That had been the plan he suggested, but Coll had overruled him, insisting that the three of them could convince Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert to tear up the agreement. Coll always had favored battle, a direct confrontation, over delicacy or subterfuge. And his methods generally succeeded—the main reason Niall and Aden had agreed to give it a go.
Niall turned to see the quartet of outriders and two wagons of luggage accompanying them come into sight. It all looked impressive, which had been the point; they all knew that no Sassenach traveled far without half his worldly goods accompanying him. Now, though, he had to consider that having to repack all of it would considerably slow any getaway they might attempt. Then again, they could always taxidermy another red deer stag if they had to leave behind the one they’d brought along.
Most of the rest of it was nearly as unnecessary. Then again, Francesca claimed to want her sons about. Well, here they were. All three of them. And not a one in the mood to be cooperative. Niall stepped into the stirrup and remounted Kelpie as his brothers returned to the rutted, muddy road and the wagons. London. He’d rather take a wade through a peat bog than spend an hour in London. Their da had signed a paper, though, and then seventeen years later had refused to rise from his sickbed—his deathbed, according to himself—to join his sons in disputing it. Angus MacTaggert, Earl Aldriss, a roaring giant of a Highlands warrior and evidently too scared of his estranged wife to leave his estate and go set eyes on her. Not that Angus would ever admit to that.
On a sunny day, if such things existed here, the oak and elm trees scattered along the road might have provided a pleasant shade. Today they mostly made Niall miss the pines and the craggy, snow-topped peaks of the Highlands. Christ, had it only been five days since he’d last seen them? It was warmer here, or at least the breeze, even with the rain hanging just behind it, didn’t have that chill that dug into a man’s bones.
He fell in beside Aden, with Coll and his great black warhorse a few feet ahead of them. The outriders had been more for show than for anything else; he doubted even some damned Sassenach highwayman would care to run up against the MacTaggert brothers. Still, someone had to lag behind with the wagons and protect the stuffed stag and their shaving kits. Their grand arrival wouldn’t change the fact that they’d left behind an ailing father and a busy season of new lambs and growing crops, that they’d had to postpone the Highlands games that had been a tradition in June for the past two hundred years, and dozens of other things that all needed tending. And a fair crop of young ladies who’d be lamenting his absence.
“Ye ken if yer face freezes like that a hundred lasses will perish from sorrow.”
Niall sent Aden a sideways glance. “If I’m forced to wed some pinch-faced flower of the south, those hundred lasses will all be perishing from loneliness and sorrow. Even the lot chasing ye might frown for an entire minute once they read about yer nuptuals.”
“Dunnae underestimate Coll’s lack of enthusiasm at having Francesca choose a bride for him.”
“Aye. Thank the devil he’s the one lost the card turn. I’m surprised he has any teeth left, the way he’s been grinding ’em for five days.”
With a swift look toward at their brother’s backside, Aden pulled a deck of cards from his coat pocket and shuffled it one-handed. “I reckon he’ll fight harder for us with himself in the hangman’s noose.”
Aden’s swift expression of amusement as he pocketed the cards again might have been simple appreciation, or it might have been one of his rare admissions of trickery. Either way, Niall was abruptly grateful not to be the present Viscount Glendarril. It was horrifying enough to be ordered to choose a Sassenach bride; to have a woman he’d not seen in seventeen years pick out the lass he was to marry would have been enough to make him consider fleeing to the Colonies, regardless of the consequences to Aldriss Park.
The scattering of farms gave way to densely packed shops, businesses, hotels, inns, brothels, taverns, and stately homes, looming out of the fog like giant, steep-edged ravines to tower halfway into the sky. Along with the buildings came the people, shouting in a hundred accents and several languages, offering oranges, fish, pies, glimpses of the far-off Orient, and themselves. So these were the civilized folk, turning to stare at the trio of riders as they passed—as if the Highlanders were the odd birds. “It’s a madhouse,” he muttered, reining in Kelpie to avoid a scampering, nearly skeletal young girl scooping horse shite into a bucket.
“What in Saint Margaret’s name is that?” Aden commented, flicking the end of his reins toward a street corner.
Niall followed the gesture to spy a tall, thin man dressed in a lime-green jacket so tight he wouldn’t have been able to lift his arms above the elbow. The points of his shirt, white and stiff, dug into his earlobes, and his blond hair had been curled tighter than sheep’s wool. His trousers were a peacock blue, his waistcoat a patterned yellow and green, and the black boots he wore shone like water and had heels as deep as a horse’s hooves. “I saw one of ’em in a fashion catalog Eppie had on her bed stand,” Niall replied. “That, Aden, is a dandy.”
“I’m stunned enough that I willnae ask what ye were doing in Eppie Androw’s bedchamber. A dandy. Do ye reckon he can walk?”
“If he takes wee-enough steps, aye. And ye know damned well what I was doing in Eppie’s bedchamber. I’m four-and-twenty, nae eleven.”
Ahead of them Coll consulted a folded paper, then headed right down a narrower, quieter lane. The houses here were larger and didn’t share common walls, with more windows and quaint-looking gardens in the back. A street or two beyond them, the homes had short front drives, overhanging roofs for leaving carriages without getting rained on, and stables alongside the gardens in the rear.
Though Coll had initially been against it, they’d sent word that the MacTaggert brothers were traveling down to London. Niall could see the benefits of surprising Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert, putting her back on her heels and maybe even frightening her into tearing up the damned agreement. On the other hand, she’d sent the letter announcing Eloise’s betrothal, so she would have a fair idea that her sons would be arriving sooner rather than later. And he personally didn’t relish the idea of having to sleep in the stable because no additional rooms had been opened for them.
They trotted past a small park dotted with bairns in frilly dresses or short pants, together with women dressed in caps and dowdy gowns—nannies, he supposed—before Coll led them down another lane. A labyrinth of climbing roses and wrought-iron gates surrounded them now, not as closed in as the bordering streets but just as suffocating. When Coll finally drew Nuckelavee to a halt, Niall felt somewhat relieved; he could imagine a hell where one rode through flower-choked lanes endlessly searching for a tavern that would never appear.
“This one,” Laird Glendarril grunted, his gaze on the stately gray house on the right.
“Write out the direction for me before we step outside again,” Aden requested. “I’ll nae find it again otherwise.”
“With any luck we’ll be back home before ye have to memorize it,” their oldest brother returned, and sent the big black warhorse up the half-circle drive. “Hallo the house!”
The front door opened. Servants started fleeing the house in front of them, maids and kitchen help and footmen all straightening caps and coats willy-nilly as they ran out the door. For a hard half a dozen heartbeats Niall thought they’d caught the house on fire and were running for their lives, until he realized they were lining up on either side of the doorway. He did a swift count—fifteen of them. With that many servants, a man wouldn’t even have to hold his own kerchief to blow his nose.
“We’ve merited a parade,” Aden noted. “Do ye reckon they do this every time someone approaches the house?”