Chapter Sixteen

T he next day, Mark wanted to escape back to his club, but his mother stood between him and the door.

‘Mark, you can hardly leave when you have guests staying in the house. What have you planned for their entertainment? Dearest Niamh has never been to London and I am sure there are a dozen places she'd like to see.'

He desperately wanted to point out that he had not invited his cousin, aunt or mother to London, but it would not matter. ‘I thought you would all wish for a day of rest after your long journey.'

‘Nothing of the sort. We were cooped up in a carriage for days. There is nothing we would enjoy more than a tour of London. It has been more than thirty years since your father brought me here as his bride.'

His mother did not add that his father had not brought her back since. Or that his mother had not been accepted into the bosom of the beau monde. Her accent was too Scottish and her background was trade. Not even her beautiful coppery hair and winsome smile had enabled her to join the higher levels of society. His father had simply left her at home with his children and gone to London alone for the Season. James and Mark had travelled with him when they grew old enough to go to school at Eton. Father wanted his sons to be English. He would correct them sharply if they ever used Scottish brogue or even words.

Mark did not feel English or Scottish.

He felt as if he belonged nowhere.

His mother placed a hand on his arm. Her figure was trim and her hair still the coppery gold of her youth. But she had deep lines on her face, James had called them ‘scowl wrinkles'. It was hard to imagine that she'd ever been young. Or happy. ‘Where are you going to take us, lad?'

Mark said the first place that popped into his mind thanks to Helen. ‘The Tower of London.'

‘A prison? We rode a carriage from Scotland and you're taking us to a bowfin and scabby prison?'

His mother's Scottish brogue grew rougher when she was angry.

He shook his head. ‘Not any more, Mama. It holds the Crown Jewels and an animal menagerie. It's one of the most frequently visited buildings in all of Britain. I promise, it is not foul smelling or dirty there.'

Mama nodded at this. ‘I should like to see the Crown Jewels and I am sure Niamh will be happy for your escort. She would make you the most excellent partner in life if only you would court her. Shall we say a half-hour from now?'

Mark was about to nod, when he heard a knock at the door. His heartbeat quickened. Was it Helen? She was brazen enough to come and see how he did. His butler passed him and opened the door. It was a carrier holding potted plants.

‘Don't tell me you've ordered more flowers?' his mother said in dismay. ‘You've got more plants in this house than a monadh !'

The carrier must have heard her, for he touched his hat. ‘I've ten plants for a Lord Inverness, compliments of Lord Trentham and speedy wishes for his swift recovery.'

Mama rounded on Mark. ‘Recovery from what?'

‘A minor cold is all.'

‘No wonder you looked all peely-wally. Now don't haver. Who is Lord Trentham? I have never heard that title before.'

Mark leaned against the wall, his leg stiffening from standing too long. ‘An earl. He is the second son of the Duke of Hampford. Lord Trentham was given the title of Earl for performing a service to the Crown.'

Mama brushed passed him, standing by the butler. ‘Och! I suppose you can put them in the drawing room for now. Heaven knows we dinnae need any more plants.'

The butler dutifully delivered the pots to the drawing room, placing them in a row before the window. As Mark sat down in his favourite chair, he realised how much he missed Helen's company. More than the plants, she had brought life to his sorry existence. And she'd made him want to live again. With her.

But he'd resolved not to think of Helen any more. Even though it was apparent to him that it was she and not Lord Trentham who had sent the flowers. He wondered if the Duke of Pelford had given her the illustrations yet. He'd hoped not to have a painful interview. He didn't wish to see her again. It was too hard. And if his mother, aunt, and cousin hadn't arrived, he would have gone home to Scotland like a dog with his tail between his legs.

Niamh was the first to enter the room. She had the same beautiful coppery hair of his mother and aunt. His cousin was small, curvy and vivacious. Brimming with life. She bounced into the room. Not walked. She made him tired by just watching her.

‘Aunt says that you are to take us to the Tower.'

‘Aye.'

