“Aye, only the duke can order it sold,” muttered Drew. “From what I heard, he cares naught for his Scottish property, and the solicitor views it as a burden.”
“But soon it’ll be yours, aye?” Kincaid prodded.
The wind picked up, rustling the links grass. “Aye.”
“Are you of a mind to sell off the Scottish lands?”
“No,” said Drew. “If the choice becomes mine, I would not.”
“So your visit . . .”
“Is to see,” said Drew with a sharp look at Duncan. “And assess how they shall be maintained as valued assets, not sold to people eager to carve up more of Scotland.”
“Well,” said Kincaid after a moment. “Sounds noble enough. And you said your lovely sisters will be there?” He winked.
Drew folded his arms even as his shoulders eased. “Aye, and I’ll be there, too, keeping an eye on the lot of you.”
“Will you?” murmured Felix Duncan, lining up his next shot. He swung, sending his ball arcing into the glare of sunlight.
“Especially on you.” Drew stamped the grass as he located his ball and chose his angle. Kincaid took out his flask and Monteith made a rude comment about the way Drew was positioning his club.
As Drew took his swing, Duncan said, casually and far too loudly, “If your eyes are on us, you won’t be able to stare at Ilsa Ramsay, you know.”
The ball shot sideways off his club, toward the marsh. Drew swore and advanced on Duncan as Monteith and Kincaid roared with laughter.
“Ilsa Ramsay!” said Monteith in dawning delight. “She’ll be there?”
“Aye,” said Duncan, sidestepping Drew and jogging after his ball. “But you’d better act quickly, lads, now that St. James is going to be a duke and needs a bride!”
Drew stopped, glaring after his friend. “Don’t listen to him,” he told the others. “Mrs. Ramsay is dear friends with my sister Agnes.”
Monteith grinned. “Maybe so, but your eyes were fair falling from your head that night we saw her in the oyster cellar. Well done, laddie.”
“Ignore Duncan,” said Kincaid lazily. “He’s still smarting from losing the lady he fancied.”
“Oh?” Drew’s ears pricked up. “How?”
Kincaid shrugged, collecting his clubs. “He can say the most idiotic things for such a clever lad, aye? Brought it on his own head, and that always makes the sting worse.” He glanced toward the marsh. “St. James, you might want to drop another ball and leave that one.”
Grim-faced, Drew gripped his club. “I will not.” That would cost him a stroke, and the cost of the ball, all because Duncan had to shoot off his mouth about Ilsa Ramsay—doubly galling because he had a feeling Agnes was the lady Kincaid spoke of.
He tramped into the rustling grass, determined to play where he’d landed. As always.
The cabinetry shop in Dunbar’s Close was large, loud, and smelled strongly of wood shavings and varnish. Ilsa made her way through it to the office where her father spent his days.
He was there, as usual, holding court before some apprentices and journeymen, with no doubt a few upholsterers and gilders in the lot. Papa liked performing for a crowd. At the sight of her, he slapped his hands on his knees and cried, “To work, lads! Why are ye all sitting about chattering like a flock of birds?”
Liam Hewitt, sitting at her father’s side, looked up at her and smirked. The other men filed away, some murmuring greetings, a few giving her quick smiles. Ilsa knew them all, having grown up in and around the workshop. She waited until they were gone; Liam, as usual, remained in his chair, flaunting his special status as her father’s favorite.
Liam was talented, Ilsa admitted. When she married, Papa had given her a gift of some of Liam’s finely carved furnishings, taken from patterns by Mr. Chippendale but augmented by Liam’s own designs. They were very handsome, those tables and chairs, and Ilsa tried diligently to credit his skill when she sat and ate upon them.
It never quite worked. The next time she saw him, Liam would undo all that positive feeling with one snide remark or patronizing glance. Ilsa had finally concluded that he did not like her and did not want her to like him, and so she had quit trying.
“What a surprise,” cried Papa, coming forward to kiss her on the cheek. “How fare you, lass?”
“Well, Papa.” She smiled and embraced him. “I see you allow a lengthy dinner hour for your workmen.”
“Just relating some praise for our work from Mr. Aitcheson,” he returned. “We fitted his shop with new counters, shelves, and a sturdy front door.”
“Of course,” she teased back. “Mr. Aitcheson wants only the best in his jewelry shop.”
“That, and he’s mindful of all the robbery going on lately.” Papa tapped the side of his nose. “Mr. Johnstone in Queen Street, whose shop we refitted just last year, lost almost a whole shipment of tea—tea! What would any thief want with three hundredweights of tea? But Aitcheson worried for his shop, and a new lock and key will set his fears at rest.”
“That, and the new safe bolted under his counter,” drawled Liam.
Papa laughed. “Aye, that as well! Can’t be too careful, can you, now?”
“Aunt Jean nearly had a spell the other day, worrying about thieves and robberies in town,” Ilsa told him. “If you can set her mind at rest, I would deeply appreciate it.”
He patted her hand. “Jean worries with every breath she takes. No one could stop her. She’ll get over it.”
Ilsa simply smiled. After Captain St. James left, Jean had come back to the drawing room, first scolding her for receiving guests in such a ramshackle fashion and then about how the discarded draperies would expose them to the greedy sights of all manner of thieves and housebreakers. She was sure the thieves terrorizing Edinburgh were shinning up the lampposts outside of houses to peer inside in search of items to steal.
