The Husband Hunt Read online

  "Only because he always sat on them." He hunkered down in front of her and gave her a stare that made her heart stop. "If Lionel had such astounding intuition, why didn't he save himself at Albuera instead of putting us all through the torment of losing him?"

  "Oh, Knight." Her face crumpled al the question, which seemed deliberately cruel and calculated to bring her down to earth; she had been so immersed in her own sadness that she kept forgetting he blamed himself for not bringing Lionel home.

  "Have you been drinking?" she demanded. She balanced on her knees to sniff at him. "Oh, you have."

  "Stop doing that, Olivia. You're behaving like an animal. It's annoying." He pulled away. "Smelling me. We were all drinking earlier, if you recall. We were having a nice party until the fortune teller dropped into our midst."

  "Well, Wendell liked her, and I respect his judgment. Besides she likes me." She settled back down onto the stairs.

  "What do you mean?"

  "Her relationship with her family is troubled, if I dare exercise a little intuition of my own."

  "I just don't know about this, Olivia," he said quietly. He helped her to her feet, half stumbling over the bag he'd pulled down the stairs. "Look at this thing, anyway. What does she have in here, a cast-iron stove?"

  "Don't go into her belongings, Knight," she said in horror as he bent to examine the contents of the bag.

  "What the devil?" He gave an unpleasant laugh. "Stones. Stones and dead weeds. Exactly what every earl's daughter carries to make social calls."

  "Stones and weeds?" Olivia said, chagrined despite herself. "Are you sure?"

  "Have a gander." He waved a fragrant dried brown plant under her nose, its roots dangling like hairy spider legs. "Lovely, isn't it?"

  "It's an herb." Olivia sounded relieved. "Perhaps she brews medicinal teas."

  "And the stones?" he said darkly.

  "Probably for throwing, which I will start to do myself if you don't get your nasty hands out of her personal effects."

  He dropped the polished white pebbles back into the bag with a thud. "There. Good Lord."

  "Thank you," she said softly.

  He looked up into her eyes. "I'd do anything to bring him back."

  "But he's gone, and she is here."

  "A hell of a replacement."

  "Let me take care of her. Knight, please. Everything will be all right."

  Nothing would ever be all right again for either of them, he thought. But tonight was the first time in years that he had actually seen Olivia happy, despite the fact that he and Wendell had dedicated themselves to uplifting her. And if that alleged cousin of Lionel's was responsible for providing a brief diversion for his sister, he would do his best not to interfere.

  "Fine. You handle her, but do be careful, Olivia."

  "Of what?"

  He shrugged his broad shoulders, unprepared to put his qualms into words. Heaven knew he was a suspicious man, and not everyone harbored evil motives. "I don't know. I think she might be hiding something."

  "But she can stay?"

  "For now, Olivia." His amused gaze strayed to the bag of rocks on the staircase. Bloody hell, she had carried half of Scotland with her. "Only for now."

  Chapter 4

  KnigHt waited until the house had settled down for the night before he awakened his secretary. He assauged the guilt he felt for taking action behind Olivia's back by reminding himself that he only had her best interests at heart. She was far too vulnerable and emotional to show sound judgment in personal matters. He and Wendell were almost afraid to leave her alone.

  In the first year following Lionel's death, Knight had traveled to London to attend his neglected business affairs. During his absence, Olivia had been beset by a score of those hoping to capitalize on her grief: would-be suitors, solicitors who offered to manage her money for ungodly fees, and, yes, even gypsies who had promised to put her in touch with her beloved Lionel's ghost. Knight had come home to find her half persuaded by all of them.

  Recently, he'd convinced himself that Olivia had even begun to accept Lionel's death, that she was finding peace with her loss, until one night three weeks ago when he'd come upon her in his study, clumsily trying to load his pistol. Not for a second had he believed her shaky excuse that she thought she'd heard a housebreaker and wanted to be prepared. She had meant to kill herself; God knows whether she would have carried through with the act had he not interrupted her. But only then had he truly understood the depths of her despair.

