Hurst 02 - Scandal in Scotland Page 3

Marcail waited for the door to close. “He is a gem. My butler is not nearly so circumspect.”

  “I don’t know what I’d do without him,” Grandmamma said honestly.

  “I don’t think you need to worry. Not only is he very fond of you, but you are a generous mistress.”

  “It pays to take care of the ones who take care of you.”

  “That’s a good standard to live by.” Marcail tried to hold on to her belief in the inherent kindness of mankind, which she’d learned from Grandmamma long ago, but the events of the last few weeks had stretched that belief to breaking. Her heart sank as she thought of the note in her reticule. She wasn’t certain how, but she had to—

  “Marcail, dear, you’re staring at the teapot as if you think it might explode.”

  She looked up and forced a smile. “I’m sorry. I’m just a bit distracted.”

  With a soft, “Oh no!” Grandmamma set down her tea. “You’ve heard from that horrible blackmailer again.”

  Marcail grimaced. “I am quite the actress; I can’t even fool my own grandmother.”

  “How did the note arrive this time?”

  “I found it under my plate at breakfast this morning.” Which had been a chilling discovery. It was one thing to find the notes inside her coach or tucked into some flowers in her dressing room, and quite another to find one placed in her own home. Marcail had never felt so unsafe before.

  “I dislike that,” Grandmamma said in her direct manner. “Did the servants see anything?”

  “No, but they aren’t really my servants, they’re Colchester’s.”

  Grandmamma shook her head. “I’ve been telling you these past two years that you should get your own house. It’s the least that a—”

  “Grandmamma!”

  Grandmamma’s parchment skin flushed, but she said in a stubborn tone, “The earl is using you to cover his own proclivities.”

  “And I’m using him to keep away the unwanted attentions that were making my life unbearable. We both benefit, and he has been most kind. I owe him more than I can ever repay.”

  “I know, I know. He saved you from the regent when that arse was attempting to force himself upon you, hoping to press you into becoming his mistress. I’ll forever be grateful to Colchester for his deft handling of that situation, but that doesn’t mean you are indebted to him forever. You’ve served a purpose in his life, as well.” Grandmamma raised an eyebrow. “I assume Colchester’s tastes are the same as ever?”

  “If you are asking if he’s still wildly in love with George Aniston, then the answer is yes. They have been together for almost a year now.”

  “That’s a long time for him.”

  “Yes, it is. While Colchester’s ‘tastes’ are his own business, I don’t care for Aniston. He is forever asking for funds and throwing tantrums over trivial things. I wish Colchester would be rid of him.”

  “He doesn’t sound like a pleasant man.”

  “He’s not when he’s in a bad mood. However, when he’s in a good mood he is very charming, and Colchester is mad about him. I don’t think the relationship is good for Colchester with so many dramatic scenes—” Marcail shrugged helplessly. “I’ve told him what I think; that’s all I can do. He just shrugs and says that sometimes life doesn’t allow you to pick who you fall in love with, that it just happens.”

  “He’s right about that; sometimes fate shoves you down a path you wouldn’t normally take.”

  Marcail silently agreed. She loved Colchester dearly as the brother she’d never had. To the ton, he was a sought-after bachelor, eluding matchmaking mamas and their daughters with a skill that had won him the admiration of his peers. No one had ever guessed his secret, and he’d lived a shadow life for so long that he wore the second skin as comfortably as the first.

  She would be forever grateful for his assistance during those early difficult days. The near situation with the prince had terrified her, a brutal reminder of her vulnerability. She was an actress with no social standing to protect her, no family to ward off those with impure intentions.

  Worse, at that time, she’d recently met—and straightaway fallen deeply in love with—William Hurst. After six months of a passionate whirlwind courtship, he’d been called back to sea for a three-week run to Dover. Even now, years later, her heart stuttered to a stop when she imagined how things might have turned out if hot, fiery William had heard about the prince’s attentions. He lacked Colchester’s understanding of the nuances of society. William’s reaction would doubtless have resulted in a physical confrontation that would have left the prince bloodied and furious, which would have ended both William’s career and her own. Thus her plan to save her sisters would have been ruined, and that fact had forced her to face the ugly hard cold truth. As an actress she was a target for such improprieties, and that left no possibility of a relationship with William. She had to give him up, or risk causing both their ruins.

