“Ah. Thank you for not doing that, then.”
Smythe walked in, deposited a fresh, wrinkle-free newspaper at Lady Aldriss’s elbow, and then exited again. None of the servants were lingering this morning, Niall noted belatedly. His mother’s doing, no doubt. No witnesses.
“I’ve nae a thing to say to ye,” he commented into the silence. “Ye’d be better off claiming ye’d no idea what was afoot, anyway.”
“When your brothers or your father tell or ask something of you that perhaps you would be better off not doing,” she returned, still stirring her tea, “do you hesitate?”
With a grimace, he finished off the egg. “Nae. I do more often than nae end up with a black eye or someaught, though. And I’m nae asking ye for a thing.”
She reached over, putting her hand over his. “You are my son. I was apart from you for a very long time, but I am here now. As I told you before, I will do whatever I am able to help you.”
“I honestly dunnae know what that might be, màthair. Ye’re looking the other way for some of it, already, and I reckon that’ll be hard enough for ye to maneuver around in yer clever drawing room conversations. The deed, and the consequences, are mine. And Amelia-Rose’s.” That last bit was what worried him the most; not that she didn’t love him, but that he meant to challenge the one thing that could well mean more to her than he did.
“Don’t you fret over me and my clever drawing room conversations,” she retorted. “I am a very experienced duelist.”
“Good.” Niall pushed away from the table. “I’ll wander back by when they’ve put out actual food.”
“You’re not going anywhere yet, are you?”
Whatever he might have thought about Francesca Oswell-MacTaggert, he couldn’t mistake the genuine concern in her voice. “Nae. I reckon I’ll be about until midmorning.”
Francesca watched him out of the breakfast room. He looked tired, worried, and very, very serious. While she hadn’t yet been able to discover every detail of his plan—which she meant to do, posthaste—she knew enough to wish again that he hadn’t stopped her from negotiating a new agreement with the Baxters. Amelia-Rose would have been angry, but when he won her heart he would have been able to claim the rest of her, as well.
The consequences he’d mentioned would be serious, indeed. She didn’t wish them on anyone, much less her own son. The nastiness would interfere with her entire reason for deciding to enforce her agreement with Angus in the first place—to have her sons back in her life.
Sipping at her too-sweet tea, she opened the paper to the social announcements—and set her cup on the table so hard the tea sloshed out. Damn Smythe for not saying something about this, though he frequently had John the footman iron the newspaper in the mornings, and she had a suspicion that the young man couldn’t read.
Glancing toward the empty doorway, she lifted the paper so anyone walking by wouldn’t know what might have caught her attention. The announcement was small, but not unusually so, with an elaborate spray of flowers across the top and the bottom. It seemed Mr. and Mrs. Charles Baxter were delighted to announce the engagement of their only daughter, Miss Amelia-Rose Hyacinth Baxter, to Lionel Albert West, the Marquis of Hurst. The little script at the bottom, which read Hearts Entwined, made her scowl.
They hadn’t wasted any time. And with the announcement, anyone who hadn’t already heard now knew that Amelia-Rose had found her title. In her eyes, at least, the inclusion of the quotation only pointed out the fact that love had had nothing to do with the match whatsoever.
Francesca debated whether to tell Niall that the official announcement had been made. He knew about the engagement; seeing it in bold black print wouldn’t change what he meant to do. It would, though, alert him about just how many other people had hold of the same information.
First she rang for Smythe, wiped up her spilled tea with a napkin, and went to find some writing paper. She hadn’t been jesting about her skill in maneuvering through London Society. Now seemed to be the perfect time to make use of those abilities.
“Nae. Make it fluffier.”
Oscar narrowed his eyes, giving the cravat a close stare. “If I make it fluffier, ye’ll nae be able to see over it.”
Turning to face the dressing mirror, Niall looked at his reflection again. His shirt points weren’t quite high enough to make him a dandy, but he looked far fancier than he could ever recall. A green coat so tight he could barely lift his arms, a gray-and-yellow-striped waistcoat that could likely be seen even in pitch-black darkness, a damned white waterfall beneath his neck, gray trousers without space for a single damned pocket, and Hessian boots poor Oscar had spent half the night polishing almost to mirror perfection. “I look like a nightmare.”
“Be glad Matthew Harris didnae ask too many questions,” Coll said from the window, “and that he’s near yer size.”
“Nae near enough,” Niall protested, trying to extend his arms and then giving up the effort out of fear he might pull his own sleeves off.
“Yer hair willnae do,” his oldest brother observed, straightening.
“I’m nae cutting it. I’ll stuff it under the hat.” Picking up the green beaver hat, he set it on his head, grabbing stray strands of hair and pushing them up beneath the dome of the chapeau. He couldn’t change his hair color, but at least this way it looked a proper, gentlemanly style. “How’s this?”
He turned around, and Coll spent a long moment perusing his attire. “Aye. As long as ye’re nae face-to-face with anyone. Ye dunnae look like a poet with consumption.”
“Thank ye for that, anyway.”
His oldest brother continued gazing at him. “Ye certain about this? I reckon ye could find a lass who’s a lot less trouble.”
“Aye. Mayhap I could. But she’s my adae, and I’ll nae be without her.”
Heavy bootsteps pounded up the stairs outside the bedchamber, and Aden shoved open the door. “We’re ready,” he said, out of breath. “Saint Andrew, Niall, ye almost look like a proper Sassenach.”
“Nae need to insult me.” His heart began a hard, steady rhythm. A great many things could go wrong from this point forward. “And thank ye for this.”
Coll clapped him on the shoulder. “Thank us when ye’ve finished.”
Neither of his brothers had hesitated when he’d outlined his plan. Half of it was likely because of the mayhem it could cause, but the other half—and perhaps a bit more—was simply because they were brothers. The MacTaggerts. They always stood together.
Outside Gavin waited on horseback, the reins for the other three mounts in his hands. Not quite certain he could manage to climb into the saddle without splitting his trousers, Niall took his time swinging a leg over Kelpie’s back and settling in. Only then did he take a closer look at the groom. “That’s nae what ye’re to be wearing, Gavin,” he said, frowning.
“I asked Farthing, and he said ye gave me the wrong colors. I reckon I’ll get some fresh ones in a wee bit.”
“Ye brought a Sassenach into this?” Coll queried, his brow lowering.
“Well, they dunnae say ‘deas’ or ‘clì’ when they turn a team, and I knew it wasnae ‘starboard’ or ‘port.’ I deemed I should be authentic, aye?”
“So, what is it?” Aden asked.
The groom reddened. “‘Gee’ and ‘haw.’”
Niall snorted. “That sounds familiar.”
“How was I to know that, Master Niall? I’m telling ye, this London is nae a place for sane men.”
They set off south at a trot. “I appreciate ye making certain, Gavin,” Niall said over his shoulder.
As they reached Curzon Street, they headed right, then after a block or so turned down a short side street behind a wagon piled with what looked like old furniture. Gavin hopped to the ground, tossing his reins to Aden. “I’ll take a look, shall I? It’s bonny I’m nae dressed like a harlequin, I reckon.”
“Dunnae miss him, Gavin, or ye’re walking back to Scotland,” Niall warned him.