Page 81 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“So ye mean to let ’em pull down yer house, just because that’s what they do?”
It was a fairly apt metaphor, Ranulf decided. “What I mean to do,” he said, standing, “is go to White’s for luncheon. And ye’ll be having yer picnic. If ye don’t mind, tell Charlotte I won’t be able to come by today, after all.”
He wanted to. He could scarcely think of anything or anyone else. But he knew that seeing her before he’d found a way to wrestle his rage into something he could control would be exceedingly unwise. Because when he so much as imagined her golden hair and wise hazel eyes, all he wanted to do was go find the man who’d insulted her and force him to apologize. To make certain none of his so-called countrymen could ever hurt her or Rowena or anyone else in his family ever again.
“I’ll tell her that,” Arran said, clearly not reading his brother’s thoughts. “Are ye certain there’s not someaught ye’d care to tell me?”
Ranulf kept walking. “Aye. Stay oot of trouble.”
His brother couldn’t possibly be satisfied with that response. Ranulf wasn’t happy with it, either, but there wasn’t a thing to be done about it. Yes, he could pursue the burning of his stable legally, but all he and Arran had been able to determine was that Berling had quite possibly not done it. As for the insults to Rowena and Charlotte, ungentlemanly or not he didn’t think it illegal. And unless he had overwhelming evidence of a heinous crime, trying to bring legal action would only make him look weak. Weaker.
When he returned to his bedchamber, Ginger was attempting to hang a painting over one of the holes in the wall. Several of them were already covered, in fact, with an ill-fitting mismatch of paintings, a picture cut from a catalog, plates of delicate china, and what looked like a tea cozy.
“I think that’s more pointing them oot than covering them up, Ginger,” he commented, and the valet jumped.
“I’ll have Owen hire someone to make repairs,” the valet said, setting the painting on the floor. “Such poor craftsmanship. There’s no excuse, my lord.”
Ranulf thought there was an excellent excuse; it was either the wall or Charles Calder and George Gerdens-Dailey’s faces. “Thank ye,” he said aloud. “Now find me someaught to wear to White’s, will ye?”
“White’s? Yes, my lord. Of course. With pleasure.”
This was what he did, Ranulf supposed. He tried to put aside a handful of hurtful words and ignored the fact that they could signify the start of something much more dangerous. He went to stuffy luncheons and made stuffy, proper acquaintances and called them friends and pretended to like wee cucumber sandwiches with the crusts cut off.
As he dressed, Fergus rose from his place before the fire and butted Ranulf’s hand with his nose, demanding scratches. Absently Ranulf complied. The poor fellow was indispensable in the Highlands, both for protection and for chasing down rabbits and deer. Here, though, he was mostly a curiosity, unusual for his size and fearsome appearance, but of no use at soirees and Society’s proper gatherings.
He was rather the same, now that he thought about it. In the Highlands decisiveness and a firm hand kept those dependent on him fed and safe and thriving where most others brought uncaring greed and shortsightedness that forced their own people into the cities or the Lowlands or across the sea to America. In London, though, everything he knew was wrong, everything he was skilled at was inappropriate, and others played the game better than he did.
A logical, sane man would likely leave Town and return to where the world was right side up. But today he wasn’t a sane man. Today he was a man in love. Giving Fergus’s rough fur another ruffle, he finished dressing and went downstairs to collect Stirling.
Debny had saddled his own horse, as well. Rather than spending time arguing, Ranulf swung up on the big bay and headed toward Pall Mall. However tired and angry he happened to be, in a very few minutes he was going to have to be charming and personable. He meant to be the sort of man to whom Lord Hest would be happy to hand over his daughter, whether he could barely tolerate himself or not.
“Come back for me in an hour or so,” he told his groom once they’d reached the unassuming front door of the club.
“And if ye leave before that?” Debny asked, catching Stirling’s reins.
“I’ll hire a hack.”
“M’laird, I am nae going to see ye withoot an ally.”
Ranulf took a breath. “I’ll keep Myles with me,” he said.
The groom nodded. “That’ll do, then.”
“I damned well hope so,” he muttered, and walked up to the door. Now his own servants felt comfortable dictating to him.
The door opened as he reached it, and a liveried doorman stepped forward, blocking the entrance. “Are you expected, sir?” he asked politely.
So now he had to explain himself and his business to servants and strangers. “Lord Swansley’s expecting me,” he ground out, attempting a mild expression and fairly certain he wasn’t succeeding. “The Marquis of Glengask.”
The doorman stepped aside. “Welcome, my lord,” he said, gesturing to a passing footman. “Franklin will show you to your table.”
Well, that was more like it. Myles and two other men sat close to the middle of the room, and all three men stood as he approached. Inwardly swearing, Ranulf inclined his head as he recognized one of his lunch companions.
“Lord Stephen Hammond, aye?” he said, shaking his uncle’s hand and taking the one open chair at the table.
“Yes,” the Duke of Esmond’s second son replied, and indicated the stocky, brown-haired man seated opposite Ranulf. “And this is my good friend Simon Beasley. Simon, Lord Glengask.”
“Lord Swansley tells us you have a large holding in Scotland,” Beasley commented.
