G rif finally broke away from the ladies and spent the better part of the late afternoon pacing his room, his thoughts in turmoil with the unexpected appearance of Lady Battenkirk.
Everything had fallen into place so easily before this—he’d never imagined he’d face something so daunting. What would Fynster say about Lady Battenkirk’s arrival? He’d tried so hard to help Grif find her friend Amelia. He’d undoubtedly be anxious to introduce him to Lady Battenkirk and ask after her friend Amelia, a question that would lead to disaster.
Even worse, what if Lady Battenkirk mentioned the beastie, or the Englishwoman from whom she had bought the blasted thing? She’d already mentioned the beastie once, and he feared she had almost mentioned it again—he would never know for certain, because he had stopped her by changing the subject when, after the game, she had begun to catalog all the goods from Scotland she’d ever purchased. It was obvious Drake Lockhart was suspicious of him—the slightest suggestion from Lady Battenkirk might aid him in putting all the pieces together.
This was a bloody nightmare.
Grif was still pacing when Hugh appeared, carrying the formal suit of clothing Grif was to wear to the evening’s ball, which he carelessly tossed on a bed. He put his hands on his hips, glared at Grif. “Have ye any idea how the English treat their servants, then?”
“I’ve a feel for it, aye.”
“It’s abominably inhumane!” Hugh groused, and walked across the room, fell into one of two leather wing-back chairs that faced the hearth. “They’ve forced me into a room with a bloody valet,” he said disapprovingly. “Mi Diah, what these fops expect to be done to their clothing!”
Grif shrugged, looked absently at the clothes Hugh had tossed aside, his thoughts elsewhere.
Hugh frowned at the window. “And to add insult to me injuries, I lost two hundred pounds to the English bastards.”
That certainly caught Grif’s attention. “Ye did what?”
Hugh waved a limp hand, and dropped his head back against the chair. “Cards,” he said simply.
“Cards!” Grif bit out, incensed. “Bloody hell, MacAlister, how do ye suggest we return to Scotland if ye lose every coin we have?”
“Ach, we’ve coin enough to return home, Grif. Dudley’s already gone—”
“How dare ye gamble it away?” Grif spat, stalking to Hugh’s side. “That is money me father borrowed!”
“Diah, I’ll repay ye with me share of the beastie!” Hugh said angrily. “And as to that, when is it that we shall possess the wretched thing? I am sick unto death of living like a bloody prisoner!”
Grif sighed. “Sooner than ye think,” he answered morosely.
“How soon, then?”
“I donna know precisely. But we’ve a wee spot of trouble,” he said, and proceeded to explain the dilemma they suddenly found themselves in with Lady Battenkirk’s arrival.
Hugh listened thoughtfully. “There’s no more time,” he said at last. “Ye must demand the lass return it at once.”
“Aye,” Grif said. “Aye.”
Hugh cocked his head, looked at Grif a long moment. “Ye donna want to demand it.”
“Of course I do,” Grif said with a disdainful shake of his head.
But Hugh clucked. “Aye, ’tis just as I gathered, then. Ye are in love with her—”
“Diah, but ye are a man of enormous exasperation!”
“And ye think ye are no’?” Hugh returned. “At the very least, admit what’s true! Ye love her, ye do!”
Grif groaned to the ceiling and shook his head wearily. “I’ll speak to her tonight,” is all he would say.
It was true: the Featherstone ball was plainly an event that was not to be missed. Nothing had been left undone; the ballroom was lined with giant vases of yellow and white flowers—wood sorrels, daffodils, primroses, cowslips, daisies, and coltsfoots. Beeswax candles, cut to uniform height, were lit and glittering against three crystal chandeliers. The carpet had been rolled away and the pine dance floor polished with beeswax to a high sheen. Embroidered armchairs lined the walls, and in a far corner an impressive eight-piece orchestra played.
There were, Grif guessed, almost three hundred people already in attendance that evening, and still more arriving.
He and Fynster had made their way down, were standing in the ballroom watching the dancers who floated past on the strains of music. Along with Fynster, Grif admired the women who filled the ballroom; mostly in pale pastels and varying shades of white and ivory, they blended well with the delicate flowers.
And there was the brightest of all the flowers, the one in pale green. Anna was engaged in a quadrille with a ruddy-cheeked young man who could not stop smiling.