  So it had seemed serendipitous when handsome, dashing Colchester had offered his protection in exchange for one simple thing: to assist him in keeping his secret from the eyes and ears of the ton.

  Though it was the only answer to her dilemma, Marcail had wrestled with it, desperate for some way to keep her relationship with William intact. But there was none. Her heart breaking, she wrote William that she’d been mistaken in her love for him and that she’d found another.

  She’d hoped that the cold tone of the letter would prevent him from ever wanting to see her again, but immediately after he’d landed and received her letter, he’d stormed into her dressing room at the theater, his beloved face set with anger and hurt. Oh, the things he’d said—She winced. The things she’d said, too. It had been a horrible, painful time that even now made her eyes burn with tears.

  But that was the cost of the path she’d chosen. She resolutely pushed away the old memory, wishing her thoughts were as easy to control when she was asleep. In her dreams, she and William were still together. She’d dreamed of him every night since last week when she’d left him on the floor of his cabin, only in her dreams he wasn’t angry. In her dreams he was tied to his bed, unable to move, naked as the day he was born as she caressed his—

  “Marcail, you’re flushed. Are you catching the ague?”

  Marcail placed a hand to her heated cheek. “No. I was just thinking about the—the blackmailer, and it made me angry.”

  “It makes me angry, too. I wish you could ask Colchester for his help.”

  Marcail shook her head. “The fewer people who know the truth, the less likely it will be found out. As much as I love Colchester, he’s a horrid gossip. He’ll keep his own secrets to the grave, but cannot hold onto another’s for longer than it takes to repeat it.” She took Grandmamma’s hand between her own. “I’ve worked so hard to get where I am, and have sacrificed so much. I can’t stop now.”

  Grandmamma’s face softened. “Your sisters owe you a great deal.”

  “They would do the same for me. Someone had to take control of our financial situation. If I’d left Father to run things, we’d all be in a paupers’ prison by now, the house lost to creditors.”

  “He is a selfish man. I don’t know why Lucinda wished to wed him. She was raised to be more forward thinking than that.”

  “I think he flattered her that she was better than everyone else.”

  “Better than me,” Grandmamma said, her eyes flashing.

  “Mother is wrong,” Marcail said soothingly. “She is stubborn and won’t admit her mistake, though I think she knows it. Father isn’t easy to live with.”

  Grandmamma’s shoulders slumped. “I wish your mother would just leave him, but I fear that will never happen.”

  “Don’t look so glum. At least the debts have been paid and there’s enough to fund a season for Elizabeth. And if all works out the way I’ve planned, by the time she’s had a season or two I should have enough saved for Margot. And then Jane and—” Marcail sighed. “But none of that will happen if the ton discover
s that they are related to a common actress.”

  Grandmamma’s face fell. “I suppose I shan’t see them when they’re in town, either, then.”

  “Don’t even think such a thing! They can claim the connection to you; our cases are quite different. Not only did you marry into the peerage, but it has been so long since you were on the stage that I doubt anyone would remember it.”

  “It would take only one person, my dear. People are not as forgiving as you think.”

  “Then that’s their loss, for a more gracious and wonderful woman doesn’t exist.”

  “La, but you are a fire-breather, aren’t you? Unfortunately, that changes nothing. It would be better if I did not see your sisters.”

  “So long as no one guesses my connection to you, we will be fine. I’ve been careful when I come to visit; I always wear my veil and I take a hackney coach rather than use my own, which might be recognized.”

  “You’re always protecting other people, my dear. But what about you, Marcail? What about your season?”

