The Marriage Maker and the Widows Read online

  “That’s hardly fair, when you favor married men anyhow,” Charlotte muttered.

  “I favor any man who appeals to me, and Rivington would appeal to a rock if granite had eyes. Which rule?”

  Charlotte considered denial. She had not, after all, ended up permitting Mister Rivington to spend the night. Still, she understood the spirit of the question. “The one about not letting puppies remain in your bed.”

  “Rule nineteen?” Vivian peeked from under her arm. “Charlotte, you know how important rule nineteen is. You’ve only yourself to blame.”

  “He didn’t end up staying the night. I sent him away the moment he made his declaration of love.”

  Vivian shot upright, then grimaced. She raised long fingers to massage her forehead. “Rivington declared his love? They say the man didn’t even love his own mother.”

  With a shrug, Charlotte stood to pace the room. “It gets worse. This morning, he sent flowers. Twice. And a bracelet—”

  “What sort of flowers?” Vivian interrupted.

  “Hothouse flowers, then wildflowers, and then a bra—”

  “Wildflowers?” Vivian pursed her lips, shaking her head. “That is bad. Pray he didn’t gather the silly things himself.”

  “And a bracelet, and then a choir. Of children. They sang on my stoop.”

  Vivian stared at her, eyes wide with horror. “Singing children? Did you drug the man?”

  Charlotte threw her arms in the air. “He seemed so perfect,” she lamented, and plopped back down into the stiff armchair. Elbows on her knees, she lowered her face to her hands. “I hate breaking their hearts, the poor things.”

  A soft knock sounded.

  “Come,” Vivian called.

  The door swished open. “Missus,” a young woman said. “We have Missus Fairhaven’s tea. Also, the gentleman of last night, he forgot his cravat.”

  “Put the tea there,” Vivian ordered, pointing to a table near Charlotte. “Toss the cravat on the fire.”

  “Yes, missus.”

  Charlotte didn’t look up as soft footsteps came near. She heard a tray settle on the small table beside her chair, porcelain and silver quietly rattling. The aromatic scent of black tea reached her nose as the footsteps retreated. The door quietly closed.

  “Pour yourself some tea, dear,” Vivian said, her tone thoughtful. “It will make you feel better.”

  Charlotte raised her head. Dutifully, she turned and poured clear steaming brown liquid through a silver strainer and into a rose-adorned, gold-rimmed cup. Perusing the other offerings on the tray, she added sugar and cream, but ignored the artful array of miniature pastries. She lifted the delicate saucer, wishing she dared be so uncouth as to wrap the warm cup in both hands.

  “I daresay you’ll have to marry this one,” Vivian said.

  Charlotte returned saucer and teacup to the tray with a clatter. “I beg your pardon?”

  Vivian raised slender shoulders in a shrug. “A man like Rivington will not be put off. I never should have permitted you to take him. You simply were not up to the task. This is my fault.”

  Permitted her? Charlotte suppressed a huff. Though nearly ten years her senior, Vivian’s considerable beauty had not yet waned, but that didn’t mean she’d permitted Charlotte anything. “It’s Rivington’s fault. What sort of rogue offers his lover a chaste kiss on the forehead and asks for her hand? For that matter, what right does an Englishman have to go and decide he has a heart after all?”

  Vivian poured coffee from a silver pot, then topped her cup off with a sizable splash of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. From another, quite small decanter, she added the barest drop of laudanum. After stirring her concoction with a silver spoon etched to resemble a lily, she took a sip, expression contemplative. “He wouldn’t be a bad husband. He’s very wealthy, he’s a fair amount older than you, and I assume you wouldn’t permit him to place undue restrictions on your behavior.”

  Charlotte shook her head, bitterly amused by how closely Vivian’s reasoning paralleled Mister Rivington’s. “I will not marry where I do not love. You know that. It’s my rule.”

  “Yes, and such a silly rule. It serves no meaningful purpose, unlike mine.”

  Taking back up her tea, Charlotte didn’t reply. She would never inform Vivian of the impetus of her rule for fear of damaging their friendship. In truth, it wasn’t that Charlotte wished to marry a man she loved. She was incapable of that most precarious emotion and had no need to wed. Rather, she would never, ever treat another being as her late husband had treated her.

