Page 9 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“I’d rather face all of Bonaparte’s army in naught but a kilt,” the footman answered, “but ye cannae go aboot London alone.”
“One day in London and ’e’s already uppity,” Debny drawled. “Don’t ye worry, m’laird. We’ll see ye and Lady Rowena safe, or die in the tryin’.”
Ranulf nodded, appreciating the sentiment. “Let’s be off, then. And keep that blunderbuss ’neath yer coat, Owen, or ye’ll panic the Sasannach.”
The dogs padding behind them, they clattered down the street toward Hanover House. His rented home might be quiet, but compared to the Highlands, London seemed far too close and too crowded, and amazingly, chaotically loud. Practically elbow to elbow, the residents were, all of them talking at the top of their lungs to be heard over their fellows. He hadn’t noticed it so much last evening, but then he’d had only one concern—finding Rowena. Today the cacophony didn’t so much rattle his nerves as it ground his short patience into gravel.
What the devil had he been thinking, to let Rowena have her way and remain here? She’d fled from home without even leaving a note, damn it all, and deserved nothing so much as a switch across her backside and a long ride home. In fact, this was ridiculous. He would see to it that she returned with him to the house he’d rented so he could keep an eye on her, and then they would head north on the morrow. She could hate him for a year if she chose, but at least she would be safe and where she belonged. And that didnotmake him a bully. It made him a responsible brother and head of his family.
At Hanover House he tossed his reins to Debny before one of the earl’s grooms could appear, told the dogs to stay, and then strode for the front door. It opened before he reached it, depriving him of the satisfaction of pounding on the solid oak again.
“Good morning, Lord Glengask,” the fat butler intoned, bowing. “You’re expected. I’ll show you to the morning room.”
As the morning room turned out to be four feet from the foyer, the taking of him there seemed ridiculous, but he would tolerate the nonsense until he had Rowena back in hand.
“Lady Charlotte, Lady Jane, Lady Rowena, Lord Glengask,” the butler announced, bowing as though he’d just met the king.
As if they weren’t all acquainted since last evening. The three women rose, curtsying. Since Rowena had never curtsied to him—or to anyone—in her life, she’d clearly already taken to modeling herself after the other two. That did not bode well.
That womanstood there, as well, gazing at him as if she hadn’t a fear or worry in the world, which annoyed him further. She was everything he disliked in a female, tall and skinny and blond, like some delicate porcelain doll likely to shatter if anyone attempted so much as an embrace. Even worse, she interfered in matters that had nothing to do with her, and spoke when he would have much preferred a moment or two to think.
“I’m so glad you’ve permitted Winnie to remain in London,” she was saying now, her mouth curved in a rather attractive smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “And we could certainly use your escort today.”
“And where am I to escort ye to, lasses?” he asked warily, watching for another trick or trap like the one that now had him residing in London for a fortnight.
“Mama wishes to present Winnie at Almack’s on Wednesday. She’ll be presenting Janie as well, and—”
“Nae.”
Lady Charlotte blinked her pretty hazel eyes, as if no one had ever naysayed her before. Likely no one had, considering the weak-headed, weakhearted Englishmen that surrounded her and that sharp tongue between her teeth. “Beg pardon?” she said faintly.
“Nae. No,” he repeated, exaggerating the sound to make certain she understood.
“If she doesn’t come out at Almack’s and receive her voucher to the Assembly, traditionally she won’t be able to waltz anywhere else. She won’t even be considered as ‘out,’ by more traditional households.”
“I’ll nae have my sister paraded before a herd of spoiled, fatheaded Sasannach lordlings like a prize cow.”
Rowena stepped forward and took hold of his sleeve, as she’d done when she wanted his attention since she was two years old. “It won’t be just me there, Ran,” she said softly. “Jane will be there, too. Every young lady who wants to have her Season goes to Almack’s first. And I do so want to dance.”
Damnation.He’d never been able to refuse her a thing she truly wished for. Except for London, but then she’d managed that on her own. “Ye’ll be there as well,” he asked, turning to eye Jane, smaller and lighter haired than her mouthy sister. “Right there, beside her?” he asked, hating both that he didn’t know how the damned process went and that he had to ask an English chit for confirmation.
“Yes. And a dozen or so other young ladies, too,” the younger Hanover sister said, her voice unsteady. In fact she looked at him as if she expected him to leap on her, claws and teeth bared.
Beside her, the older sister looked much more composed as she nodded her agreement. The golden curls hanging from the knot at the back of her head swayed silkily from side to side. “This is the first Assembly of the Season. She won’t be standing there alone.”
“And who is it gives them permission to waltz? Who are these patronesses the bloody Society page is always wagging on about?”
“Well, it’s a group of very influential, aristocratic women. Lady Jersey, for one, and Lady Cowper, and Lady Est—”
“Jersey. She’s Prince George’s old mistress.”
Lady Charlotte’s fair cheeks darkened. “No, that was her mother-in-law,” she said crisply. “But proper young ladies do not discuss such things, regardless.”
Ranulf cocked his head. “Ye lot have an odd idea aboot what’s acceptable, then. Why give any o’them the leave to pass judgment on every lass who walks into the Assembly rooms? That’s daft.”
From Charlotte’s expression she didn’t appreciate having to explain her peers to a barbarian such as himself, but he’d be damned if he’d let Rowena walk into something where he didn’t know all the facts. It would be bad enough if some elderly woman of unblemished reputation were to give the nod, but foreign princesses and daughters of royal castoffs? Ridiculous.
“Aren’t there people in your… village or town or—”
