Highland Rogue, London Miss Read online

  “No, my lord, not a whit.”

  “You don’t think it could have been an accident?” Esme asked.

  The constable’s expression as he looked at her was so patronizing, she had to clench her teeth to maintain a semblance of serenity. “Bless your heart, my lady, if it was, why wouldn’t that person admit it?” He smiled at Quinn. “That’s women for you, my lord, isn’t it? Always ready to excuse any villainy.”

  “If it was an accident, the person responsible might not speak up because he or she fears punishment and having to pay for the repairs,” Esme said.

  At her firmly spoken response, the constable’s expression turned a little doubtful. “That could be,” he allowed.

  “Thank you for keeping us informed, Mr. Russell,” Quinn said briskly. “Good day.”

  The man looked so shocked and disappointed at Quinn’s dismissal, Esme almost felt sorry for him.

  As Mr. Russell got to his feet, Quinn strode to the door and called for the butler. “Please show Mr. Russell to the door,” he said when McSweeney appeared. “Then return here. I have something to say to you, McSweeney.”

  Quinn watched Esme sitting expectantly on that too-ornate chair while they waited for McSweeney to return. She was far more worthy than many another woman to be a countess. How many other women could bring such intelligence and life experience to that role?

  How many other countesses would be so passionate? And how many other women would accept him as he was and make him so happy?

  McSweeney appeared at the drawing room door. “You wished to see me, my lord?”

  Quinn took a deep breath. This wasn’t going to be an easy confession, even though he was sure it was the right thing to do. “I have something to tell you, McSweeney. Something rather shocking.”

  The butler raised a brow. “Indeed, my lord?”

  “Yes. I want to make something clear, something I should have told you from the start.” He took a deep breath. “I’m not Augustus. I’m Quintus.”

  The man didn’t look the least bit surprised.

  “Don’t you have anything to say?” Quinn asked incredulously. “Aren’t you surprised by my news?”

  “Perhaps I should have made it clear, my lord, that I knew who you were the moment you arrived,” the butler calmly replied. “Your brothers never carried themselves the way you did, especially Augustus. A more clumsy man than he never existed and you, my lord, are far from clumsy.”

  McSweeney had known the truth from the start? “Why the devil didn’t you say anything?”

  “It’s not my place to question you, my lord.”

  Quinn wondered if he’d ever be surprised by anything again. “Then do you know about Augustus and his wife in Jamaica? That they’re recently deceased?”

  “I had assumed that your brother was deceased, or you wouldn’t be the earl,” the butler matter-of-factly replied. “As for official notification, I assumed you had your reasons for not announcing their deaths in the customary manner. Speaking for myself, my lord, I’m glad you’ve inherited the title and estate. You always were the best of the bunch—if you don’t mind me saying so.”

  As Esme relaxed in her chair, Quinn couldn’t help wishing McSweeney had spoken sooner. Pretending to be Hortense had gone against her morals and her nature, and he doubted she would have done it for anyone except her brother.

  Well, perhaps for him, now.

  The butler cleared his throat and shuffled his feet. “My lord, since honesty is to be the order of the day…” He hesitated and, in a shocking breach of butlery decorum, stuck his finger between his throat and his cravat as if the fabric had grown too tight. “I have a request to make, my lord. Mrs. Llewellan-Jones and I wish to be married and we hope you’ll allow us to keep our positions if we do.”

  With a cry of triumph that made both the men start as if she’d fired a canon at their heads, Esme leapt to her feet. “You were in the garden that night!” she cried, pointing at McSweeney. “You and Mrs. Llewellan-Jones! Of course! That explains why Mrs. Llewellan-Jones was already awake and dressed! I should have thought of that before.”

  “Good God!” Quinn gasped.

  He would never in a hundred years suspect McSweeney of such a thing, but the man had such a miserably contrite expression on his face, Esme had to be right.

  “It was I who dropped the lantern,” the butler sorrowfully admitted. “I kicked it with my foot while we were… I kicked it over by mistake.”

  “Why didn’t you say so at the time instead of making us think there was some sort of evil villain out to murder us or destroy the house?” Quinn demanded, relieved yet frustrated, too. If it hadn’t been for the fire, he wouldn’t have believed he had to send Esme away.

  On the other hand, if he hadn’t faced losing her, perhaps they never would have spoken of their feelings, or acted on them, either, and the rest of his life would have been as lonely as the beginning.

  “Delia…Mrs. Llewellan-Jones was afraid we’d lose our place and if the reason was, ahem, what it would be, she’d never get another,” McSweeney contritely explained. “She’s very proud of her reputation and didn’t want it smirched. Although I felt sure you wouldn’t dismiss us, she was so upset about the possible consequences, I decided to say nothing, something I truly regret, my lord.”