  To wed someone who loved you, when you did not love them and had no intention of being true to them, that was an act of great cruelty. The evil of doing so was not mitigated if the other person begged for the union, or entered the marriage in full possession of the truth. Just as with Vivian’s current husband, John Lamont, the pain of giving love and not feeling it returned would be an endless, slow torture that lead a man to his death.

  Vivian continued to sip her drink, eyes taking on a dreamy look that meant the ache in her head was forgotten. “Yes, you could marry Rivington, and then, as I know you don’t love him, when the joy of winning you wears off and he’s left wed to a hoyden, I can offer him the solace of my arms, and—”

  “Vivian,” Charlotte broke in sharply. Hypothetical as Vivian’s mumbling was, she couldn’t be permitted to continue. “Remember your first rule.”

  Blinking in an attempt to focus on Charlotte, Vivian frowned, then her expression cleared. “Yes, I nearly forgot. No seducing the husbands of my friends.” A sly smile curved her lips. “That must be why I have so few friends.”

  Charlotte snorted. “Very likely, but you’ve veered quite off course. The question at hand is how do I stifle Mister Rivington’s advances? I’d hoped we could spend today visiting the shops, but that’s hardly an enduring solution.”

  Another quiet knock sounded on the door.

  Annoyance flashed across Vivian’s face, dampening her beauty. “What?” she called.

  The door slid open just far enough for one of the maids to stick her head into the room. “Missus, there’s a gentleman asking to be permitted in to speak with you.”

  Charlotte shot to her feet. Tea sloshed into the saucer. “Rivington? I asked Victor not to own that I’m here.”

  The maid cast her an apologetic look before turning back to her mistress. “It’s one of the gentlemen on your list, missus.”

  “List?” Charlotte echoed.

  Vivian’s expression suffused with chagrin. “I have a list, a very short one, of gentlemen who have, so far, rejected my advances. They are to be permitted to see me under any circumstance.” She cast Charlotte a narrow-eyed look. “I’m sure you have a similar number of failed conquests. You should give your servants a list, as well.”

  Charlotte deemed it best not to reply to that. After all, she’d attempted so few conquests, especially compared to Vivian, that her lack of failure hardly counted. “I should leave.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” a strong masculine voice said.

  The maid jumped back with a squeak as the door slid fully open to reveal the tall, imposing form of Sir Stirling James. It was all Charlotte could do not to gape at the man, notorious not only for loving his wife, but for his dedication to the emotion. Some small, afore unnoticed corner of her heart that still cherished the fantasy of love, if only for others, crumbled away.

  “Stirling James, you’ve finally come to me,” Vivian purred. With long fingers, she traced the frilly, plunging neckline of her robe. “I’m afraid, Charlotte dear, you really will have to leave, unless you would care to further your education.”

  Still standing, Charlotte set her cup and saucer down. She most assuredly did not wish that.

  “Actually, it’s Missus Fairhaven I’ve come to see,” Sir Stirling drawled. “I’ve an offer for her.”

  Charlotte blinked, stunned. She’d never once flirted with Stirling. He was a happily wedded man. Or so she’d
thought.

  Vivian’s eyes flashed with the desire to murder before her heavy lids slid closed. A brittle smile shaped her wide mouth. “You won’t make much headway there, Stirling. Charlotte doesn’t dally with married men.” Vivian’s laugh was hollow.

  “And I do not dally with anyone,” Sir Stirling said. He turned to Charlotte. “It’s on Rivington’s behalf that I’ve come.”

  Charlotte groaned and sank back into her seat. “Please, you must convince him there is no future for us.” She raised her hands, beseeching. “I don’t want him to suffer. Pursuing me will only bring him pain. I don’t love him.”

  “I had no thought you do.” Sir Stirling strode deeper into the room, appearing unaware of Vivian’s glare. Tall, darkly clad and made of hard planes, he was at odds with the plush, lacy, blue and cream room. A conspicuous deviation from what was normal there. “I said on Rivington’s behalf, not at his behest. I’m concerned for him and, from what I can ascertain, only an inability to locate you will halt his pursuit.”

  “An inability to locate me?” Charlotte cast Vivian a questioning look, but found her friend’s sullen attention riveted on Stirling. “What do you propose? Mister Rivington has every resource at his disposal.”

