Treasured Page 3

  “And would a ‘pleasant’ gentleman let a callow lad like Andy wager his home on a hand of whist? Whether he knew of your presence here or not, anyone could see that Andrew is a plum ripe for the taking. A real gentleman would not take advantage of that.”

  “No. You are right. A man of conscience would not. No matter how much Andrew believes he is awake on every suit, in truth he would be easy prey for any sharp. Perhaps Mr. Kensington even fuzzed the cards to ensure the outcome. I cannot help but be suspicious, but it matters not. I’ve no way of knowing that and even less of proving it.” She paused, thinking. “Still . . . I did give in too easily. I was so shocked I could scarcely even read what he showed me.” She squared her shoulders, determination settling on her face. “I cannot just run. I must do what I can to fight this. I shall demand to see Andrew’s vowel again. Perhaps I missed something. And . . . I can delay. It will take some time, after all, to make arrangements to leave. In the meanwhile, I shall write Papa’s solicitor in Inverness for advice. Perhaps I can come up with some way to thwart Mr. Kensington.”

  “You will. I am sure of it.” Coll took her hand in his own work-scarred one and gave it an encouraging squeeze. “And remember what Ma always told you: ‘You worry too much, wee one. Dinna fash yourself.’ ”

  “ ‘It will all be better come the morn,’ ” Isobel said, supplying the rest of Janet Munro’s admonition. “I know. I only hope she’s right.”

  “Ma was never wrong, don’t you remember?”

  Isobel smiled. “Thank you. I must go back and explain all this to Aunt Elizabeth. No doubt she is worrying herself sick.”

  “Go.” Coll pressed her hand again, then released it. “And remember—I’m here if you need me.”

  “Thank you.” Isobel walked back to the house, planning the best way to tell her aunt. As she entered the side door and started toward the stairs, however, she heard a sound from the direction of the drawing room. She paused, casting a glance upstairs, then turned and walked down the hall to the drawing room.

  Jack Kensington was inside, standing before the fireplace, his hands outstretched toward the flames. He turned at the sound of her steps and smiled. “Miss Rose. It’s a pleasure to see you again. Pray join me.”

  “I trust you are settled in,” Isobel began formally, ignoring the odd little flip inside her at the sight of his smile.

  “Yes. But I could see that it would take some time for the fire to overcome the chill, so I came downstairs.” He cast a glance toward the huge stone fireplace behind him. “This seemed ample warmth.”

  “Yes. One would think they were accustomed to roasting an ox here,” Isobel said lightly as she walked over to join him. “My ancestors tended to build on a grand scale.”

  “I can see that. But ’tis lovely.” He gestured toward the carved rosettes that adorned the mantel and marble surrounds.

  “Yes, they were enamored with their own name as well.” Kensington was absurdly easy to talk to; she had to remind herself that he was not in any way her friend. His charm was too easy, too practiced to be real, and the warmth of his smile did not change the cool calculation in his eyes. Beneath his pleasant manner lived the cold, hard man who had taken advantage of her brother’s foolishness.

  Isobel stiffened her spine and tried to recapture her formal tone. “Mr. Kensington . . . I should like to take another look at the papers you showed me earlier. I fear I was too taken aback to give them a sufficient perusal.”

  He studied her for a moment, his handsome face unreadable. It was no surprise that he was adept at card games. Unlike her brother, whose every emotion and thought showed on his face, Jack Kensington gave away nothing. “Of course.” He reached into an inner pocket of his coat and withdrew the folded papers, extending them to her. “I think you will still find that they are quite in order.”

  Isobel took the documents, unfolding them, and was struck with despair at the familiarity of her brother’s handwriting. She had made no mistake. The flourish of the A in his signature, the bold, careless stroke of the pen, the misspelling of their as Andrew always did—it was his hand. Still, she read through the transfer of deed as well and the repetition of her brother’s signature.

  “Yes. I see.” She lifted her head, keeping her gaze flat and even. “Still, I should like my solicitor to go over the papers.”

  “Of course. Whenever he wishes.” He lifted the documents from her cold fingers, refolding them and settling them back in his pocket.

  “How could you?” Isobel snapped, stung by the indifference of his manner. “How could you have taken advantage of a naive, foolish boy like that?”

