How the Scot Was Won

by Caroline Linden

  Felix made a rude gesture at his associate. Helen rolled her eyes but took the coin and departed for the kitchen.

  His partner was watching with raised brows and a fiendish grin. “Are you really acquainted with her?”

  Felix resolutely refused to turn around again, unlike Hunter, who was all but staring at the women now. “I am. Well, in a manner of speaking. I know her brother.”

  Hunter’s brows shot up. “Mrs. Ramsay’s got a brother? No, she doesn’t.”

  “Not Mrs. Ramsay, idiot,” said Felix under his breath. Hunter was speaking far too loudly. “Her companion.”

  Ilsa Ramsay was the daughter of a prominent tradesman. Her wealthy husband had died a year ago in a duel made all the more infamous by the lurid trial that followed it, but instead of retiring in privacy, she had burst out of mourning, months early, like a butterfly from a chrysalis. Edinburgh was both scandalized and intrigued. Today she wore a gown of vivid yellow and a warm, friendly smile that caused more than one man in the coffeehouse to pause and watch her.

  But not Felix.

  “What?” His friend’s face went blank with surprise, and he craned his neck for another look. “Not Mrs. Ramsay? Oh… Now I see.”

  Anyone with eyes could see. The other lady was quieter and more simply dressed, but just as striking. Felix fought off the urge to look her way again. “She used to come along to the cricket pitch when we were lads. Her brother was a crack batsman, and her father would umpire the matches. She was only a child the last time I recall meeting her, but now she’s…”

  “Certainly not a child,” finished Hunter when he fell silent. “Aye, she’s very handsome.”

  Felix fervently agreed. “Are they looking this way?”

  Hunter snorted with laughter. “Nay, lad, they’ve no idea you’re alive.”

  Cautiously he peeked over his shoulder. The ladies had their heads together over a magazine on the table. As he watched, the lady in pink picked up her teacup, the steam visible in the sunlight. She pursed her lips and blew on it before taking a sip, and Felix’s stomach tightened. By God, what a lovely mouth she had.

  Helen reappeared and set down a tray holding a plate of warm currant buns and a crock of butter. “Go on with you,” she told him. “Make haste.”

  Felix grinned and leapt to his feet. “Merci, Helen. Hunter, wish me luck.”

  His partner leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “You’ll need it! I’ve never seen such a hopeless case.”

  He ran one hand down his front, smoothing his waistcoat, and picked up the tray. “I appreciate your confidence.” And he headed toward the table by the window.

  * * *

  “We are being spied upon,” murmured Ilsa Ramsay.

  “Hmm?” Agnes St. James didn’t look up from the magazine, busy reading the description of a magnificent gown worn by a countess to an opera in London recently. It would make a splendid window display in the silk shop, if she could recreate it.

  “Over there,” Ilsa whispered with a slight nod. “Tall, ginger hair, commendable shoulders. He is staring.”

  Oh. Agnes smiled briefly. Another man struck by Ilsa. She’d been friends with Ilsa for four months, and this happened regularly. “Be kind to him,” she whispered back.

  Ilsa looked hurt. “Am I unkind?”

  Agnes grinned at her. “You determinedly turn away every man who tries to flirt with you.”

  Her friend made a face. She had only been widowed a year ago and had often declared she didn’t want another husband. That didn’t stop men from pursuing her, obviously. “Only the ones I know. They are suspect.”

  Agnes turned the page. The countess’s hat was described as well, to her delight. “Do you know this one?”

  Ilsa tilted her head, making no effort to hide her observation. “No,” she said thoughtfully. “But he is very handsome.”

  Agnes shook her head, smiling ruefully, and reached for her tea. Oh, to be a single lady in possession of both beauty and a large fortune, able to entrance men from across a room.

  “Oh my. He is coming this way.”

  “That didn’t take long,” Agnes murmured.

  Ilsa rolled her eyes before assuming a bright smile as a man stopped beside their table. His kilt swung as he made a sweeping bow.

  “I beg your pardon, mesdames, but have you ordered some fresh currant buns?”

  His voice was lovely. Agnes glanced up at him through her eyelashes. As Ilsa had said, he was tall and handsome. Decidedly so. And vaguely familiar. A frown touched her brow. She was sure she knew who he was…

  Ilsa regarded him impishly. “We did! But has something ill befallen Helen? Has Mr. Agnew pressed you into his employ?”