  “Not every resource.” Stirling grinned. “I know of a manor outside a little village in Caithness that can be rented, though it’s never been listed for rent. I propose you spend the remainder of your spring there. Perhaps even on through summer and into autumn.”

  “Caithness?” Charlotte gasped. “That’s the ends of the earth. Why not simply ship me off to Shetland?”

  “Oh, I don’t believe we need to go to that extreme.” Stirling smiled in a fine display of even, white teeth. “You’ll quite enjoy the area I’m thinking of, and will require only your carriage to get there.” His smile disappeared. “I’ve spoken to Rivington. I assure you, this is the only way.”

  Charlotte stared at him, somewhat mystified by his sudden appearance and subsequent suggestion. She looked past him to Vivian. “What do you think?”

  Vivian’s blue eyes glittered like sapphires. “I agree with Stirling, dearest. You need to go.”

  Sorrow flickered in Charlotte at the bite in Vivian’s tone. Vivian’s pride was pricked, with Charlotte as both source and witness. It would take Vivian time to recover.

  Charlotte turned back to Sir Stirling and nodded. Of all the men she’d met in Edinburgh, he was one of the most noble. A man she trusted above others. “It will be as you suggest then. Off to Caithness I’ll go.”

  Chapter Three

  Charlotte’s carriage made such slow progress up the lengthy drive, she could have walked the remainder of the way more quickly. Her poor horses, although rested often, were undoubtedly exhausted, and the drive, while not steep, was a steady incline. Much of Caithness seemed to be, drawing them ever upward as they pressed north, deep into the highlands. They’d passed the last vestiges of true civilization so long ago, she couldn’t recall what the town had looked like.

  She flipped open Sir Stirling’s note and leaned into the light slanting between the curtains to reread his words. Much of the strong script described the route in detail, to ensure they would reach their destination. She skimmed past those lines, seeking a paragraph near the end.

  You’ll find the manor, Talla Gaoithe, to your liking. Lovely place. Well looked after. Be forewarned, however, that some spaces are to be avoided. These rooms are locked, by order of the owner, Lord Edward Waverly, Baron of Gaoth.

  Charlotte pressed her lips together, a line creasing her brow. She’d been puzzling over those words for most of the trip. Rooms to be avoided? Locked, by order of the baron? That was odd, and perhaps insulting. Were the rooms always locked to those who rented this manor, or were the locks for her, a scandalous widow? If the manor was rented with such discretion as Stirling intimated, it was obvious the baron didn’t wish anyone to know he required funds. As such, he should be a sight more convivial toward the person providing them.

  The carriage turned, her line of sunlight angling away. Charlotte folded the page and returned the thick vellum to her reticule. They slowed to a halt.

  She could hear her men calling to each other, quite at ease. The carriage jiggled as her footmen climbed down. A moment later, the door beside her opened, revealing the brightness of a sunny afternoon. The footman proffered his hand. After a glance spared for her cloak, reticule, gloves and hat, all resting on the seat beside her, Charlotte accepted. The journey had been long. She could revert to strict propriety after stretching her legs.

  “Thank you,” Charlotte murmured and descended, blinking, into a brilliant, blustery afternoon. A stiff breeze, invigorating after hours inside the carriage, roiled her skirt and tossed red-blonde curls back from her face. She removed her hand from the footman’s and turned to survey her home for the next six months.

  A lovely manor, Stirling had said. Charlotte clamped her mouth closed, realizing her lower jaw hung slack. Why, it was a castle. A splendid, perfectly kept, Scottish castle. One that had, obviously, survived unscathed through both Jacobite rebellions and numerous other Highland feuds.

  She stood in a paved circle at the top of a long, tree-lined drive. Green lawn stretched away before her, punctuated by a backdrop of tall pines and bisected by a cobbled path leading to the keep’s grand front entrance. The massive wooden door evoked the sense of a raised drawbridge. Even as she watched, a more customary-sized opening appeared within the first, and a gentleman hurried out.

  As the rest of her truncated entourage rumbled up the drive behind her, Charlotte raised her gaze, up the light gray stone, past row upon row of ivy draped windows, to the towers and turrets encircling the peaked slate roof. Whether the slender towers were decorative or functional, she did not know. Their conic tops, the baron’s banner flying, stood stark against the blue sky. She’d seen no more beautiful castle depicted in childhood books.

