Dorcas gave him a squeeze and kissed his cheek. He lived for those squeezes and those wifely pecks, and for the naps and sweet nights and quiet breakfasts. She was his to love, and if Michael Delancey had caused his sister to fret, MacKay would get Delancey’s situation sorted as soon as may be.
“I love you,” Dorcas said quietly. “I love you so very much.”
“And I love you. Do we suspect Mrs. Fremont of having lost her heart to St. Michael?”
“We live in hope,” Dorcas said. “She has the quietly determined look of a woman very much on her mettle.”
“Let’s see what she has on her mind.”
While the civilities were observed and the teapot duly saluted, MacKay assessed the visitors. Mrs. Buckthorn had lost some of the restless, prowling quality that certain unattached, mature ladies acquired. She had either found a suitable target for her energies, or the approaching Season had taken the edge off her discontent.
Mrs. Fremont, on the other hand, had shed the demure, retiring façade of the subdued widow. She was attired in a luscious deep green velvet ensemble, her eyes sparkled, and her hair had been arranged in one of those half-up, half-down coiffures that accented the curve of a pretty cheek and drew the appreciative male eye to a graceful neck.
MacKay’s mind presented the theory that the lady was attired for battle, and her words confirmed his conjecture.
“Michael Delancey is in a ruddy, damned lot of trouble,” she said, “and I will burn in hell before I’ll allow him to face that trouble alone. You are his family. If he hasn’t confided in you, then I’m here to rectify that oversight for him.”
Mrs. Fremont was rousing the troops, in other words.
“We’ve been concerned for Michael for some time,” MacKay said. “It isn’t good for a man to be alone, particularly when he’s in difficulties.”
Dorcas cocked her head. “Genesis 2:18. When did you take to quoting Scripture?”
“I’m quoting common sense. Say on, ladies. To the extent it’s humanly possible, Michael won’t ride into any ambushes without allies.”
Mrs. Fremont speared MacKay with the sort of look that brooked no foolish gallantries. “We need you, and Michael needs you, but the situation doesn’t stop there.”
Dorcas held out a plate of shortbread. Mrs. Buckthorn took a sweet, Mrs. Fremont did not. “We’re all ears,” Dorcas said. “You have our complete attention.”
Mrs. Fremont began her tale, and by the time she finally fell silent, MacKay did not know whether to curse or cheer.
“What can we do?” Dorcas asked. “What can we possibly do when Michael won’t defend himself, and he’s committed a hanging felony? We can take the children, of course, and have them on the way to Scotland before nightfall, but what can we do for Michael?”
MacKay took her hand. “I suspect Mrs. Fremont has a few ideas.”
Mrs. Fremont beamed at him, such a blend of approval, benevolence, and unholy mischief that if MacKay hadn’t felt its impact himself, he would never have thought her capable of it.
“As it happens,” she said, “I am just full of ideas, and not a one of them involves violence.”
“I will master my disappointment,” MacKay said, “and keep my claymore in reserve.”
Mrs. Buckthorn took another piece of shortbread. “We were hoping you’d say that. Shall we order a second pot?”
MacKay called her bet and offered a wee dram all around. The ladies rose to that challenge as easily as any Highland regiment would have—or maybe even a bit more easily, truth be told.
The weather argued with itself for the rest of the day, alternating snow with sleet, dreary calm with biting wind. By the time Michael reached the fashionable bachelor’s abode in St. James’s, his feet were blocks of wet ice, his hips ached, and a dull headache had begun to pound at his temples.
Today was Thursday, and this was the last call Michael needed to make before keeping his usual appointment with Psyche. The thought of her—sweet, fierce, determined, and dear—had kept him trudging onward when exhaustion, and despair, would have dropped him in his tracks.
“Have you a card, sir?” a snooty butler inquired as Michael stood dripping on a pristine parquet floor.
He fished out the requisite item, somewhat the worse for his travels. The butler spared the card a condescending glance.
“Is his lordship expecting you?”
“He is not, but I’m a great admirer of his artistic talent, and I won’t take up much of his time.”
The butler, who doubtless reported to his lordship’s aunt, set the card on a silver tray. “This way.”
The household had apparently been admonished to support his lordship’s artistic inclinations. Thank heaven and meddling aunties.
The butler ushered Michael into a blessedly warm parlor done up in dark wainscoting, hunter green wallpaper, and substantial, well-upholstered furniture. The rug was spotless, so he skirted around it and took his sopping personage to the hearthstones to await his host.
The walls, not surprisingly, were decorated with the requisite landscape over the mantel, but opposite England’s bucolic splendor hung framed satirical prints. George Cruikshank’s The Prince of Whales held pride of place over the sideboard, right next to James Gillray’s A Voluptuary Under the Horrors of Digestion. The Gillray dated from the last century, while the Cruikshank was fairly recent—and notorious.
Michael was made to wait for twenty deliciously toasty minutes. By the time Lord Dermot deigned to appear, Michael’s hair was dry, and his boots had ceased squeaking with every step.
“Dermot, at your service.” His lordship waved an imperious hand to dismiss the butler hovering by the door. “You have the advantage of me, Mr. Delan—Oh. Well, this is interesting. Smith, isn’t it? I suppose one must offer you a drink, lest you take a chill?”
“A drink would be appreciated.”
Dermot poured two brandies and passed one to Michael. “You are even more impressive in your clothes than out of them. Somebody should lodge a complaint with the Almighty for such generosity to a live model, but your card suggests the outlandish notion that you are clergy. I find myself reluctantly intrigued. You have been seen in the vicinity of Lambeth itself, you know. That was most puzzling. To your health.”
His lordship sipped delicately, very much in the role of the aristocrat whose hospitality must not be abused. Michael sipped, too, savoring the welcome glow of fine spirits.
“I have seen your work,” Michael said. “At Ricardo’s.”
Dermot paused in the midst of setting his glass down. He took another sip and gestured to the sofa. “Do have a seat. You recognized my work?”
“Easily, and you did initial the original. Interesting subject matter.”
“A whim, a passing notion. One hears gossip in the clubs and gets to doodling.” He took a wing chair, setting his glass on the side table, and flipping out his coattails with casual grace. The look in his eye, though, had shifted from haughty to carefully diffident.
“Your doodling is well composed, my lord, and well executed. Ricardo is nigh salivating for more where it came from.”
“Did he tell you that?” The question was likely meant to be casual, but a thread of eagerness had crept past Dermot’s defenses. “He did say the market is keen for fresh talent, but his market is not where my ambitions lie, alas for him.”