spark of sudden resolve. “And perhaps you two will stand witness for Jamie and me—unless you’d rather wait?” she asked Jamie.

  “I’ve waited five years,” he replied, “but your father—”

  “Is dead. And it’s because of him we’ve lost five years of happiness, so I won’t worry about propriety now.”

  “Gad, Esme, I think you’re catching!” Quinn exclaimed.

  He spoke not with wariness or distain, but with an undisguised pride that thrilled her as much as his most intimate touch. He really was a remarkable man.

  Jamie smiled at the woman he loved. “Thank God!”

  “So to the church it is,” Quinn declared, making a sweeping bow to his bride-to-be as he gave Esme a devilish grin that made her whole body warm. “And propriety be damned!”

  A few hours later, the Earl of Dubhagen and his wife, suitably grave after attending the deathbed of the Earl of Duncombe, dismissed their butler and went, with a little less decorum, into the drawing room.

  Once there, Esme wasted no time pulling Quinn into her arms and kissing him.

  “My sainted aunt, I’ve unleashed a tigress,” Quinn murmured through his laughter as he kissed the tip of his newly wedded wife’s nose.

  “Surely you’re not regretting that?” Esme teased, gloriously happy as she tilted her head to look into his merry blue eyes.

  “Not a bit,” he replied, holding her close. “I only regret it took me so long to realize that you were the only woman who could make me truly happy.”

  “We were both blind, stubborn fools,” Esme said with a sigh. “I was a ninny to try to keep you at arm’s length.”

  “Arm’s length?” Quinn cried before kissing her again. “I was under the impression you wanted me in another country.”

  “Well, there was a time I truly thought I did—but because I was finding you irresistible.”

  “I find you irresistible, too, little plum cake,” he said, giving her yet another physical indication of that truth.

  “Quinn, please! It’s the middle of the afternoon,” she protested, although only halfheartedly.

  “Of our wedding day,” he reminded her.

  She sighed and relaxed against him. “I hope the poor reverend eventually recovers from the surprise of two couples arriving and asking to be married immediately.”

  “The sum I gave him should more than compensate for any distress he may have felt,” Quinn assured her.

  “As well as the look in your eye told him quite clearly you wouldn’t accept a refusal.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” he agreed, stroking her cheek. “However, I must point out, my little plum cake, that your own expression was hardly less determined.”

  Laughing, Esme took his face between her hands and brought him close for a brief kiss. “Now what shall we do, husband? Stay here and face society, or return to London?”

  Quinn grew serious. “What do you think?”

  “Stay,” she said firmly. “Although we now know the earl’s finances were never in trouble, there’s still the matter of the fire in the garden. I don’t want to leave until we know who’s responsible and see them arrested and charged.”

  “I’d expect no less from you,” Quinn said with a nod. “And I agree.” His hands began to wander. “If it wasn’t likely to upset the servants, I’d carry you upstairs and keep you there a week.”

  “You can’t hold me prisoner,” she chided as she began to caress his magnificent, muscular body, something she now had every right to do.

  “The Habeas Corpus act. I remember,” he replied, as he sat on the sofa and drew her down on his lap. “I’d just have to make sure you wanted to stay.”

  Esme wound her arms around his neck. “I’m sure you could. We would get hungry, though.”

  “McSweeney could bring us provisions from time to time. Speaking of which…” He drew back. “I should speak to McSweeney and tell him the truth about who we are. He was always kind to me as a lad and I’d like him to know who I really am before the news of Augustus’s death becomes public.”

  Esme saw no reason to disagree. “If you think that would be best.”

  Quinn smiled with relief. “I thought I might have to convince you.”

  She shook her head. “If you think it’s the right thing to do, that’s all I need to know.”

  “I don’t have to tell him how long we’ve been married, though,” he added with a wicked grin. “Or where the ceremony was performed.”

  “Or that I’m a solicitor’s sister?”

  “Nobody in Edinburgh has asked me about my wife’s family,” Quinn noted.

  “There is something else that worries me,” she confessed as she toyed with the ends of his cravat. “I don’t know how to be a lady. I could manage for a few weeks, but I’ve spent all my time studying the rules of law, not the rules of etiquette. I don’t know what should be served for dinners, or how to organize a ball.”

  “Surely it can’t be any more difficult than learning the proper way to write a will so that it can’t be disputed,” Quinn replied. “It’s been so long since I was in society, I’ll probably make a thousand mistakes for every one you do,” he added as he kissed her lightly.

  “I beg your pardon, my lord, my lady,” McSweeney intoned from the doorway.

  Blushing, although she was only a little embarrassed, Esme quickly got to her feet.

  “Yes?” Quinn replied, addressing the butler and looking not a whit ashamed as he grabbed Esme’s hand and gently pulled her back down.

  “The high constable wishes to speak w
ith you, my lord.”

  “Perhaps they’ve finally discovered who set the fire,” Esme said hopefully.

  Quinn looked equally hopeful as he told McSweeney to show the constable in. Esme went to another chair and Quinn stood by the hearth in an attitude that suggested he’d been in a position of power and command the whole of his adult life.

  With a jolt of humility, she suddenly realized that their marriage hadn’t conveyed legitimacy and worthiness on a disowned rakehell. By taking her for his wife, Quinn had raised her social status far beyond anything a woman of her class could normally aspire to. He had made her, the sister of a solicitor without wealth or title, a countess.

  What had she to offer such a man, except her love and devotion? Yet it seemed, of all things in the world, that he wanted nothing so much as that, just as she had always craved a love coupled with respect and equality.

  Quinn would give her that, and with him for a husband, she was surely one of the most fortunate young women in England.

  “Well, Mr. Russell,” Quinn said as the constable strutted into the room. “What news?”

  “Unfortunately, my lord,” he began in a sepulchral tone after he had taken the chair Quinn had silently offered him, “despite our best efforts—our very best efforts—we haven’t been able to discover who’s responsible for the fire.”

  Leading with his chin, Mr. Russell leaned forward on the chair. “Frankly, my lord, I think it’s rebels who want to overthrow the monarchy. They no doubt got the idea from the French.”

  “What makes you think so?” Quinn asked, obviously just as baffled as she was by the suggestion.

  “Because there are so many anarchists and discontented rascals in Edinburgh, my lord,” Mr. Russell replied, leaning back with obvious satisfaction, as if he’d offered the only possible explanation. “The rebellion in France has given such rabble too many ideas. But rest assured, my lord, we will find the culprits and they will feel the full force of the law!”

  “Interesting notion,” Quinn said evenly, clasping his hands behind his back and rocking on his heels. “You’ve found no evidence of any other possible perpetrators?”