  “I’m seven and twenty now, the time for my season has long passed.” Marcail chuckled at her grandmother’s expression. “Stop that! It’s not as if I’m slaving in some coal mine. I have a wonderful career, I make an excellent wage, I’m able to provide for my family, and I have you to share dinner with whenever I wish. What more could I ask?”

  Grandmamma frowned. “You may trick some people into believing that silliness, but not me. I know of the slights and the illicit proposals and the lack of regard for your art.” She leaned forward. “I also know the personal price this charade has cost you.”

  Marcail wished she hadn’t confided about William all those years ago, but there was no undoing it now. She’d been sick with the loss, which had hurt far worse than she’d expected. For a few weeks, she hadn’t been able to leave her bed.

  Grandmamma had sent Briggs to her home every day with notes and tureens of hot soup. Eventually, Grandmamma herself had threatened to come visit. The thought of her frail grandmother braving the rough streets and cold weather had forced Marcail to rise. Though her spirits remained low for months, she never returned to the sickbed.

  Marcail waved a hand as if to banish that time. “I don’t think of it very often.” Until last week.

  “Well, I do. You have enough on your shoulders. My child, we must stop this blackmailer. You can’t keep giving him sums and sums of money as you’ve been doing.”

  “I would do something about it if I only knew who he was.”

  “I suppose this messenger, the red-haired woman, won’t give you a clue?”

  Marcail shook her head. “I get the distinct impression that Miss Challoner is afraid of the blackmailer. I’ve seen it in her eyes.” And Marcail didn’t get the impression that many things frightened Miss Challoner. The blackmailer’s messenger was an interesting woman, quite tall and amazingly beautiful, with red hair and green eyes and a confident bearing that set her apart. There were times when Marcail got the distinct impression that Miss Challoner’s hatred for the blackmailer quite equaled her own, but the woman refused to engage in conversation beyond the necessary, merely accepting with a bland expression whatever bundle Marcail handed over for delivery. I wonder what the blackmailer holds over Miss Challoner’s head? It must be something quite weighty. The next time I’m alone with her, I shall ask. It can’t hurt matters.

  “I do hope you’re being careful. I worry about your having commerce with these people. I also hate that you have to carry such large amounts of money to such horrid locations.”

  “I didn’t have to go to a horrid part of town this time. Of course, he didn’t ask for money, either.” A flicker of regret flared and she resolutely tamped it down. It wasn’t as if William had harbored tender thoughts of her before she’d stolen the artifact. If anything, she’d confirmed his already low opinion of her.

  “What did the blackmailer want, if not money?” Grandmamma asked.

  “He wanted me to fetch an ancient artifact.”

  “Fetch?” Grandmamma’s eyes sharpened. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I was told I must obtain an Egyptian artifact and—”

  Grandmamma grasped Marcail’s hand. “Please tell me that you haven’t done something you’ll be sorry for.”

  “Of course I haven’t.” Which was a complete and utter lie.

  Grandmamma’s thin brows rose.

  Marcail sighed. “The artifact didn’t belong to the person who held it, so it wasn’t precisely stealing. I hoped the artifact might be a clue to my blackmailer’s identity so I took it to someone who works with the British Museum. They examined it and said that, while ancient, it’s not that rare.”

  “Perhaps the materials make it valuable?”

  “No. It’s made mainly of onyx, with very little gold, so … I just don’t know.”

  “Stranger and stranger.” Grandmamma shook her head and poured more tea into both cups.

  Marcail noted how badly the older woman’s hands now shook. She’s getting so fragile. I shouldn’t be bothering her with my problems. I should—

  “Yes, you should bring your problems to me.” Grandmamma sent Marcail a hard look before returning the teapot to the tray. “We are family, we two. Closer than most mothers and daughters.”

  Marcail smiled. “You read my mind.”

  “Hardly. Every time I wrest a problem from you, you tell me that it’s really none of my concern and not to bother myself with it.” Grandmamma’s green eyes were grave. “We are strong, and we will overcome all adversity—including Miss Challoner and the blackmailer.”

  Marcail fidgeted with the edge of her cuff. “There is another thing about this situation that made it worse.”