  Dwarfing its smaller cousins was a single, massive square tower set at one end of the main structure. Battlement topped and boasting pinnacle-caped towers of its own at each corner, the light gray stone was roughhewn, clearly older than the majority of the manor. Obviously, the massive, freestanding tower was the original keep, a true fortification. Centuries of Scots had likely sought shelter there from one threat or another. Hundreds, if not thousands, of men would have died both defending and attempting to breach those soaring walls.

  A beautiful, formidable place, built to keep those within safe.

  A smile flickered on her lips as she headed up the wide stone path toward the entrance. That she would now employ this mighty keep to protect her from a spurned lover seemed almost comical, or perhaps even insulting. She hoped Stirling hadn’t told the baron why she wished to rent his ancestral home. Maybe Lord Edward Waverley was correct to lock her out of some of his rooms.

  The gentleman, a nervous looking young man, bowed when she reached him. “Missus Fairhaven?”

  “That is correct, Mister…?” For this nervous half-child couldn’t be the Baron of Gaoth.

  His cheeks went ruddy. “McAullum, missus. Tom McAullum. The baron asked me to meet you.”

  “Then Lord Edward will not be greeting me?” She hadn’t expected him to, in truth. Likely, he was ashamed by the need to rent out his home and preferred distance from the process.

  Beneath a shock of orange hair, Tom scrunched his face in thought. “It’s difficult to say for certain, missus, but I doubt he’ll come ‘round today. He’s out with the terriers, chasing off the weasels. A pack of um have been at the hens on half a dozen of the farms.”

  Could he not afford even a kennel master? “The baron sees to such things himself? Do the farmers not keep dogs?”

  “Course they do, missus, but the baron has his trained right well.” He brought his hands together in a wiggling gesture. “They go in as a team and drag the vermin out. Then they dispatch them clean like, one biting the tail while another goes for the throat, not drawing the killing out fo
r sport, like dogs is sometimes want to do. That leaves the pelts mighty useful. The baron always lets the farmers keep pelts taken on their land.”

  Charlotte stared at him, eyebrows raised. That had been quite a bit more than she wanted to know about disposing of chicken-killing weasels. “I see.”

  Expression suddenly abashed, Tom McAullum cleared his throat. “Uh, yes, well, if you don’t mind, missus, I’ll go tell your people where they need to go.”

  Charlotte nodded. “By all means.”

  Tom dipped his head and hurried past her. She could hear him calling to her men. Leaving her more than capable staff to sort things out with him, Charlotte stepped inside.

  The foyer was no less grand than the exterior. Tall, many-paned windows allowed in the afternoon light, illuminating a space filled with ornate, gilded sconces and dominated by a many-tiered crystal chandelier. A vaulted, plaster-detailed ceiling soared high above, nearly overshadowing the paneled, silk-clad walls.

  A bit awed, Charlotte walked along one wall, keen eyes taking in every detail. She drew one slender finger across a silk panel. Sectioned off by white plaster molding, the expensive material had at first glance appeared a simmering, solid light blue. Closer inspection revealed a subtle floral design. Someone, the duke or his wife, has exquisite taste.

  She walked the length of the foyer, noting an unobtrusive catch that must open a section of the paneling to reveal a cloak room, or possibly a servants’ corridor. The inlaid marble floor, like the walls, exuded wealth. A massive, two-sided staircase spilled forth from a baluster-lined upper hall, magnificent enough to make Vivian swoon.

  No wonder the baron required an income. Someone, likely his wife, had spent the wealth of a small country on the manor’s grand entrance alone. What a silly man, to put so much of his fortune into his home that he could no longer afford to live in it, or employ a kennel master, or heaven knew what else.

  Ignoring the stairs, though the plush blue runner beckoned, she looked both left and right, down the two halls that converged into the foyer. With a shrug, she elected to go left. Her boots tapping a quiet rhythm on the marble, Charlotte passed stately portraits and small, decorative tables placed at regular intervals to display fine porcelain. The ceiling above was vaulted, and segmented into a veritable honeycomb of squares, white plaster detail outlining blue. Gold sconces, clean white candles ablaze, lit the way.