“She—”
“Hush. Amelia-Rose is ruined. It’s happened; it’s done. Hurst wouldn’t have her now, whatever agreement you made with him. You, therefore, have a select few choices. You can cry to the heavens at what a horrible girl your daughter is, and let her ruin tear you down, as well. You can decry my son as a poacher and a heathen—which everyone knows he is, anyway, because he’s a Highlander. The scandal, the ruin, will be yours, and they will not be here to share it. I, on the other hand, will face almost no consequences. Everyone’s seen my wild sons. No one could hope to control them. And yet I am quite pleased to see him in love and married.”
Victoria opened her mouth again, but her husband squeezed her hand. “And the other choices?”
“There’s but one, actually. The notice you placed in the newspaper wasn’t actually done by you. It was some sort of jest, but until you discovered the villain you didn’t wish to say anything. We’ve known for better than a week that Niall and Amelia-Rose were going to marry. Being the young couple they are, they couldn’t tolerate the idea of waiting, and so with our mutual blessing they, hied themselves off to Niall’s native Scotland to wed.”
“No!” Victoria burst out, the newspaper shredding in her fingers. “No, no, no! I will not be a party to this! And neither will Lord Hurst!”
“I imagine Lord Hurst, who’s also been absent from London, will most happily claim that he had no knowledge of any engagement, and has no idea which rogue might have placed the announcement. If he wishes to disagree, I would be very interested to see how any ranting he does about losing a woman to an untitled Scotsman could possibly benefit him.”
“Y—”
Francesca stood. “Beneath any other argument, Victoria, if you stand against me, you will lose. Your indignance only makes you look like a frothing lunatic. Anyone asked to choose between your version of events and mine will choose mine. Especially when the new Mr. and Mrs. MacTaggert return to London in four days, happily wed and with no idea of any confusion they might have left behind here.
“Therefore,” she went on, “when they return you may be here to welcome them with smiles and blessings, or you may be elsewhere keeping your thoughts and opinions to yourself. And that is for your benefit. You still have people who will invite you to parties. You still have a chance to meet your grandchildren, God willing. Whether you retain those things is utterly dependent on your own behavior.” She took a breath. “I have seen to it that there will be perhaps a few whispers and a bit of speculation about who authored the engagement announcement. Nothing more. No scandal, no ruin attached to the Baxter name, no reason your lifestyle or associations should alter. Think beyond your anger, Victoria.”
Her lips trembling, Victoria Baxter glared. It must all be crumbling away, her dreams of being introduced as the mother of a marchioness, of having a title so directly attached to her name, to rising in her social circle to a level she’d probably imagined to be much greater than it truly would have been as the mere mother of good fortune.
“Do as you will,” Mrs. Baxter finally spat, standing. “I have a wretched daughter, and I will be happy—happy, I tell you—never to set eyes on the ungrateful thing again. She ruined everything. And you stand there with a smile and help her. The lot of you be damned.” With that she flung open the morning room door and stalked out of the house.
Her husband stood. “This is not ideal,” he said, his tone much more measured. “I shall have to listen to that for years, now, as I’ve listened to her ambitions for years. Please inform me when my daughter returns to London. I, at least, would like to be here to welcome her. That child … Well, she’s no child any longer. She did try very hard to please.” He nodded. “Outspoken, though. She didn’t get that from me.” Charles held out his hand. “Good morning, my lady. We shall do as you suggest. Victoria would not be able to tolerate her life with a scandal in it.”
Francesca shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Baxter. I shall send word, and I’ll see you in a few days.”
Once they were gone and Smythe had shut the front door again, latching it for good measure, Francesca walked back up the stairs to Rory on the landing. Then she leaned down and kissed the deer’s cheek. Rory, it seemed, wouldn’t be going anywhere. And neither would Niall—or at least not permanently.
Seventeen years ago she’d abandoned them, putting all her hope into an agreement that, if Eloise decided not to wed, she could never enforce. One by one, the pieces of her life had begun to fall back into place. Even better, Niall had found happiness in the middle of this mayhem. So while she couldn’t—and wouldn’t—brag that she’d planned perfectly, she could happily admit to herself that like the mad, half-dressed stag on the landing and despite dubious beginnings, they seemed to be showing quite well. All of the MacTaggerts. Herself included.
Fresh pots of red and white roses lined the shallow turn-in at Oswell House. Two dozen potted flowers at least, alternating in color. It looked … hopeful, but Amelia-Rose kept her hands clenched together as she had since they’d first reached the outskirts of London.
“If ye have an apoplexy before we speak a word to anyone, ye’ll nae find out what’s actually happened,” Niall pointed out from beside her, stretching as the coach came to a stop.
“How can you be so relaxed?” she asked him, though the only thing she’d yet seen trouble him was when something stood between him and her. That made it seem simple, that nothing else signified, but she’d been raised to be much more careful.
“I’m nae relaxed,” he returned, reaching past her to open the door as Smythe appeared to lower the steps. “I’m in love. And I’m hopeful. Here or elsewhere, it’s ye and me, Amy.”
She stepped down first, then turned around and kissed him as he joined her on the drive. “It’s destiny, yes?” she whispered, smiling against his mouth.
He grinned back at her. “Aye. Now take my arm so the rest of ’em cannae see me tremble.”
“Mm-hm.” She did as he suggested, leaning close against his side. Only Smythe had emerged from the house, but then he gave some sort of signal and a trio of footmen trotted outside to begin unstrapping the trunk at the back of the coach. Niall had hauled it about on his own, but then he carried sheep about regularly.
His brothers joined them, Aden flexing his back as they reached the doorway. “I’m nae going anywhere for at least a week,” he commented. “And if my arse is numb, I can only imagine—”
“There’s a lady present, ye heathen,” Niall interrupted without heat. “But aye, at least part of me is hoping we’ve traveled as far as we need to for now.”
More than half of her was hoping that. And it wasn’t so much that she felt like she’d returned home, but simply that she wanted to wake up and then fall asleep beside her husband in the same bed more than one night in a row. The inns had been the nicest along the road, but she missed soft sheets and mornings without coachmen yelling for their passengers to board or they’d forfeit their fare to London or points elsewhere.
“Ye want me to go in first?” Coll asked.
Niall shook his head. “Nae. But if ye lied to get us back here, dunnae go far because we’ll be having a tussle.”
Smythe somehow beat them inside the house, and ushered them down the hallway toward the Oswell House library. It was the largest room on the ground floor, full of windows and light and delightful-smelling books, but it seemed more a place for a dressing-down than … than whatever else she wanted it to be. They had eloped, after all. Perhaps a happy greeting was too much to expect. She flexed her fingers in Niall’s strong hand, and he glanced at her.