The Laird of Blackloch (Highland Rogue #2)

Chapter 3

“ W here in Hades is Sarah? Why don’t either of you know? Miss Lambert, you’re her chaperone for Christ’s sake!”

Malcolm scowled at Sarah’s maiden aunt as she cowered upon a settee with her face in her hands before shooting a glance at his sister. Damaris stood by the private parlor’s small fireplace, watching her mask twirl at the end of its ribbons. She might be feigning boredom, but Malcolm could tell she was vexed by the way she pursed her lips. No doubt her irritation was related to the fact he was keeping her from pursuing her latest conquest, not because Sarah was missing.

Neither woman was immediately forthcoming with a response to his repeated questions, which didn’t really surprise him. They’d already recounted Sarah’s last known movements several times and, damn it, he was still none the wiser. His fiancée clearly wasn’t in any of the places one might expect her to be. They’d all searched the ballroom, card room, supper room, ladies’ retiring room, the library, even the terrace. No one he’d discreetly questioned—their hosts, the footmen at the front door, nor any of the other staff at Kenmuir House—had seen Sarah leave. Besides, her pelisse was still in the cloakroom.

She’d all but vanished into thin air.

“My lord,” began Judith Lambert in a thin, quavering voice. “I’m afraid I have nothing else to add. As I told you before, when Sarah left me here to rest, she intended to return to the ballroom to seek you out. When we departed, you were dancing with Lady Glenleven. I wish I knew more but I do not. Believe me, I’m just as worried as you.”

I seriously fucking doubt it. Malcolm ground his teeth together to stop himself snapping at the foolish woman.

He needed funds. Desperately. Ergo, he needed Sarah.

Only today, his man of business had been forced to placate a creditor by arranging the sale of his second-last carriage and half his town stable. Taymoor Castle had already been stripped of most of its artwork, tapestries, carpets, any furniture that was decent—thank God Sarah and her aunt hadn’t visited yet. He had no more unentailed properties, land, nor any other business assets to sell. He was up to his ears in unpaid debts and overdrawn at the Royal Bank of Scotland. Even the jewels Damaris wore were paste. The contents of Tay House here in Edinburgh would be the next to go to auction. He’d already dismissed a good deal of his staff. Whoever remained was for show alone...

If he didn’t wed the Lambert chit, he would be utterly ruined—financially and socially.

He had to find her.

Malcolm removed his silver snuffbox from his coat pocket and inhaled a good pinch to loosen the tight knot of panic in his chest. He’d love to down a glass or two of Kenmuir’s cognac, but he needed a clear head so the snuff would have to do.

As his pulse slowed, he considered what action to take next.

He was about to quit the parlor with the intention of checking every single room in Kenmuir House from attic to cellar, when Judith spoke again. “I didn’t mention it before, but Sarah did not seem herself earlier on. She denied feeling unwell, but now I wonder...”

“Wonder what?”

“If something was wrong. She seemed distracted. Bothered.”

Damaris yawned. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Malcolm. Sarah probably grew tired of looking for you and went back to Tay House. It’s easy enough to hire a sedan chair along the Canongate. Don’t fuss so.”

Suddenly the pieces fell into place in Malcolm’s mind. Oh, Christ. Sarah had been looking for him...and she’d been troubled.

What if…what if she’d discovered he’d been fucking that blond chit, Nell or Nelly, or whatever her bloody name was?

Malcolm clenched his fists and somehow swallowed down the urge to slap Judith Lambert for not mentioning such a pertinent detail earlier. Then he squared his shoulders. If Sarah hadn’t been such a cold fish, he wouldn’t have had to slake his lust elsewhere. Not wanting to scare her off before they were married, he’d been the epitome of a gentleman—aside from pressing a few kisses on her—during their tedious, drawn-out engagement. If only her fucking father hadn’t died, they’d already be wed and he’d have taken over her entire fortune months ago.

