He nodded and leaned back in his chair, an expression of forbearance on his face as another wrong key was struck. Lorelei sat back, too, focusing her attention on the back of Alasdair’s head, which was more interesting than listening to the musical discord. She frowned when Melissa leaned in toward him, her shoulder brushing against his. What was she saying to him anyway? And why didn’t she sit back? Her closeness to Alasdair was too intimate, especially since they were sitting in the front row. Didn’t Melissa know how that would look?
Lorelei nearly snorted at her own foolish question and managed to dab her handkerchief against her nose as if suppressing a sneeze just in time.
Of course Melissa knewexactlywhat she was doing.
…
Since attendance at a musicale allowed little conversation once the talent—such as it was—began performing, Gavin used the time to reflect and scrutinize what he had observed since arriving in London.
Ultimately, he was here on order of both his father and uncle to make sure Campbell lands were not given back to MacGregors. He mentally reviewed the sordid history while maintaining an interested expression, a skill he had learned while enduring years of tedious conversations.
Dispute over territory had begun as far back as Robert the Bruce awarding Laird Neil Campbell both land and his sister Mary in marriage. From there the clan had expanded their holdings. The MacGregors had been the greatest resistors—and best fighters, if legend held true—which had eventually turned them into criminals. It wasn’t until Mary Queen of Scots gave legal authority to Laird John Campbell to pursue the clan “with fire and sword” that the feuding had turned into hate. When, twenty-five years later, the MacGregors had murdered the Campbell forester, John Drummond, in retaliation, their fate had been sealed. King James not only reissued letters of fire and sword, but he’d also abolished their name and forbade any Scot—under penalty of death—to aid and abet them in any way, not even to offer food, clothing, or shelter. MacGregors who refused to denounce themselves went into hiding, referred to as children of the mist for their ability to disappear at strategic times.
Gavin had to admit, at least to himself, that the MacGregors were wily survivors. In the last two centuries, that harsh sentence had gradually eased, even to the point of allowing the current MacGregors, who had not fought at the Battles of Prestonpans or Culloden, the right to reside at Strae Castle. That castle and its holdings had never fallen into Campbell hands, since the crafty MacGregors had simply changed their surname to keep it. But just this past December, King George had officially un-proscribed the clan, allowing them full rights.
Which, according to his father and uncle, didn’t mean restoring lands that might have been theirs long ago.
“Are ye nae enjoying the music?”
Gavin blinked, well aware he couldn’t voice his true opinion about musicales. “Are you?”
Fiona tried to look serious, then grinned. “I’ve heard my brothers sing better after they’d had way too much whisky.”
Fiona would always be Fiona. “I heard Rory and Devon sing once. The coos in the pastures started lowing,” Gavin said, then lowered his voice. “You may be right.”
“Aye, I usually am,” she replied tartly, then added as an afterthought, “Carr can sing, though.”
Gavin wished it had been Carr who had been sent to London to oversee the process of searching titles and making claims. He was by far the most logical and least emotional of the MacGregor brothers, thus making any kind of negotiating much easier. Alasdair was much more tenacious, rather like a terrier at a rabbit hole, although he could act quite amiable. That is, until you thought you had him ready to agree and found out he had no intention to do so. It made him shrewd and dangerous to the gullible.
Gavin was not gullible.
He glanced at Fiona, who’d developed a glazed-over look as the music began again and wondered if maybe he should teach her how toappearinterested even when she wasn’t. She really wasn’t a bad sort. Much too blunt and opinionated for London Society, of course, but simpering, docile females weren’t appealing to him. He’d meant only to goad Alasdair when he’d mentioned spending time with her, but the idea occurred to him that paying attention to her would keep him from having to fend off anxious mamas who were eager to attach their family name to the Campbells. It also had the added bonus of tweaking Alasdair MacGregor enough to keep him distracted, which could be very beneficial when it came to signing property-rights papers.
He just barely managed not to grimace when another young lady started singing and felt a twinge of sympathy for Alasdair after all. Just a little twinge, though.
…
By the time the musicale was over, Alasdair’s ears were ringing. Some of the performances had made a lad learning the pipes sound good. And the harp, which truly was a heavenly instrument when strummed correctly, had sounded more like a fiddle with loose strings. The one piece played on the actual violin would have made Stradivari turn over. Alasdair knew the English aristocracy set great store by their daughters being accomplished musically, but some tutor should have taken pity on most of today’s lasses and encouraged them to perfect their watercolors or their needlepoint. At least a poor rendering by an artist didn’t make one wish to plug one’s ears.
“Well. This afternoon’s entertainment was not exactly what I was expecting,” Lady Melissa said as they walked toward the door. “I think the girls could have benefited from more practice before they performed publicly.”
He didn’t think any amount of practice would help, but he just smiled. “Mayhap they will improve.”
He hadn’t even been able to escape at intermission. His empty seat would certainly have been noticed, since it was in the front row. Gavin had had the gall to grin at him as he’d made his escape. Alasdair could cheerfully have planted his fist in Campbell’s face except Gavin leaving meant he wasn’t keeping Fiona company any longer.
Then there was Lorelei. She had spent most of the intermission standing next to Westwood as a number of Lady Mount Stuart’s other guests had stopped to chat with them. He could hardly join them, since Lady Melissa had deemed him her escort for the afternoon. Westwood had studiously avoided looking their way, which told Alasdair that an encounter between the two probably wasn’t wise.
Lastly, there was Lady Melissa. She seemed to have mastered the art of subtle suggestions and innuendos without actually stepping beyond propriety, although he suspected she was playing a game, too. In other circumstances he would have found all of it rather intriguing, perhaps even a challenge, especially if she were playing a part. His sister—and Lorelei— had wanted him to be distracted from following them around during the Season and he suspected Melissa was only too happy to act like she was enthralled with him, since Westwood did not seem to be begging her to take him back.
He doubted she actually was all that charmed by him—something hard for a Scot to admit—because she never asked any personal questions or inquired about his interests. Still, Alasdair didn’t want to give the impression he was courting her and had considered distancing himself discreetly, but Mount Stuart had reminded him that, with Campbell in Town, he could use the support of Oakley. And Oakley was not in London at the moment, so he’d have to bide his time.
Meanwhile, Lorelei and Westwood had disappeared in the crowd of people leaving. Damn it.
Chapter Eight
“Thank you for seeing us home, Lord Westwood,” Lorelei said as the marquess’s carriage rolled to a stop in front of the Bute town house. When he gave her an inquiring look, she nibbled her lip a moment. “Randolph.”
Fiona waited until the carriage had rolled on before she turned to Lorelei. “Randolph? I thought we were not supposed to use Christian names here unless you are practically betrothed.”
