Page 83 of The MacGregor's Lady
“She’s not my rebel.”
“You missed your moment, then. Before the angels of social redemption came fluttering around, you could have snatched your lady up and made mad, passionate love to her. She’d be sporting your ring and a smile this morning.”
A smile perhaps, for a time. That was something. Maybe it could be enough. “She would not be sporting my ring.”
Ian paused in mid-scratch, his fingers buried in the cat’s fur. “Do you at least have a plan, Asher?”
“Yes, I have a plan.” He stood and yelled for a groom to get the bloody trunk back to the house, there to await its eventual removal to King’s Cross and a private railcar. “When she’s ready to sail for Boston, I plan to let her go.”
***
Evan Draper attributed his eventual arrival in the great metropolis of London to Saint Louis IX. That holy fellow had sired eleven children, gone on two crusades, and was considered a patron of everything from button makers, to prisoners, to some city in northern Africa, and difficult marriages. This last accounted for Draper’s acquaintance with Louis, a function of Granny Draper’s closet papism and poor luck in husbands.
Louis was also, however, the patron saint of distillers, and indirectly, that lot was responsible for Draper’s peregrinations about the realm by train.
Or perhaps St. Matthias—patron saint of gamblers—had taken a hand in things. Thanks to her second husband, Granny had been on good terms with St. Matthias too.
“Why, Mr. Draper, a pleasure to see you.” The Countess of Spathfoy was short, blond, achingly young, and possessed of very pretty blue eyes, and yet Draper was sure those eyes missed nothing.
“Your ladyship.” He did not dare take her hand. His every pair of gloves had sufferedmaldutrain, with soot embedded beyond what any mere rinsing would get out.
“His lordship ought to be home momentarily, Mr. Draper. Shall I ring for some sustenance?”
Draper’s hand went to his middle, as if he’d shield his stomach from even the mention of words relating to food.
“No, thank you, your ladyship. All that time aboard the trains has played havoc with my digestion, and I wouldn’t want to trouble you unnecessarily. If Lord Spathfoy is from home, perhaps you’d send a note around to MacGregor House on my behalf?”
Her smile didn’t falter, but she was without doubt noting Draper’s pallor, the wrinkled state of his suit, and perhaps even his bloodshot eyes. Maybe she also saw how grateful he was that Spathfoy’s London residence wasn’t so very far from the train station after all.
“The MacGregors all speak very highly of you, Mr. Draper. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to tarry for just a bit?”
He was muzzy-headed, not only with overimbibing, but also fatigue. More to the point, he lacked fare for a cab clear to the MacGregor town house. “Perhaps a cup of tea.”
“Of course. We’ll avail ourselves of his lordship’s study.”
She meant totaketea with him? Was there a saint for dealing with overly gracious, well-intended, wee countesses?
Like a prisoner approaching the dock for sentencing, Draper followed her through a spotless, well-appointed town house. The windows were sparkling even on this dreary day, the floors seemed to give off light so highly were they polished, and the entire house bore a slight scent of cedar.
The effect of all this domestic industry—even of the relatively fresh air—was that Draper’s eyeballs started pounding in counterpoint to his throbbing head. And of course, he had to use the necessary. How did one ask a countess for the use of the privy?
“Tell me, Mr. Draper, how does Baron Fenimore go on? I’m given to understand his health may still be troubling him?”
The baron was happily anticipating his own demise, though it didn’t seem to betroublinghim. Perhaps the thought of rejoining his baroness consoled him. “He’s as well as may be, your ladyship. I bring his felicitations to the household, of course.”
Though if Fenimore knew Draper was reduced to calling on in-laws due to a lack of even cab fare, Fenimore would not be pleased.
“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Draper. I’ll be but a moment.”
She left him alone in a room for which many trees had given their lives. Paneling covered every surface, a warm blond oak that rose up the walls and erupted into ornate molding. The desk was of the same wood, as was the mantel over the fireplace. Compared to Fenimore’s cramped, camphor-scented office, this room was celestially airy, organized, and attractive.
A man could nap here in one of the big, well-padded chairs flanking the desk.
Because Draper had closed his eyes to contemplate such a possibility, the bang of the door startled him.
“Chamber pot’s under the sideboard. Her ladyship will be fussing the kitchen for a moment, if you’ve a need of privacy.”
The footman busied himself closing the curtains, shutting out a view of the back gardens and dimming the room somewhat. The fellow was sandy-haired, freckled, and spoke with a slight burr.
