A Dark and Brooding Gentleman by Margaret McPhee Read Free Book Online Page B

not let the incident in the night deter her from securing her father’s safety.
    Phoebe tried again the next night and the night after that, but each time she stole down the stairs it was to see the faint flicker of light beneath the door to Hunter’s study and she knew he was alone within, drinking through the night, as if he could not bear to sleep. As if he were haunted. As if he carried a sin so dark upon his soul that it chained him in perpetual torment. She shivered and forced the thoughts away, knowing that the days before Tuesday and her visit to the Tolbooth were too few. There had to be a way to search the study. Phoebe was in an agony of worry.
    It was Mrs Hunter who solved the problem … when she told Phoebe of the Blackloch outing to the seaside planned for Saturday.
    The morning of the trip was glorious. The sun shone down on a sea that stretched out in a broad glistening vastness before him. To the right was the edge of the island of Arran, and to the left, in the distance, the characteristic conical lump on the horizon that was the rock of Ailsa Craig. A bank of grass led down to the large curved bay of golden sand. It was beautiful, but nothing of the scene touched Hunter.
    He and McEwan dismounted, tying their horses to a nearby tethering pole. The maids and footmen were milling around the carriages, chatting and laughing with excitement. McEwan looked to Hunter for his nod, then went to organise the party, to see that the blankets were spread upon the sands before collecting the picnic hampers and baskets containing the bottles of lemonade and elderflower cordial. Hunter stood there for a moment alone, detached, remote from the good spirits, and watched as the men peeled off their jackets and the women abandoned their shawls and pushed up their sleeves. There was such joviality, such happiness and anticipation amongst the entirety of his household that Hunter felt his very presence might spoil it. He moved away towards his mother’s coach where her footman was already assisting her down the steps.
    She threw him a grudging nod. ‘I am glad that at least you have not let the old customs slip.’
    He gave a nod of acknowledgement, his face cold and expressionless to hide the memories her words evoked.
    His mother took her parasol from the maid who appeared from the carriage behind her. There was a silence as she surveyed the scene before her, a small half-smile upon her mouth there not for Hunter, but for the sake of the staff.
    Hunter glanced round, expecting Miss Allardyce, but his mother’s companion did not appear.
    ‘The book was to your satisfaction?’ he enquired.
    ‘The book?’ His mother peered at him as if he were talking double Dutch.
    ‘Evelina,’
he prompted.
    ‘I have not seen that book in years,’ she said and turned her attention away from him.
    Hunter turned the implication of her answer over in his mind and let the minutes pass before he spoke again.
    ‘Your companion does not accompany you,’ he said, as if merely making an observation. His face remained forward, watching the staff as they carried the hampers down onto the sand.
    ‘Miss Allardyce is feeling unwell. I told her to spend the day in bed, resting.’ His mother equally kept her focus on the maids and the footmen.
    ‘The timing of her illness is unfortunate.’
Or fortunate, depending on whose point of view one was considering,
he thought grimly.
    His mother nodded. ‘Indeed it is—poor girl.’
    Once everyone was settled upon the blankets, his mother in pride of place upon a chair and rug, he and McEwan removed their coats, rolled up their sleeves and served plates of cold sliced cooked chicken, ham and beef to the waiting servants. There were bread rolls and cheese and hard-boiled eggs. There were strawberries and raspberries, fresh cooled cream and the finest jams, sponge cakes, peppermint creams and hard-boiled sweets. And chunks of ice all wrapped up and placed amongst the food and drink to keep it cool.