  He laughed. “Not at all! Poor Helen is frantic, nearly run off her feet, and I hastened to offer my services in her moment of distress.”

  As one, Agnes and Ilsa looked past him to see Helen watching, hands on her hips and a smirk on her face, clearly not frantic at all. “How very considerate of you to leap to her aid,” said Ilsa drolly. “If we were acquainted, I would thank you by name, sir.”

  He laughed again as he set down their plate of buns and butter. “It would be my pleasure to tell you. Felix Duncan, at your service, madam.”

  Agnes’s eyes widened in surprised recognition. Oh. Involuntarily she looked up.

  His eyes were fixed on her. His smile grew wider as their gazes met. “Forgive me—Miss St. James, is it not?”

  The breath caught in her throat. Ilsa turned on her, eyebrows arched. “Yes.”

  “Why, what brilliant luck,” he said in delight. “You surely don’t remember me, but I attended Mr. Cruickshank’s school with your brother Andrew.”

  “Oh…” She couldn’t seem to say anything else. She did remember him, and not for attending Mr. Cruickshank’s.

  “Did you really?” Ilsa exclaimed. Agnes could tell she was enjoying this turn of affairs. “How fortuitous! Did you not say your brother is returning to town soon, Agnes?”

  Mr. Duncan’s face brightened. “Is he? That is excellent news.”

  “It is,” said Ilsa warmly, even though she had shown no interest in Drew’s visit before. “Would you care to join us, Mr. Duncan? To renew your acquaintance with Miss St. James?”

  Agnes glanced at her in astonishment—and dismay.

  Mr. Duncan seemed to see it. He smiled ruefully. “Thank you, madam, but I wouldn’t want to intrude. Indeed, I’ve surely disturbed you enough already.”

  “Not at all,” protested Ilsa. “We are ever eager to hear new conversation and gossip.”

  He hesitated, and Ilsa kicked Agnes under the table.

  Reluctantly she raised her eyes again. Mercy, he was tall—much taller than the gangly boy she remembered. He’d grown up very well, nicely filled out with magnificently broad shoulders. His hair was less violently ginger now, more of a rich copper, curling in a neat queue. Square jaw, narrow nose, generous mouth.

  Like all her brother’s friends, Mr. Duncan was a good six or seven years older than she. He and Drew had got into a great deal of trouble together, for which Mama mostly blamed Felix Duncan. He’d been fearless and boisterous, with a sharp wit and a quick tongue. Papa had been fond of him, though. If asked, Agnes would have sworn up and down that he wouldn’t remember her.

  Remarkably, it appeared he did.

  “Please, sir,” she said, to avoid another kick from Ilsa.

  Instantly he pulled out the chair beside her and sat down. “How is your brother? I’ve not seen him in years. Is he still in the army?”

  “Yes.” Agnes still wasn’t certain what was happening. “We expect him for a visit within the month.”

  He grinned. The tiny lines crinkling around his blue eyes hinted that he smiled a lot. “I shall hope to encounter him.”

  “I don’t know how long he plans to be in town,” she said quickly. “It’s rare he has leave from his regiment.”

  She didn’t add that none of her family knew why Drew was comi
ng to town. He’d written to them several weeks ago saying that he’d been urgently summoned to England by their distant cousin, the Duke of Carlyle. Mama hoped it meant a legacy; she’d begun to despair of the smokey chimney and the loose windows in their sitting room. Agnes has seen her reading listings for the fine new houses being built in the New Town, sighing over the cost.

  Her brother’s next letter only made Mama’s hopes soar. He wrote that he had news and was coming to Edinburgh, which was far out of his way back to Fort George. “It must be very happy news,” Mama had said joyously.

  Mr. Duncan sobered at her words. “I wouldn’t want to keep him from his family. Would you convey to him my cordial regards?”

  Ilsa gave her a sly look. “Perhaps you will invite Mr. Duncan to tea, Agnes, so two old friends can meet again.”

  Agnes was so surprised she laughed. “Drew wouldn’t come to tea! He’d slip away to the links at the first rattle of teaspoons.”