  “What could possibly make it worse? I can’t imagine—” Grandmamma’s gaze narrowed. “Whom did they ask you to steal this artifact from?”

  Marcail’s cheeks heated.

  “Allow me to guess. Captain Hurst, perhaps?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then that’s why you’re so upset.”

  “No, I’m upset because I’m being blackmailed. It has nothing to do with William Hurst.”

  Grandmamma took a sip of her tea, her shrewd gaze never wavering.

  “Honestly, it’s been years since I saw him!”

  Grandmamma listened politely.

  “In fact, I wasn’t even certain I’d remember what he looked like.” He’d looked exactly as he had the last time she’d seen him—tall and powerful, his black hair framing his incredible dark blue eyes, and—

  Grandmamma cleared her throat.

  Marcail threw up her hands. “Oh, very well! He looked exactly the same, only older.”

  Grandmamma nodded. “I’m not surprised it was difficult to see him. You were most taken with him.”

  More than taken. She’d been wildly, passionately in love.

  And when she’d seen him again, she’d felt like that mad, impulsive innocent all over again.

  If she closed her eyes now, she could see his blue eyes and dark hair, the cleft of his chin and the sparkle of his grin, and how his large hands had made her feel so—

  “Your blackmailer must know of your past relationship with Hurst.”

  Marcail slanted a look at her grandmother. “How could he? It happened so long ago, and I was barely known then.”

  “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

  “Well, if the blackmailer thought that our past history worked in my favor, then he was sadly mistaken.”

  “It’s a pity you can’t go to Bow Street. But I suppose you’re right; the fewer involved, the better.”

  Marcail placed her hand on Grandmamma’s knee. “We’re already set on this course. There’s no sense regretting it now.”

  “We all owe you so much, dear. Though Briggs never mentions it, I know that the coal bins are always full and we have much better cuts of meat since you arrived in London.”

  “That’s not me, it’s Briggs. He’s an excellent bar
gainer.”

  “I’ve learned much from him over the years. I wish MacToth had done the same.” Grandmamma looked at the portrait of a handsome man over the fireplace and her expression grew dreamy. “I wish you could have met him, Marcail. He would have liked you. He enjoyed women with spirit.”

  “I’m sure he did. He married you, didn’t he?” Marcail chuckled. “One day, you and I will find a lovely house in the country where no one ever needs to know who or what we are.”

  Grandmamma’s shrewd green gaze locked on Marcail. “You’d give up the stage? Just like that?”

  Marcail hesitated. “Perhaps not completely. It’s who I am, and I enjoy it.”

  “You are better than I ever was. I saw your Lady MacBeth last Wednesday, and you were magnificent. Better even than Mrs. Siddons.”

  Marcail threw up a hand. “Grandmamma, no one will ever be better than Mrs. Siddons. She may have retired from the stage a decade ago, but her presence is still keenly felt by all actresses.”

  “Sarah Siddons was a very good actress; I should know, for I worked with her myself. But last week, you outshone even her. While I wish you hadn’t forsaken your birthright, I could not be prouder of your talent.”

  “Thank you. That means more to me than I can say.” Marcail glanced at the clock over the mantel. “I wish I could stay longer, but I must go. The note I received this morning said that I’m to deliver the artifact to an inn in Southend. I have only three days before I’m due back onstage, so I must leave today.”

  “Southend? I don’t like this at all. Please be careful.”

  “Don’t worry, Grandmamma. I’ll be fine. I always am.” She stood and dropped a kiss on the snowy white forehead. “As soon as I return, we’ll have dinner.”

  “I’ll be waiting, so please send me word that all is well.” Grandmamma waved her hand. “Off with you. Get this task done and over with.”

  Marcail gave her grandmother one last hug, then waited in the front hallway while Briggs called a hackney. When one pulled up to the stoop, she tucked her veil firmly in place and entered the carriage quickly, allowing Briggs to give her destination—a street corner several blocks from her home—to the driver.