  He sat forward at his desk as his secretary took a chair. The middle-aged man looked understandably flustered at being summoned at this late hour. "My lord, something is amiss?"

  "I apologize for disturbing your sleep, Simmons, but we have been just taken off guard by an unexpected visitor. A young Scotswoman who claims a distant kinship to my late brother-in-law."

  "I was unaware that Sir Lionel had relations other than those I'd notified of his demise, my lord."

  Knight settled back in his chair. "Not even on the Scottish side of the family?"

  "What Scottish—" The man put on his spectacles. "Oh, yes. I do believe he had relatives in the Border district. I do not recall whether we attempted to notify them."

  "That isn't what I care about," Knight said slowly. "I want to know if this woman is a genuine relation or an imposter. She claims to be the Earl of Roxshire's daughter, but she was raised by some old uncle upon her parents' deaths. Her name is Catriona Grant, and she has apparently been living in the castle of the current earl."

  "And you would like me to investigate her claims, my lord? Shall I begin by contacting the earl?"

  "Yes, but I do not wish my sister to hear a word of this, and you might need help. Contact Daniel Truesdell at the Red Dragon to see if he would like a job. I understand he's offered his services to the Bow Street Runners more than once. On second thought, wait a while before contacting the earl, Simmons." Knight couldn't say what instinct had prompted him to add this amendment.

  "I shall begin the investigation in the morning." Simmons leaned forward to rise, his voice hushed. "Do you think she poses a danger to the house, my lord?"

  Knight paused. Aside from shooting into the air and dropping a bag of stones on the stairs, he could not in all honesty say that Catriona appeared to be a menace to his household. "Not in the usual sense, but I do believe she might be a threat to my sister's emotional stability."

  "A fortune hunter, perhaps?"

  "And a fortune teller," Knight said dryly.

  ******************

  The door opened several minutes after Simmons had left. Howard, the young footman, bustled in with an air of intrigue. "It was as you feared, my lord. The old man and the dog have vanished into the vapors. Disappeared, flown the coop, evacuated, departed, es—"

  "I understand, Howard," Knight said. "The man has gone." He heaved a deep sigh. "And left Catriona Grant in my care."

  ******************

  At three o'clock that same morning, a horned owl appeared on the oak tree that overlooked Cat's bedroom window. An owl in the park, being a nocturnal hunter, was not an unusual occurrence. But this was the largest one anyone who lived on the estate had ever seen, and the noisiest by far.

  The bird set up a loud, mournful hooting that penetrated the deepest dreams. Mrs. Evans, the housekeeper, sat up in bed even before the owl began to hoot. She heard it scratching in the tree and thought the new parlor maid was eloping with that idiot footman Howard, which might not be a bad thing unless it reflected poorly on Mrs. Evans's management of domestic matters.

  Olivia heard the hooting and wondered immediately whether owls could communicate with the departed. Wendell heard it and pulled a pillow over his head. Knight, who had just gotten to sleep, swore and asked himself what else to expect that night.

  Catriona was the last person in the house to awaken. But then, she was accustomed to sleeping with nature's symphony in the background, storms over the mountains, a merlin crying from the moor,
rain battering the stones of the old cottage.

  Then someone from the depths of the house shouted, "Shoot the damn thing so we can get back to sleep!"

  Cruelty to a helpless creature was more than Catriona could tolerate. She got up and fumbled her way around the unfamiliar furniture, walking twice into the wardrobe before she managed to open the window.

  "What do you want, then?" she whispered to the frowning bird that seemed to stare directly into her room. "Are you trying to impart a message from the otherworld?"

  She stared past the sleeping park to the edge of the snarled woods, where gray moths pollinated the evening primroses and night animals stirred, prey and predator. Beyond lay the moor with its high tors towering in the mist. Was someone waiting for her out there? Was it her brother, or the old lecher he insisted she would marry? Was the owl warning her that she must flee again?