  “Clever man!” Ilsa had just learned golf and was always ready to play. “Perhaps we could form a group.”

  “The last time we played golf you brought Robert, and he ate Bella’s ball,” Agnes pointed out. Her youngest sister had been angry at first—no doubt thanks to the peals of laughter from Agnes and Winnie—but gave it up when Robert approached, head hanging, to nibble at her elbow. Bella loved animals.

  Ilsa smiled at this reminder of her pet’s misdeed. “He did indeed,” she said fondly. “I shall leave him at home when we play with the captain, Mr. Duncan.”

  Mr. Duncan’s warm regard hadn’t wavered from Agnes. “It would raise the stakes considerably if there were a chance of someone eating a ball.”

  Ilsa laughed. “Indeed! Robert is a pony. There is always a chance of him eating something.”

  “I see.” Mr. Duncan grinned. “But here—I have kept you from Martha’s excellent currant buns.” He rose from the chair. “It was a delight to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Ramsay. Miss St. James…” He turned toward her, his smile warming and his voice dropping a register. “It was a great pleasure to see you again.” With another elegant bow, he turned and walked back to the table he’d come from, where another man sat watching as if they were acting a scene upon the stage.

  Agnes reached for a currant bun, her heart unaccountably racing. She applied herself to buttering the bread, hoping Ilsa would go back to the magazine still open between them.

  “Are all your brother’s friends so handsome and charming?” Ilsa was watching Mr. Duncan with unabashed interest.

  Agnes snorted. “No! At least, I expect not. Drew’s not here enough for me to know who his friends are these days, let alone judge their charm or appeal.”

  “Pity.” Ilsa nibbled her currant bun. “He’s still watching you.”

  Agnes flushed. “Is he?” She took a quick bite of her bun, sighing with pleasure at the taste of the tender bread, still warm from the oven.

  “Like an owl, very still and unblinking with his head turned all the way around, no doubt thinking he’s invisible.”

  She choked on the bread. “Don’t be ridiculous!”

  “No? Look for yourself.”

  Licking butter off her lower lip, Agnes stole a glance his way.

  He was watching, just as Ilsa had said. And when he caught her peeking at him, he grinned and tipped his head.

  She jerked back around, her heart skipping.

  Ilsa was gloating. “It was unclear whom he wished to flirt with when he first approached, but now there is no doubt at all.”

  Agnes took another bite to keep from answering. That seemed implausible. In the four months that she and Ilsa had been friends, no one had ever chosen to flirt with her instead of with Ilsa. And it made complete sense: Ilsa was beautiful, rich, and widowed, while Agnes was…not.

  “He said it was a delight to meet me, but it was a great pleasure to see you.” Ilsa leaned forward, her eyes dancing. “The man is smitten!”

  Agnes took a sip of tea. “Nonsense. He knows my brother…”

  Ilsa scoffed. “A pretext! How eagerly he leapt at the suggestion of a golf outing.”

  Agnes smiled in relief. “Golf! That’s not flirting. An afternoon shouting at each other over the wind, stomping through the marsh in search of wayward balls, arguing over a drop.”

  “But he might stand very close to be heard over the wind. He might offer to carry your club. He might ask you to choose his ball.”

  “Pssh.” Agnes’s face was burning. “If he needs my help there, he’s no one I wish to golf with.”

  Ilsa looked disappointed. “He most certainly wishes to golf with you.”

  “I will only go if you bring Robert.” Agnes dabbed the butter from her mouth. “I would very much enjoy watching Robert bedevil my brother and his friends—who were, in all my memories, incorrigible rascals.”

  “Perhaps they still are.” Ilsa wiped away her sly smile at Agnes’s aggrieved look. “I am only teasing, of course. If you don’t like him, I shall never mention him again.”

  Agnes refused to answer. She turned back to the magazine. “Oh look, there is a new poem.”

  Ilsa gave in, and they spoke no more of Mr. Duncan.

  * * *

  But the next time they went to Agnew’s, he brought their buns again, along with choice gossip. There had been another robbery: the thieves had stolen a large load of tea from a grocer the previous night. They spent an hour coming up with increasingly humorous ideas to catch the thieves, and never even opened the magazine.