  “Foolish?” His eyebrows rose fractionally. “I will grant you Sir Andrew is that. But he is a man, I think, not a boy, and far from naive. I fear you see him through a sister’s fond eyes.”

  “I see my brother quite clearly,” Isobel retorted. “I realize that it takes little to lead him into gambling.”

  “I did not lead him anywhere.” For the first time, a touch of asperity was in Jack’s well-modulated voice. “He was already deep into play before I joined the game.”

  “And you saw that he was ready for the fleecing?”

  “If you are accusing me of cheating your brother, Miss Rose, I can assure you that I did not.” Unlike Isobel’s voice, flaring with heat, Kensington’s was cold as a winter’s night. “Sir Andrew is an inept cardplayer, and he amplifies his poor play by being convinced that he is quite clever at it. It is a common failing among the young blades of London. I won Baillannan fairly, and the fault for dispossessing you from your home lies squarely with Sir Andrew.”

  Isobel clenched her fists, and her cheeks flamed with color. She wanted to rage, to fly at this man with her fists, but years of courtesy—and the truth of his statement—kept her still. She swallowed hard against the anger clogging her throat, reminding herself that she could not afford to antagonize this man. At the moment she was too furious to care if he tossed her out the door, but she had to think of her aunt. “I beg your pardon. You are right, of course. I should not blame you for my brother’s failings. Pray excuse me. I must go inform my aunt.”

  “Your aunt? There is another—”

  “Yes, Aunt Elizabeth lives at Baillannan as well. No doubt you will meet her tonight at supper.” Isobel could not bear to stay here and discuss her deplorable situation any further. Giving him an abrupt nod, she turned and strode from the room.

  She was in too ill a humor to speak with her aunt, but neither could she just walk past the sitting room where Elizabeth sat, so she turned in to the room, forcing her face into more pleasant lines.

  “Isobel!” Aunt Elizabeth looked up, relieved. “Dearest, what is happening? I saw a strange man just now walking down the hall. Who is he? Do I—I don’t know him, do I?”

  “No, Auntie, you’ve never met him. He is the man who arrived earlier this afternoon.”

  “Oh, yes, of course. The friend of Andrew’s. What was his name?”

  “Kensington. Jack Kensington.”

  “Not a Scotsman, then.”

  “No. He is English.”

  “Ah, well, I am sure he is quite nice anyway.”

  “Aunt Elizabeth . . . he is not a friend of Andrew’s. He met him at a club. A gambling den. He— Andrew wagered Baillannan, and he lost. Mr. Kensington owns our home now.”

  Her aunt said nothing, merely stared at her in white-faced shock. After a long moment, she said, “Oh.” She looked away, her hands knotting in her lap. “Oh, dear. I . . . I cannot think quite what to do.”

  “For the moment we are doing nothing. I will ask Mr. Kensington for leave to stay here a time so that we can get our things together.” Isobel debated whether she should tell her aunt of her plans to write their solicitor. Would it be worse to get her aunt’s hopes up or to leave her worrying? Finally, she went on, “Do not trouble yourself over this. I will find a way, work it out somehow. We will be all right.”

  “Of course you will, dear.” Elizabeth
gave her a wan smile. “Poor Andrew. He must be heartsick over this.”

  “He should be,” Isobel snapped. “Since he threw away our home on a card game.”

  “I am sure he did not mean to lose it. He has always been too impulsive.”

  “Unthinking is more like it. Or uncaring.” Isobel drew in a calming breath. It would do her aunt no good to see Isobel’s distress—or to hear criticism of her beloved nephew.

  “Don’t worry.” Aunt Elizabeth reached out to take her hand. “We will come about. I am sure of it. You have always been a clever girl. God does not close one door without opening another.” She smiled.

  “Well, I wish I knew where it was.”

  “We shall just have to put our minds to it.” Elizabeth glanced toward the clock. “Oh, my, ’tis getting late. We must get dressed for dinner. We should look our best, you know, to face Mr.—what did you say his name was, dear?”

  “Kensington, Auntie. Mr. Kensington.”

  “A very nice name.” Her aunt rose, then said softly, “I wish your father were still here. John always knew just what to do.”