  For a great part of her youth, she had counted on animals for companionship. Certainly, few children had been allowed to play with her, illegitimate daughter of a charmer. Her only friend had been an odious boy named Lamont Montgomery, an apprentice to her estranged Uncle Murdo, who practiced magic in the Border hills. She had pretended not to care that no one else sought her company, and when her mother had found a wounded hawk or even a hedgehog in the woods, there had been solace for her own hurts in helping the creatures heal.

  The owl gave vent to a long, melancholy hoot.

  "What do you want?" Catriona whispered again.

  "A little peace and quiet would be nice," a deep voice drawled from the window several feet to her left.

  She turned her head in surprise and felt a shock ripple down her spine, this one leaving a wake of unsettling warmth that confused her. All she could see of the speaker in the misty darkness was a sharp profile and a powerful upper torso, loosely clad in a hall-buttoned white cambric shirt.

  "What are you doing here at this hour?" she asked, before she realized how absurd the question was.

  "I happen to live here."

  "I realize that," she retorted. "But why are you not in bed?"

  "I was in bed."

  The sarcasm in his voice was not lost on her. "Are you implying it is my fault that an owl has awakened the entire household?"

  She imagined rather than saw the infuriating smirk on his face. "Isn't it?"

  Catriona had been accused of far worse things in her life, of causing rain showers during a church service, and crops to fail, even a death once, but this man's casual arrogance seemed absolutely undeserved.

  "That is quite unfair. How could I possibly summon an owl out of the ethers?"

  "I have no idea," he said, sounding thoroughly annoyed, "and I'm sure I don't care. I just want you to shut the blasted thing up."

  She was trying to think of something clever to say to that when another owl fluttered from above the trees and settled down on the same limb as its noisy partner. She blinked in disbelief.

  Knight gave an indignant snort and pointed at the tree. "That's exactly what I mean."

  "It's your tree," she said incredulously.

  "Well, they're certainly not my owls."

  "They aren't mine, either."

  "They must be Scottish owls," he said, tsking under his breath. "No sense of propriety."

  "No Scottish owl with an ounce of sense would be caught anywhere near this house," she muttered back.

  The second owl began to hoot in chorus with the other.

  She fixed the pair of them with an impatient frown. "Oh, do be quiet, would you? He thinks that I'm what has brought you here."

  And both owls, as if spellbound, subsided into the requested silence.

  For a moment, the viscount was apparently too startled at this development to speak. Then he gave one of his low, wicked laughs that wreaked havoc on Catriona's nervous system. "Well, well. The owls have obeyed their mistress."

  She felt her cheeks flame. "If that's true, let me ask them to—"

  A torch flared in the yard below, illuminating the house. Catriona stole a look at Lord Rutleigh's face, the masculine features schooled into a dark mask of amusement. The light must have revealed her face, too. His gaze caught hers, rooting her to the spot with its intensity. She felt her heart quicken, and a flush of a pleasant disconcertment she had never before experienced warmed her from within.

  They stared at each other in a mix of reluctant curiosity and mistrust. Catriona knew what she resented about him—he was an autocratic Sassenach who thought himself superior—but she admitted he seemed to have his good qualities, although it puzzled her that she found him so attractive. She shrugged inwardly, reminding herself that she had been rebuffed by his sort most of her life.

  He gave an affected yawn as if his interest in the whole affair had waned. "You were saying?"

  She drew back into the room, talking to herself in an indignant undertone. "If I did have all the power everyone accuses me of having, I'd command an entire flock of birds to carry certain people to the peak of Ben Nevis and drop them from the sky on their heads."

  "I can hear every word you are muttering," he called in amusement from the windowsill.

  She stuck her head back outside. "Then it's a good thing you can't read my mind."

  "Is that the gratitude I get for taking you into the bosom of the family?"

  She knew he was baiting her, she could practically hear Thomas on her shoulder warning her to control that temper, but who could blame her? "I don't want anything to do with your bosom, my lord, opinionated bosom that it would appear to be. You aren't my family, anyway."

  "Exactly."

  "Lady Deering is."