After he’d drawn a few deep breaths to calm the rage pounding through his veins, Malcolm redonned his mask. “Damaris, scour the ballroom and card room again. Miss Lambert, check the ladies’ retiring room once more. And the library for good measure. Make sure your inquiries are discreet—I won’t have either of you stirring up a scandal. I’ll question the footmen at the front door again about guests who’ve taken sedan chairs. I’ll also send word to Tay House to check if Sarah has slipped out undetected and gone home on her own. Meet me back here when you’re done.”

Of course, the Kenmuir’s footmen had no further information that was of help. A few guests had arrived in private sedan chairs, but no one had asked for a public chair to be summoned. Indeed, only a handful of guests had left all evening, and none at all fitting Sarah’s description.

His guts roiling with frustration, Malcolm returned to the supper room. He’d made a quick sweep of the terrace earlier, but not the walled garden. He doubted Sarah would be out there—it was freezing and a light snow had begun to fall—but at this point, he couldn’t afford to leave any stone unturned.

Turning up the collar of his cape, Malcolm pushed through the door and strode along the length of the deserted terrace until he reached the very end—or what he’d thought was the end, until he realized it extended around the side of Kenmuir House. Pulse hammering, he turned the corner...then swore. There, lying on the marble balustrade, gleaming in the light emanating from the nearest window, was a gold domino dusted with snow. Sarah’s?

Malcolm seized it with shaking hands. It had to be Sarah’s. A strand of fair hair was caught in the silk ribbons. He spun around, searching for any other clues that might help him locate his fiancée , then he cursed again. Bloody, bloody hell.

The nearby window gave him a clear view of the parlor Nell had taken him to. The fireside where she’d fellated him and the settee she’d bent over so he could take her from behind.

Fuck. Malcolm sank onto the balustrade. He’d been so consumed with lust, he hadn’t noticed the curtains hadn’t been drawn. Shit. His fist crushed the mask and it snapped in two.

As much as it rankled, he was going to have to do some serious groveling when he found Sarah. She must have fled when she’d seen him. Perhaps Damaris had been right. If Sarah had been upset, she might have slipped away and returned to Tay House on her own. There was probably a garden gate out here somewhere. Or she might have used an out-of-the-way servants’ entrance. That had to be it.

If she takes against me... If she leaves me… Sheer panic shot through Malcolm, turning his blood to ice and freezing his heart.

He had to catch up to Sarah to stop her from doing anything drastic like breaking off their engagement.

When Malcolm Campbell, the Earl of Tay, stormed back through the terrace doors into the supper room, Alex’s lips curled into a smile of deep satisfaction. By now the cur would have realized that Sarah was no longer within Kenmuir House or its grounds. He might even have guessed that she’d accidentally stumbled upon him rutting with Nell. But the blackguard was yet to learn how dire the situation really was.

Oh, how I’d love to be a fly on the wall when that happens.

Lady Kenmuir touched Alex’s sleeve, drawing his attention. “My dear Mr. Price, would you like more champagne?” She leaned closer and her plump breasts pressed against his bicep as she murmured into his ear, “Of course, if nothing here is to your taste, I’m sure I could find something else to whet your appetite.”

Alex donned a rake’s smile. “As tempting as your offer sounds, my lady, I’m afraid I must depart.” Now he’d had the pleasure of witnessing Lord Tay’s descent into full-blown panic, and had established an alibi by flirting with his rather attractive hostess, he needed to return to his townhouse. Sarah Lambert would probably sleep for hours but he wanted to be at home when she woke. He bowed over Lady Kenmuir’s hand and glanced a kiss across her knuckles. “You and your husband have been wonderful hosts and I thank you for your most generous hospitality.”

Lady Kenmuir’s other hand slipped to the small of his back…and then lower. “Oh, that’s such a shame,” she said before whispering, “Lord Kenmuir departs for London in a sennight. If you need a diversion...” She squeezed his buttock.

“I will know your door is open,” he murmured.

Lady Kenmuir threw him a coquettish smile. “Most definitely. Wide open.”

Alex kissed his hostess’s hand again for good measure—if he hadn’t embarked on the course he was currently on, he might have considered the marchioness’s scandalous invitation—then quit the room and Kenmuir House without a backward glance.

As his carriage clattered along the Royal Mile, he toyed with his onyx ring and mentally steeled himself for the long night and journey ahead.