He stared at her. “Your sexual innuendos aren’t at all the thing for a virgin.”
He realized she had no idea what he was talking about and snorted at her. “Just go away, Joan.”
“All right. Forgive me, Colin. You’re tired and must rest.”
She turned at the door. “Would you like to marry me the day after tomorrow?”
“Perhaps if I can walk tomorrow I shall be able to ride the day after tomorrow.”
She cocked her head to one side in question, and when he just continued to look sour, she smiled and left him.
Colin lay back and closed his eyes. He was worried, very worried, and so angry he wanted to spit. MacDuff had come to tell him that the MacPhersons were moving on Kinross lands. They’d heard about his financial ruin, knew he was out of Scotland, and had thus taken advantage. They were, according to MacDuff, freely raiding Kinross land and sheep. They were vultures, normally incompetent and content to whine about all their misfortunes—all brought on by themselves. They’d even killed several crofters who’d tried to save their homes from pillage. His people were doing what they could, but there was no leader there for them. Colin had never felt more helpless in his entire life. Here he was, lying in this lovely damned bed in this beautiful house, weak as a day-old foal, and useless to himself and to his family and his people.
Marrying Joan Sherbrooke was the most important thing he could accomplish. It wouldn’t have mattered if she’d had rabbit teeth, so long as her guineas were shining and numerous. Nothing mattered except smashing the cowardly MacPhersons and saving Vere Castle and all the other Kinross properties. He had to move quickly. He tried to rise, gritted his teeth at the wash of pain through his thigh, and fell back again. Colin’s head began to pound. The next time Joan asked him to wed her, he’d ask that the preacher be brought in the next five minutes.
Douglas Sherbrooke very carefully folded the letter and slid it back into its envelope.
He began to pace the length of the library, then stopped, pulled the letter from the envelope, and read it through again. The big block letters were in black ink and carefully printed. He read:
Lord Northcliffe,
Colin Kinross murdered his wife. He will wed your sister and then do away with her. Doubt it not. He is ruthless and would do anything to get what he wants. The only thing he wants now is money.
It was the sort of thing that Douglas hated. An anonymous accusation that left one furious and disbelieving because it was anonymous, but still planted a seed of doubt despite what one felt about the one being accused. The letter had been delivered just an hour before by a small urchin, who simply told Drinnen that a cove bid ’im to deliver this letter to the lordship o’ this fancy ’ouse.
Drinnen hadn’t asked the lad to describe the cove. A pity. He assumed it had been a man. He paced again, now crumpling the letter in his hand.
Colin was mending rapidly. Sinjun was already dancing about, wanting to marry him by the end of the week. Jesus, it was already Tuesday.
What to do?
He knew deep in his gut that Sinjun wouldn’t care
if the wretched letter accused Colin of murdering an entire regiment. She wouldn’t believe it. She would never believe it. She’d go to war with her entire family before she’d believe it.
Damnation. He knew he couldn’t ignore it, and thus, when Alex and Sinjun left the house to fetch Sinjun’s wedding gown from Madame Jordan’s, he didn’t put it off. He strode up to Colin’s bedchamber.
Colin was wearing one of his own dressing gowns, thanks to Finkle and several footmen, who had returned to his lodgings and packed all his clothing and brought his two trunks here. He was standing beside the bed, looking toward the door.
“Do you need some assistance?” Douglas asked as he stepped into the room.
“No, thank you. I’m endeavoring to prove that I can walk across this room and back three times without falling on my nose.”
Douglas laughed. “How many times have you done it?”
“Twice, at five-minute intervals. This third time looks to be the death of me though.”
“Sit down, Colin. I must speak to you.”
Colin sat gingerly in a wing chair near the fireplace. He stretched his leg out in front of him, wincing as he did so. He began to gently massage the leg. “You didn’t tell Joan, did you?”
“No, only my wife, although I don’t know why you care if Sinjun knows or not.”
“It would infuriate her and worry her and she wouldn’t stand for it. She would probably hire a Bow Street Runner and the two of them would go haring off to track down the man who did it. She would probably place an advertisement in the Gazette for information leading to his capture. She could hurt herself. She obviously needs to be protected, more from herself than anything else.”
Douglas could but stare at him. “You’ve known her such a short time and yet . . .” He shook his head. “That’s exactly what she’d do. I sometimes feel the good Lord doesn’t know what she plans to do until she does it. She’s very creative, you know.”
“No, but I suspect I’ll learn.”