  His cause for remorse seemed so minor to Quinn, he almost laughed, except that he knew how painful genuine remorse could be.

  “Love has a way of making us all do things we wouldn’t normally do, for good or ill,” Esme said gently.

  McSweeney looked at her as if she’d started spouting poetry. She did sound different—but Quinn had heard that tone from her before, in bed, so was not quite so surprised.

  “Since I have no desire to lose two excellent servants,” Quinn assured him, “of course you may marry and remain in our employ as long as we’re in Edinburgh, unless there comes a day there may be little McSweeneys running about.”

  The butler grinned with relief. “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Be off with you now, McSweeney,” Quinn ordered. “Go tell Mrs. Llewellan-Jones you can be married and keep your position—but no more nocturnal rendezvous in the garden, if you please.”

  “Y-yes, my lord. Thank you, my lord,” a chastised yet nevertheless joyful McSweeney stammered and, apparently totally forgetting the rules of proper conduct, he ran to the door. However, he managed to return to proper form and closed the door quietly.

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Quinn said with a sigh as he sat on the sofa. “We’ll have to let Mr. Russell know it was an accident after all, although I fear the poor fellow will be disappointed that it wasn’t part of a massive, rebellious conspiracy.”

  “Maybe then Mr. Russell will also realize that women’s suspicions should not be dismissed out of hand,” Esme pertly observed.

  “Perhaps, but I must point out, plum cake, that he doesn’t know how clever you are—just as we didn’t know about McSweeney and Mrs. Llewellan-Jones. I must say it’s difficult to imagine McSweeney in the role of a lover.”

  “Why? Because he isn’t as young and dashing and handsome as some other men I could name?” Esme said, her expression softening as she stood just out of Quinn’s reach. “Love isn’t dependent on age. I’ve seen several gentlemen of more mature years so overpowered by it, they were willing to make the most outrageous concessions in marriage settlements.”

  “Which you—or your brother—talked them out of, I suppose?”

  “It’s a solicitor’s duty to look after his client’s interests.”

  “I have an interest, Esme, and it’s one I think my wife should address.”

  “Oh?” she replied with mock innocence. “What is that?”

  “Come sit beside me and I’ll tell you.”

  If she acquiesced, she suspected there would be little talking and much kissing and caressing, perhaps even leading to lovemaking right there on the sofa.

  She immediately sat beside him and assumed a serious demeanor q
uite at odds with her rapidly beating heart and the growing heat of her desire. “Yes, my lord?”

  To her surprise, he kept his hands clasped and turned to her with a truly serious expression. “There’s a lot of legal business when you have an estate and a town house in Edinburgh and another in London. I want you to be our solicitor.”

  “Oh, Quinn!” she cried with both delight and regret. She was overjoyed by his words, but aware of reality. “I can’t. I’m a woman.”

  “You most definitely are,” he agreed. “A beautiful, amazing woman, so I realize you can’t officially be my counsel, although I’m sure you’re every bit as good at drawing up a contract as any male solicitor could be, if not better than most. Still, you could be my de facto solicitor, and we can let McHeath and Jamie be the ostensible ones.”

  “Mr. McHeath might not appreciate my interference,” she felt compelled to note.

  “Then I’ll hire another solicitor.”

  “I hope that won’t be necessary,” she replied. “I feel sorry for the poor man. He clearly cared a good deal for Catriona.”

  “And too much for you, considering you were supposed to be my wife.”

  “He only wanted to help a woman he thought was unhappily married,” she replied. “I didn’t enjoy having to trick him.”

  “I know it’s been difficult for you,” he said, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead before he kissed her there. “It was much harder for you to play the ninny than it was for me to play the overbearing nobleman.”

  “You were rather good at that,” she said with a gleam of mischief in her eye. “I suspect you could become quite the tyrant if I let you.”

  “Which means the point is moot, because you never will. One condemning look from those eyes of yours, and I shall capitulate—so I suppose I’m doomed to do whatever you wish.”

  “Whatever I wish?” she said, her voice low and sultry as she edged closer.

  “There are some orders I would more gladly obey than others, my queen.”

  “Then there’s only one more thing for me to hope for, since I have the most wonderful husband in the world,” she said, caressing his chest.

  “You have my heart and I’ll gladly give you anything else your heart desires.”

  “I’m sure you’ll do your best to provide it,” she said, kissing him with tender passion.

  “How can I, if you don’t tell me what it is?” he asked, smiling even as he returned her kiss.

  “Children,” she whispered with her lips against his cheek. “I want to have our children.”

  Quinn laughed softly as he held her close. “I promise to do my zealous best, my little plum cake.”

  And he did.

  ISBN: 978-1-4268-6468-1

  HIGHLAND ROGUE, LONDON MISS

  Copyright © 2010 by Margaret Wilkins

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