  The third time, Agnes found herself hoping to see him. She scanned the room as they entered, but he was not there. Disconcerted, disappointed, she followed Ilsa to a table. But then the door opened and he burst in, out of breath, searching the room just as she had done. When their gazes met, his face lit up, and an unexpected tide of delight filled her.

  “Were you running, Mr. Duncan?” Ilsa asked as he approached.

  “A very brisk walk.” He gave Agnes a wink. “In case they should run short of currant buns.”

  She smiled back at him. “We must order extra today.”

  “The way to my heart,” he declared with a laugh, which sparked a giddy feeling inside her that lasted the whole day.

  By the fourth time, Agnes knew he would be there. Now she and Ilsa always went to Agnew’s, abandoning all the other coffeehouses and tearooms. Mr. Duncan was waiting. No sooner did they sit down than Helen set the tray in front of him, and he brought it to their table.

  “Mr. Agnew should hire you,” said Ilsa in admiration. “What service!”

  He laughed. “I’m only a lawyer, madam, not qualified to supplant Helen.”

  “Oh yes, your father was a lawyer,” said Agnes without thinking.

  He looked at her with such delight, she blushed. “You remember,” he said softly.

  “Yes.”

  They might have gazed at each other forever if Ilsa hadn’t cleared her throat.

  He started. “Excellent. Erm… What is your opinion of the new Assembly Rooms?”

  Agnes bit her lip. The Assembly Rooms, recently opened in the New Town, were the talk of Edinburgh. But they were also expensive, and the St. Jameses could not afford the subscriptions.

  Ilsa hesitated. “They are glorious.”

  Mr. Duncan was watching her. “Have you been, Miss St. James?”

  She smiled wistfully. “I hope to see them someday. Will you describe them?”

  And he did, patiently answering her every question.

  When they left, Ilsa linked her arm through Agnes’s. “The truth,” she demanded. “Is he not charming?”

  Agnes smiled. “He is.”

  “Handsome?”

  “Indisputably.”

  “And?” her friend coaxed.

  Agnes blushed. “It’s only flirting.”

  “Very persistent flirting.”

  But nothing more. Mr. Duncan had never said a word about calling on her, nor asked to walk her home. Agnes had begun to wish he would. “It’s nothi
ng but a lark.”

  Ilsa only smiled. “We shall see.”

  2

  As it happened, Agnes got to see the Assembly Rooms much sooner than expected. They returned home one day to find a packet containing four tickets for the ball the next evening.

  “Who sent them?” Bella cried as Winnie clapped her hands in joy.

  Each ticket had to be endorsed by the holder to be transferred, but the signatures were illegible. Mama shook her head. “There’s no message. Oh, if only we knew whom to thank…”

  Agnes suspected. Ilsa knew how much she and her sisters longed to go, especially after the conversation with Mr. Duncan.

  The next day was a storm of preparation, sponging gowns and mending hems and fighting for the mirror. Winnie took so long with the curling tongs that Bella threatened to cut off Winnie’s strawberry blond locks in retaliation, and Mama threatened to put the tickets in the fire.

  Agnes was every bit as excited as her sisters. She wore her best dress, a pale blue chemise à la reine with a gauzy white ruffle at the neckline, and touched a drop of scent on her throat. Perhaps Mr. Duncan would be there—a thought that made her smile at her reflection, and then run down the stairs when her mother called that the carriage had arrived.

  Though new, the building exterior was unimpressive, and the interior still smelled faintly of sawdust and paint. Winnie and Bella expressed their disappointment as they climbed the stairs. At the top, Agnes turned and whispered, “Behave! Mama won’t let us come again if you’re rude.”

  Winnie rolled her eyes. “Thank you, Agnes, for telling us what we already know.”

  “Have some faith,” added Bella with an impish smile.

  Agnes gave her a stern look. “Prove me right to do so.”

  Winnie made a face. “I intend to have a splendid time, Agnes. I hope you can unbend enough to do the same.”

  “Don’t worry about me!” She laughed. “I know how to enjoy myself and not get into trouble.”

  They had reached the main ballroom, and here all argument ceased. Even devoid of decoration, the room was splendid: high-ceilinged, twice as long as it was wide, illuminated by dozens of candles, and filled with elegantly dressed people. There was an alcove above for the musicians. Mama gave them permission to go and headed toward a clutch of respectable matrons.