The Scottish Bride - Catherine Coulter [27]
He said easily, “I am Tysen Sherbrooke, ma’am, Lord Barthwick. You were first cousin to the former Lord Barthwick? Have I got it right? Is it possible that we are related?”
She had a thin black mustache atop her upper lip and masses of black hair, all twisted in coils on top of her head. Medusa had perhaps resembled Mrs. Griffin. The mustache quivered a bit as she shouted at him, “Related to you, sir? Good Gad, no! No paltry English blood in these veins. Well, no more than a dollop of English blood. I would allow no more. No, sir, I am a Scotswoman, through and through, very nearly.
“You are not a Scotsman. It is more than just a pity. It is more than a disaster, but God has cursed us for some heretofore unpunished sin and consigned all the worthwhile heirs underground. What are you doing here, Donnatella?”
“I am here to take his lordship on a tour, ma’am. I arrived just before you did.” Donnatella then turned to Tysen and gave him a very warm smile. “Good day, my lord, it is ever so pleasant to see you again. Are you ready to leave?”
The black mustache quivered again, just a bit, over Mrs. Griffin’s upper lip. Tysen wondered if Mrs. Griffin had a first name, but he didn’t ask because then the lady laughed, a perfectly dreadful sound, all deep and hoarse, and said, “Ha! I’ll wager one of my last groats that a tour isn’t your objective at all, Donnatella. You are here to begin your flirtations with the poor man, who isn’t poor at all since he now owns Kildrummy Castle, which the good Lord knows he doesn’t deserve.”
Well, that was the truth, he thought.
Mrs. Griffin turned back to Tysen, gave him a look that clearly told him he was grossly lacking, and said, “You probably do not have a chance, my lord. Donnatella is young, but she is wise in the ways of women, and thus, as a man, you haven’t a chance. Hmmm. Donnatella is a Scotswoman, however, and that is probably the only good thing to come out of this debacle. I would have married old Tyronne myself, but I was too old to give birth to another heir, and also, alas, there is Mr. Griffin to consider. A pity, but we will see.”
Tysen looked beyond Mrs. Griffin to see a very tall, very thin gentleman, nattily dressed, his hair snow-white, thick and full, leaning against the door of the carriage.
“Sir,” Tysen said, giving him a slight bow.
Mr. Griffin nodded, returned with a quick, jerking bow, and nodded once again. He walked up to stand just behind his wife. “My lord. We are here. We have returned, just as we promised ourselves we would. You have met my charming wife, I see.”
“Yes, he has, Mr. Griffin. I am still standing outside, and I don’t want to be here. Now, where is Mrs. MacFardle?”
Tysen couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He merely stood there gazing after the very tall lady who was old enough to be his mother and was probably even more vicious than his mother, who excelled at her craft. He prayed that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Griffin would remain for very long. He continued looking after her until she passed through the front door, Mrs. MacFardle now by her side. Mr. Griffin trailed gracefully behind his wife. She continued to swing her griffin-headed black cane back and forth.
“She is quite obsessed with Kildrummy,” Donnatella said calmly, straightening the charming little riding hat she wore. A dark-blue ostrich plume curved around one cheek. “Do not have an apoplexy, my lord, for neither Mrs. Griffin nor Mr. Griffin lives here, thank the gracious Lord. Evidently she decided to see the new master of Kildrummy Castle for herself. She probably will not remain long. She detests the sea air. She says it makes her nose swell. I believe that her nose swells because she drinks so much smuggled French brandy. Mr. Griffin doesn’t drink anything at all. He just stands there, all skinny and blank-looking, well dressed, his arms crossed, and stares at everyone. You have my profound sympathy, my lord.”
Donnatella lightly laid her fingers on his arm. “Would you like to leave now?”
Tysen