She perched on the armrest of his chair. ‘And to see the Crown Jewels.'

‘I hope you'll like them.'

‘I'm sure I shall. Although I was hoping to do more in the city than visit a bunch of old buildings.'

‘There's exotic animals, too.'

Niamh wrinkled her nose. ‘Whist. I meant dancing and parties. Not dull stuff.'

Thinking of Helen, Mark said, ‘Poisonous snakes with rattles are hardly dull.'

His cousin huffed and she appeared more a child refused a dessert than a young woman ready to be married. ‘No one likes snakes.'

He spoke without thinking. ‘My friend, Lady Helen, does. She has a ball python as long as you are tall and she wears it around her neck like a scarf.'

Niamh's green eyes widened. Pushing his shoulder with her arm, she exclaimed, ‘You're not having me on, are you?'

Mark held his right hand up. ‘Word of a Scot. I can introduce you to her, if you like.'

Except he couldn't. Because he was in love with her and he was only half a man. Because she was in love with a curate, but kissed like a courtesan and he had no intention of seeing her ever again.

‘She must be an eccentric lady. A regular old crabbit.'

He'd heard Helen called much worse among the young bucks, but his cousin's mild criticisms irked him. ‘She is intelligent and educated.'

Niamh popped up, shaking her head. ‘Oh, no. She's a bluestocking. Mama says that intelligent women don't find husbands.'

‘Are you saying that there are no intelligent men?'

His cousin laughed, a high sound. ‘Oh, it is perfectly normal for a man to be intelligent. But a woman is supposed to be pretty.'

Helen was both.

‘Why can't a woman be pretty and learned?'

Niamh giggled. ‘Silly sassenach . Only ugly women study, for they have no other hope to earn their keep. They become governesses and teachers.'

‘I take it that you are too pretty for either of those fates.'

His cousin laughed again. The high-pitched sound grated on his nerves. ‘Is that a compliment, Mark? You must not flirt with me too dreadfully. I am only just out.'

Placing both hands on the armrests, he pushed himself to standing. ‘I can safely promise never to flirt with you.'

Her lower lip came out in a pout. ‘Poor Cousin Mark. Your poor leg. How you must miss it! Is it terrible being a cripple? I never thought that I would marry a man that wasn't whole, but Mama says that titles are more important than having two legs. Don't you agree?'

His head ached and he missed Helen. She had become like the phantom itch in his missing limb that he could not scratch. ‘I would trade my title, castle and estate for my leg back.' For my life back.

Mark tried to limp out of the room, but the door was blocked by two formidable Scottish women: his mother and Aunt Fiona. Unlike his mother, Aunt Fiona had grown stout with age. There was no getting through her.

His aunt hugged him. ‘Mark, it's so good to see you, lad. You've got a bit more colour in your cheeks.'

Mama tutted. She was not the hugging type. ‘Have you called for the carriage yet?'

‘Yes, Mama.'

He tried to walk past her, but she held out an arm. ‘You should escort Niamh out. Eejit. Did I not teach you any manners?'

Grimacing, Mark turned and offered his arm to his young cousin. She skipped across the room and took it, grinning up at him. He tried to walk as stiffly as he could, not to show his limp. He handed Niamh into the carriage, then his mother and aunt. When he lifted himself in, he noticed that the only available seat was beside his cousin. His mother and aunt were nothing if not direct in their intentions. Mark sat down as close to the wall as he could and as far from Niamh.

Needless to say, the carriage ride to the Tower of London was a wee bit constrained. All three women in his family were watching him. He escorted them through the cells where Queen Elizabeth I had been incarcerated by her own sister, Queen Mary. To the green where poor Anne Boleyn lost her head. Through the rooms that held the Crown Jewels. Lastly, to the menagerie. His amputated leg was sore and shaking by the time they reached the reptiles. His eyes lingered on the rattlesnake. It was curled up in a ball, its rattle out. Warning anyone from coming too near.

But it was too late.

He'd already been bitten.