She smiled. “Actually, I’m trying to find a way to inform you that my mother is determined Lord Glendarril will escort me to the Spenfield ball on Thursday. We’re to show well there together, after which my parents and your mother will be able to make our engagement known officially.”
Thursday. That would give them three more days to find Coll if Aden hadn’t already hunted him down. And three days to remind his brother that he’d lost the card cut more or less fairly, and that they all had a duty to see to the future of Aldriss Park. And for him to convince himself that Amelia-Rose was merely trouble where he was concerned, and trouble he didn’t need.
She might not be the timid wisp Coll had planned for, but she had a strong streak of logic, did Amelia-Rose. She might not disagree with being left behind in London, if Coll didn’t fall head over heels for her and hie with her back to Scotland. But the sooner Coll realized she was a good fit to be his viscountess, the better for all of them. Or so he would continue to tell himself until he believed it.
“I’ll see to it,” he said aloud, when he realized she likely expected a response of some sort.
“Amy, you already have one of them. Leave us the others,” Lady Margaret said loudly. It was evidently amusing, because half the lot of them giggled and snickered.
Amelia-Rose blushed. “Mr. MacTaggert escorted me here on his brother’s behalf. I have no wish to monopolize him, though. By all means, steal him away.”
Niall didn’t much like that, and he scowled. “Ye trying to be rid of me, lass?”
“I’m trying not to encourage gossip,” she retorted nearly soundlessly.
“Ah, the meek side. Cannae say I’m impressed with it,” he noted, rocking up onto his knees and making his way around her. “I’m all yers, lasses. Have at me.”
An afternoon of conversation with the other lasses did serve a purpose: It illustrated very clearly that he preferred escorting Amelia-Rose about to chatting with any one of these flighty things who’d realized he was marriageable. And he’d been telling her the truth: The meek side of her, the one Coll wanted, didn’t much interest him at all. The other side, the one she’d been trying so hard to stifle, near drove him mad. Until she decided which lass she wanted to be, he’d be much wiser to keep his damned distance.
Chapter Six
As the barouche turned up the Oswell House drive, a muffled bellow sounded from somewhere deep inside the halls. The sight of Loki being led into the stable confirmed for Niall what the yelling had already told him: Aden had found Coll—and Coll wasn’t happy about it.
He vaulted out of the barouche as it rolled to a halt. “Gavin,” he stated, spying the groom they’d brought with them down from Aldriss, “ye’re Eloise’s chaperone now.”
“I—Aye, Master Niall,” the servant called back as Niall ran for the door.
He yanked it open, then paused to look back at his sister. “Dunnae come upstairs,” he ordered, and jabbed a finger at Matthew Harris. “Especially nae with him.”
The house had erupted in chaos, with half the servants trying to crowd into the hallway and the other half hauling buckets of water up the stairs. He didn’t know if Francesca was home or not, but he hoped she was elsewhere. Aye, they’d meant to disrupt London when they’d arrived, but he didn’t want her deciding Coll wasn’t fit to be married and yanking Aldriss out from under them before they had a chance to secure the estate’s future.
At the top of the stairs he turned up the hallway where the three of them had been lodged. Servants carried water into Aden’s room and emerged again, while the door to Coll’s bedchamber across the hallway stood closed—with Aden leaning back against it.
“There ye are,” the middle MacTaggert brother grunted. The door shook; he rebounded an inch or two away from it, then settled back against the hard oak again.
“Was he at Gentleman Jackson’s?”
“Nae. They pointed me to several dodgier establishments, though, including one called The Pugilist.” The door thudded again, and he shoved back against it. “They’ve a pit in the basement where they put a likely lad, and he takes on all comers until one of ’em knocks him out, then that fella takes the first fella’s place.”
Niall scowled. “And Coll was in the pit?”
“Aye. With a bucketload of black eyes and bruised and broken ribs scattered about the room.”
“They’re lucky he didnae kill anyone.” Stupid, bloodthirsty lobsterback English.
Aden did his best to shrug as he and the flimsy-looking lock kept the door shut. “I reckon they thought they had a thickheaded laird with more money than brains, put someaught in his drink so they could shove him down there, and then didnae reckon on how much he would dislike it. They were happy enough to help me haul him out of there once I got him to swear he wouldnae break any of ’em in half.”
“And now?” Niall asked, indicating the abused door.
“He’s blaming me for nae allowing him to pummel anybody, and I reckon the potion they slipped him has got his head coming off his shoulders.”
“He’s been drinking?”
“Oh, aye. He smells like a whisky barrel.”
One of the footmen stopped in front of them. “Master Aden, the … um, the bath is ready. Should we—”
“Go away,” Aden cut in. “We’ll see to it.”
The last of the servants charged down the stairs before he could even finish speaking. Niall gazed after them. “We might’ve used the help.”
“Aye, and our great bear might’ve liked discussing his frustration about London with any Sassenach in reach.”
Aden made a good point. Luckily his brother’s door and Coll’s were directly opposite each other, so it would be a straight path to the copper bathtub the servants had hauled into the bedchamber. Niall rolled his shoulders. “Are ye ready?”
“Nae, but let’s do it.”
“One, t—”
“What in heaven’s name is going on here?” Francesca demanded, stalking into the hallway.
With a muttered curse Niall met her halfway, stopping her forward progress and putting a hand over her mouth. “We’ll manage,” he said, keeping his voice low.
“But—”
“I’ll meet ye downstairs in half an hour,” he cut in. “We can have a chat then.” He lowered his hand.
Meeting his gaze with her fern-green eyes, finally she nodded. “Is my oldest son a bedlamite?” she whispered.
She actually looked … concerned. Worried. Not over her reputation, but about Coll. Niall shook his head. “Nae. Thirty minutes.”
Without another word she turned on her heel and left for the stairs. Hm. That had gone more smoothly than he expected. Shaking his head, he returned to Aden. “Where were we?”
“Three!”
Aden yanked open the door as Coll charged it. The viscount came stumbling into the hallway, and Niall and Aden each grabbed one of his arms and kept him moving forward until they could twist him around and shove him into the bathtub.
They stepped back from the explosion of water. Coll, flinging water and curses, scrambled upright. “It’s fucking freezing, ye bastards!”
“We didnae have a loch to throw ye into,” Aden said calmly. “Sit back.”
“My damned clothes are on!”
Well, his dress kilt and boots were. The shirt, waistcoat, and coat had vanished somewhere in the last eighteen hours, likely never to be seen again. Coll looked a mess, himself, with a black eye, a pair of bloody scratches across his chest, bruised knuckles, and his dark hair madder than a bird’s nest.
“Then take ’em off,” Niall replied, kicking the door shut. All they needed was for Eloise to see another brother’s arse today. Or worse, his front bits. “I thought me saying ye were off to find a beer was just an excuse.”
Coll slung off his kilt, threw it at Aden, and sank back into the cold water to wrestle off his boots. Aden deftly dodged the wet thing and went to claim the dressing table chair.
“I went to find someaught to punch,” Coll rumbled, tossing away both boots and then dunking his head. “But all I found was civilization, and then I got a wee bit angry.”