Nicola Cornick - The Lady and the Laird

“I never told because I was afraid I would be in trouble. Please don’t tell anyone, Lucy! Help me....”

By then it had been far, far too late to help Alice. Lucy had thought that they had had no secrets, but that was not true. On the terrible night that Alice had died, Lucy had found out just how much her twin had kept a secret from her and just how high was the price paid for love.

Lucy gave a violent shiver and the great hall came back into focus and the music was playing and the dancers still dancing and nothing had changed, but in her heart was the cold emptiness that always filled her when she remembered Alice.

Her godmother, Lady Kenton, was addressing her.

“We shall never get you a husband, Lucy, if no one even asks you to dance,” Lady Kenton said. “It is most frustrating.”

Unfortunately Lady Kenton deemed it her duty as Lucy’s godmother and the dearest friend of her late mother to find Lucy a man. Lucy had asked her not to bother, but Lady Kenton was keen, all the keener as the years slipped past.

“I shall speak to your father about your marriage,” her godmother was saying. “He has been most remiss in letting matters slide since Lord MacGillivray’s death. It is time we found you another suitor.”

Lucy took a deep breath. Her father was indulgent toward her and she was certain that he would never force her to wed against her will. Seven years ago he had been so anxious for her to marry, straight from the schoolroom, as though in doing so she might wipe out the horrific memory of Alice’s fall from grace, her shame, her death. Now, though, the duke had fallen into a scholastic melancholy and locked himself away most of the time with his books.

Lady Kenton straightened suddenly in her rout chair. She touched Lucy’s arm. “I do believe Lord Methven is going to ask you to dance.” She sounded excited. “How singular. He has not danced all evening.”

“Perhaps he felt it was inappropriate when his bride has run off,” Lucy said. Her throat was suddenly dry and her heart felt as though it was about to leap into her throat as Methven’s tall figure cut through the crowd toward her. There was something about his approach that definitely suggested unfinished business. He did not want to dance. She was certain of it. He wanted to question her about the love letters just as he had threatened to do.

A man superimposed himself between Lucy and Robert Methven, blocking her view.

“Cousin Lucy.”

A shiver of a completely different sort touched Lucy’s spine. She had no desire at all to dance with Wilfred. He was bowing in front of her with what he no doubt fondly hoped was London style, all frothing lace at his neck and cuffs, with diamonds on his fingers and in the folds of his cravat. Lucy thought he looked like an overstuffed turkey. He had evidently been drinking freely, for he smelled of brandy, and he had flakes of snuff dusting the lapels of his jacket.

Wilfred’s smile was pure vulpine greeting, showing uneven yellow teeth and with a very predatory gleam in his eye.

“Dearest coz.” He took her hand, brushing the back of it with his lips. “Did I tell you how divine you are looking today? Will you honor me with your hand in the strathspey?”

Lucy could think of little she would like less, but everyone was looking at her and Lady Kenton was making little encouraging shooing motions with her hands toward the dance floor. Besides, she could use Wilfred as a shield against Lord Methven. He was definitely the lesser of two evils.

After twenty minutes she was reconsidering her opinion. Throughout the long, slow and stately dance, Wilfred kept up a dismaying flow of chatter that seemed to presume on a closer relationship between them than the one that existed. Yes, they were distant cousins and had known each other since childhood, but there had never been anything remotely romantic in their relationship. Now, however, Wilfred lost no opportunity to whisper in Lucy’s ear how divine she was looking—simply divine—over and over again until she could have screamed. He squeezed her fingers meaningfully and allowed his hand to linger on her arm or in the small of her back in a most unpleasant proprietary manner. She was at a loss to explain the extraordinary change in his behavior. He had always been obsequious, but never before had he given the impression that there was some sort of understanding between them.

“Dearest coz,” he said when the dance had at last wound its way to the end, “I do hope we may spend so much more time in each other’s company from now on.”

Lucy could think of little that she would like less, and she was beginning to suspect that it was her fortune Wilfred wanted to spend more time with. The rumor was that his pockets were to let, and her father had commented over breakfast only a few days before that he expected Cardross to make a rich match, and soon, to mollify his creditors. Lucy had not expected that she would be that rich match, however.

“It would be no bad thing for you to wed your cousin Wilfred,” Lady Kenton said, after Lucy had turned down Wilfred’s request for another dance and he had rather sulkily escorted her back to her chaperone. “He is a most suitable match and it would strengthen the ties between your two families. I will mention it to your papa.”

“Please do not, Aunt Emily,” Lucy said. “I cannot bear Wilfred. In fact, I very nearly hate him.”

Lady Kenton did not reply, but Lucy felt a chill in the air, a chill that implied that beggars could not afford to be choosers. No more gentlemen came to ask her to dance. Time ticked by. A reel followed the strathspey, then another set of country dances. After a half hour she could feel the dagger-sharp glances of the other girls and sense the covert triumph of their chaperones. She might be pretty, she might be a duke’s daughter and an heiress, but no one wanted to dance with her. Robert Methven had vanished again. Lucy knew she should have felt reassured, but instead she felt tense and tired, desperate to retire to the inn at Glendale where they were staying the night before returning to Edinburgh.

She stood up. “Excuse me for a moment, ma’am,” she said to Lady Kenton. “I must have a word with Lord Dalrymple. He will be speaking on the topic of political economy in Edinburgh in a couple of weeks, and I have promised to attend the lecture.”

Lady Kenton sighed heavily. “Well, do not let anyone hear you discussing it, my dear, or your reputation may be damaged. You know that I encourage your studies, but not everyone admires a bluestocking.”

After Lucy had spoken to Lord Dalrymple, she slipped away to the room set aside for the ladies to withdraw. It was empty but for a maid yawning on an upright chair. Lucy washed her hands and face, frowning at her wan expression in the pier glass. No wonder she frightened the dance partners away.

As she came out of the room, she saw Robert Methven’s tall figure striding across the hall, deep in conversation with the handsome man who had stood as his groomsman. Lucy froze, drawing back into the shadows behind a huge medieval suit of armor. Although she was sure she had made no sound, she saw Methven’s head come up. His blue gaze swept the hall and came to rest unerringly on the spot where she was hiding. Lucy saw him exchange a quick word with the other man before he started to move toward her as purposefully as he had done in the church.

Panic gripped Lucy. She did not stop to think. She groped behind her for the handle on the first door she came to and tumbled backward through it. It was a service corridor of some sort, stone floored and dimly lit. She was halfway along it and regretting her impulsive attempt to escape when she heard the stealthy sound of the door at the end opening and shutting again. Robert Methven was behind her. She was certain it was he. Now there was no way back.