  “I wish he were, too, Auntie.” Isobel squeezed her aunt, her heart aching at the sight of tears welling in her aunt’s eyes. “But you are right. We will come about.”

  Isobel was late going down to supper, having spent several minutes composing a note to her father’s lawyer—and another few minutes giving in to the tears that had been threatening to overwhelm her ever since Mr. Kensington’s arrival. She changed into a more formal evening dress, draping her best shawl over her arms against the chill, but she did not waste time trying to improve her appearance as her aunt had suggested. She could not imagine Mr. Kensington would be any more amenable if she looked prettier, and she was not about to try to charm the man who was taking away her home.

  Her stomach was a nest of nerves as she hurried to the dining room. She found herself growing increasingly on edge in social situations with her aunt, for she had to be on alert to smooth over any mistakes Elizabeth might make, and tonight would be even worse, for Isobel could not bear to have this strange man witness her aunt’s confusion or distress. And the strained, even antagonistic conversation between her and Kensington this afternoon could make polite dinner conversation awkward.

  When she stepped into the dining room, she saw with a sinking heart that both Kensington and her aunt were already there. She could only hope that Elizabeth had not said anything untoward. Isobel sneaked a look at Kensington as she took her seat, but she could see nothing in his face to indicate his mood. Her insides clenched even tighter.

  “My, don’t you look lovely, dear.” Elizabeth smiled at Isobel. “Don’t you agree, Mr. Kensington?”

  “Indeed, Miss Rose. Your niece is a vision well worth waiting for.” His compliment was swift and practiced, as was the smile he aimed at Elizabeth. “Of course, it is clear that beauty runs in the family.”

  Her aunt’s cheeks flushed at the compliment, and Isobel realized, startled, that Aunt Elizabeth was actually enjoying her conversation with Kensington. Isobel could not help but wonder if Elizabeth had truly understood what Isobel had said to her earlier.

  “Mr. Kensington and I have been having a lovely talk,” Elizabeth told her niece. “One forgets how pleasant it is to have visitors. Did you know that this is Mr. Kensington’s first trip to Scotland? You should show him around the estate tomorrow, Isobel.”

  “Um, yes, of course.” Isobel affixed a courteous smile to her face. “If Mr. Kensington would like that.” She glanced toward him, sure that he would turn down the offer. He must find it strange that Aunt Elizabeth was talking as if he were a guest in his house.

  “Indeed, I should be most grateful.” Kensington smiled affably. Obviously he felt none of Isobel’s unease after their confrontation.

  “When you see some of the beauty Baillannan has to offer, Mr. Kensington,” Elizabeth said almost coquettishly, “perhaps you will decide not to depart so quickly.”

  “You are leaving?” Isobel’s heart lifted in hope. Maybe the man would simply go away. He clearly had no liking for the place. A new thought struck her. What if she could convince him that she could maintain the estate, sending him the profit? After all, that was essentially what she had been doing for Andrew all these years. It would not be her home any longer, but at least she would not have to uproot her aunt. Her mind worked feverishly as the other two continued to talk.

  “Yes.” Kensington nodded. “My intent was merely to see Baillannan and return to London.”

  “Of course, perhaps you are married and have a wife to whom you wish to return posthaste,” Elizabeth went on, her tone studiedly casual. Isobel’s eyes widened in alarm. Surely her aunt was not still bent on matchmaking?

  “No, Miss Rose, I am not married,” Kensington replied politely. “I fear it is a state for which I am not destined; I have never been romantically inclined.”

  “You must not give up hope,” Elizabeth told him as though he had expressed regret about his marital state. “You will find the right woman. I am sure of it.” Their guest seemed to have no answer for that, and Elizabeth continued to chatter. “No doubt there are other things in London that draw you back. I know the city holds a great allure for young men.” Elizabeth sighed. “Sadly, Andrew never stays long with us, either. It is too bad of him not to accompany you on your journey here. I shall have to scold him in my next letter.”

  Kensington looked nonplussed at this remark, and Isobel hastened to smooth over her aunt’s words. “Yes, Andrew would have done better to have introduced you to us and explained the situation. It would have been much easier all around, I am sure.”

  “No doubt he was distraught,” Jack replied drily.