  He leaned forward from the windowsill, a muscle ticking in that elegant jawbone. "That remains to be proven, doesn't it?"

  For a moment, her heart ceased to beat in her chest. The naked suspicion on his face stopped it in mid-stroke. "I am not a liar, my lord," she said. Which she wasn't. She had only omitted a pertinent detail here and there.

  "And I am not a fool," he said. "Furthermore, I fully intend—"

  She was spared the discovery of whatever nasty promise he meant to make by a sudden commotion below their windows. One of the estate servants came sprinting across the lawn with a fowling piece.

  "Good God," Knight said, his face darkening in disbelief, "my country estate has been turned into a circus. What in heaven's name are you doing, Howard?"

  "Shooting the owls, my lord."

  Catriona gasped in horror. "You can't allow it, my lord. Don't let him hurt the innocent wee things."

  "Who gave such an order?" Knight demanded of the young man below, ignoring her on purpose.

  "Mrs. Evans, my lord."

  His eyebrows rose. "This is not the French Revolution, Howard. One's housekeeper does not give orders to attack the local wildlife. Am I understood?"

  The footman lowered his musket, looking confused.

  Lord Rutleigh vented a sigh, glancing at Catriona from the corner of his eye. "You are only to shoot at the owls if I instruct you to do so, Howard. Do you understand that?"

  "I think so." The footman waited several moments. "Should I shoot them, then, my lord?"

  "Absolutely not!" Catriona could not help herself, even though she felt his lordship stiffen at her interference. "You'll bring bad luck on this household!"

  Howard sat down on the ground; the viscount turned his head and fixed Catriona with an ironic stare. "I'd say it was a bit too late for that, wouldn't you?"

  She was speechless.

  "Think of another way to handle this, Howard," he shouted, "but don't shoot the damn birds. My God, what an evening." He glanced at Catriona. "Well, now what is the matter? You have gotten your way, and we'll all be mad by morning, but at least you and Olivia won't have my head for ordering an owl shoot."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  "I'm not sure that you are welcome."

  "It was the right thing to do," she said.

  He grunted. "Was it?"

  "Indeed."


  "Let us just hope that this is the end of it," he said.

  "Well, I most certainly hope so," she retorted.

  He narrowed his eyes. "It would be nice to get some sleep."

  "Wouldn't it?" she muttered.

  He ducked back into his room, pulling the window shut with a decisive bang. Catriona shook herself, realizing how chill the night air had become and that the owls had flown off into the night, their message to her, if that was their purpose, delivered to one who could not understand it.

  ******************

  Mrs. Evans had been unable to sleep after the incident with the owls, not even after she reassured herself that Howard and the new parlor maid had not eloped. The normally quiet house was in an uproar, everyone bumping around in his nightwear with a rather festive air and much speculation about what the symphony of raptors could signify.

  The new parlor maid, Dorcas, gave a shiver of fear and huddled closer to Howard at the kitchen table. "I wonder what it could mean, those birds hooting like that."

  "What it means," the old butler, Aubrey, said with an ominous smile, "it is that someone in this house is going to kick the bucket."

  A chorus of gasps met this announcement. Mrs. Evans slapped her towel on the sturdy table for order.

  "You are mistaken, Mr. Aubrey," she said with an air of authority; an indisputable mystical awareness ran in her Welsh veins. Much to the chagrin of her staff, the woman was rarely wrong in such matters. All voices stilled in deference to her opinion.

  "What it means," she continued in a deep, lilting whisper that conjured the land of daffodils and dragons, "is that a certain female in this house is going to surrender her chastity."

  "Well, don't look at me," the young laundress said into the electrified silence that met this prediction.

  The coachman grinned at her across the table. "No good in cryin' over milk wot's been spilt, eh?"

  "But there were two owls hooting," Howard said. "You can't lose your innocence twice, can you?"

  The butler allowed himself the smallest smile. "As my dear mother always said, you are only a virgin once. Unless, of course, you happen to work in certain London brothels, where I understand there are means of extending the number of times—"