  “Distraught?” Aunt Elizabeth frowned. “Is Andy in some scrape at school again? Are you at Christ’s College as well, Mr. Kensington? Or perhaps you are one of Andrew’s tutors?”

  To Kensington’s credit, he did not turn a hair at Aunt Elizabeth’s odd statement, but simply said, “No, Miss Rose, I was an Oxford man myself. I met Sir Andrew in London.”

  “Andrew isn’t in school anymore, Aunt Elizabeth,” Isobel reminded her gently. “You remember, he is in London now.”

  “Yes, of course. How foolish of me.” Elizabeth gave an embarrassed laugh. “You must forgive me, Mr. Kensington. I sometimes forget how grown-up our Andrew is.”

  “Easily understood, Miss Rose. Sir Andrew is still quite young.”

  “So true.” Elizabeth smiled at him, the faint confusion clearing from her expression.

  Isobel could not help but warm a little to the man for the easy way he responded to her aunt. She steered the conversation back to a safe path. “It is a shame you have had such a rude introduction to our Highland weather, Mr. Kensington.”

  Kensington followed her lead, and they made it through the meal by touching on London, Edinburgh, and the state of the roadways, as well as the rain. Still, it was nerve-racking picking a delicate way through the conversational pitfalls, avoiding anything that would highlight her aunt’s failing memory or their coming homeless state at the hands of Mr. Kensington. It did not help matters that supper consisted mostly of a strangely tasteless and watery mutton stew, along with a wedge of haggis, which Kensington gave a dubious look and set aside without tasting.

  When supper finally ended and the women rose to leave Mr. Kensington to his postmeal port, Isobel hung back for a moment after her aunt left the room. She had planned what she would say. But Kensington’s announcement at the beginning of the meal that he would soon be leaving Baillannan had changed the situation—or had at least changed her view of it. Now, as he stood politely, gazing at her with those oddly dark blue eyes, his brows raised the faintest bit in inquiry, she felt tongue-tied and awkward.

  “I wanted to ask you,” she began at last. “That is, when you said that you were returning to London, do you not mean to live at Baillannan?”

  “No.” He looked at her as if she had suggested he might live
on the moon. “Of course not. I merely wanted—well, I’m not sure what. To see the place, I suppose.”

  “Then you will need someone to manage the estate for you, as I have the past several years for Andrew. Someone experienced and trustworthy.” She laid the groundwork for her appeal, knowing how difficult it would be to convince him that a woman could do the job.

  “No, wait.” Kensington held out his hand as if to stop her. “If you are leading up to suggesting a man you think would suit the position, I must tell you that I won’t need a manager. I intend to sell Baillannan.”

  “Oh.” Her stomach dropped. “I see.”

  “I am a city dweller, Miss Rose. And I find the trip a trifle long to visit with any frequency.”

  “I see.” It was hopeless, obviously, but she made another push. “If you kept Baillannan, the estate would provide you with income.”

  “Scarcely as much as one would receive in a sale. And while I am sure that this friend of yours is an admirable person, there is the uncertainty that comes with letting another handle one’s accounts.”

  “Of course.” Isobel nodded, the brief spark of hope extinguished. She took a breath and began again. “I wanted to ask you . . . if you would be so kind . . . that is, I must make arrangements for my aunt and me to move. And the house is so, well, there are so many family things that I am sure you would wish me to remove. I fear it will take me a few days to get it all in order. I hoped— I would ask you the favor of remaining here until I have it settled.”

  “Naturally. Please, take as much time as you need.” He took a step toward her, then stopped and, with an awkwardness she had not seen before in him, said, “Miss Rose . . . I assure you, I did not know—that is, it was never my intent to turn you out of your home. I am truly sorry.”

  “Yes.” Isobel forced a smile. “So am I.”

  Jack Kensington stared down at the meal laid out before him. The gray porridge in the large bowl was so thick he was sure it could have been used for glue. The plate beside it was loaded with several meats and two fried eggs, leaking their yellow yolks in an unappetizing way. The meats were fried, as well. One he recognized as the kind of indigestible-looking dark wedge he had avoided at supper the evening before—indeed, it could have been the same one, for all he knew. The other meat was in the shape of a sausage and had the color and consistency of a piece of charcoal. A smaller plate held a flat, roundish bread product.