Ilsa could roll her eyes at that. Anyone who stole that painting of the five grim ladies in black was welcome to it, in her opinion. But now the thieves were taking tea, of all things, and Jean would be even more short-tempered. She wouldn’t get over it until someone was caught and hanged for the robberies.
“I wanted a word with you, Papa.”
“Of course, of course!”
“Privately,” she added quietly, as Liam kept to his seat, watching her with glittering eyes.
“Oh! Aye.” He waved one hand at Liam. “Off with you, my boy. Mr. Hopetoun inquired after that pair of sofas the other day, wondering when they’ll be ready to upholster.”
“The end of next week, as I told him.” Liam rose and swept a mocking bow. “A good day to you, Mrs. Ramsay.” He sauntered past her with a smug air. Ilsa ignored him, but Papa watched with raised brows.
“Is there aught between you and Liam?”
“Nothing, Papa,” she said evenly. “Why do you ask?”
He huffed. “As if I can’t see! The fellow always acts as though you’ve twitted him in some way.”
“I have not,” she returned, not adding that Liam was always either spiteful, rude, or belittling to her, and sometimes all three at the same time. She had learned that Papa sympathized more with Liam’s side of any story, and so she’d stopped arguing. “I like him just as much as he likes me.”
Papa’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing more. He closed the door of his office and waited until she took a seat before returning to his own. “What is it that you must come to the shop? Has MacGill ruffled your feathers again?”
“No,” she said. “I sacked Mr. MacGill, so he shall never vex me again.” She’d felt very pleased with herself after writing the letter. She must remember to thank the captain for encouraging her to do so.
“Sacked him!” Papa reared up out of his chair. “Why, Ilsa?”
“I told you why the other day.” She changed the subject before he could work up a head of steam. “I came to tell you I am going away.”
“Away!” Papa looked thunderstruck at this. “Over MacGill?”
> She laughed. “No! Not at all, far more pleasant than that. My friend Agnes’s family is going to Perth for a holiday, and they have invited me to go with them.”
“Perth!” Her father’s brows lowered. “What the bluidy blazes is in Perth?”
“Stormont Palace. Captain St. James has been sent to examine the fitness of the house.”
Ilsa deliberately made it sound as if the captain had been sent under orders from a commanding officer. She was not going to relate his expectations to her father, knowing that was the surest possible way to ensure all Edinburgh knew. Not only had Agnes asked her not to tell anyone, she suspected the captain didn’t wish it to be widely known.
“And he’s taking his family with him?” Papa was still suspicious.
“He told his sister he thought it would be a very tedious job, and having a party of family and friends might make the task pass more enjoyably. The Misses St. James are eager to inspect the shops in Perth and explore the area.”
His mouth twisted; he was still displeased, though Ilsa couldn’t see why.
“Papa, you know how strained their family has been in the past,” she said softly. “I believe their brother thinks to offer them a spot of pleasure and take them out of Edinburgh for a bit.”
He harrumphed. “He’s the tall one, aye? At the Assembly Rooms the other night? Looks a bit of a devil to me.”
As he did to her. Ilsa laughed to hide how her heart skipped a beat at the memory of the captain’s conspiratorial smile. “A dutiful and responsible officer, Papa. Every man must have his moments of mischief, though.” She gave him a sly look. “How is Mrs. Lowrie, by the by?”
Papa’s cheeks colored. “That’s neither here nor there. Well, well! When are you to go? How long shall I be deprived of your company?”
“We leave the day after next and shall only be gone a week. You’ll barely notice I’ve left.”
“I will,” he argued. “Jean will send all her complaints to me.”
Ilsa rose. “And you will deserve them. When you persuaded me to invite her to live with me, you intended her to keep an eye on me, didn’t you?”
His face froze in guilty astonishment. “What? Nay, never!”
She saw through that bluster. “I don’t like it, Papa,” she told him firmly. “I don’t need a keeper, and if you don’t mind your own business, I’ll upset her so dramatically she’ll come storming back to your house. You’ve still got no housekeeper and plenty of spare rooms . . .”
Papa jumped up, eyes flashing and brows drawn. “I had perfectly good reasons for putting you and Jean together. You don’t know everything, my girl, and you can’t run about on your own, like a man. You’re still my daughter, and I—”
“I am my own person,” she said with a warning glance. “I married Malcolm, as you wished, and I allowed Jean to come live with me because I am fond of her. But I am a woman grown, and I won’t be manipulated.”
“Manipulated?” He affected a wounded expression. “I’m your papa! Your welfare matters more to me than anything else in this world, lass. Ye spear me through the heart when ye speak so.”
Ilsa sighed. He did think he was acting in a paternal, protective way. “Stop trying to control me.”
“Control? Nay, ’tis concern for your well-being,” he said indignantly. “And my duty until death.”
She blinked in surprise. “My future husband might object to that.”
Her father jerked. “Future husband? Who? Who is he? Have you accepted someone when you’ve not even admitted to me you’re considering marriage?”
“No,” she said, taken aback by his vehemence. “But if I did, he’d not welcome your interference in our life, either.” She’d only mentioned a husband because he teased her about it every time they spoke. Now, though, he seemed quite startled and unprepared by the idea.
“Ah.” Papa visibly relaxed. “If you are ready to marry again, why, Mr. Grant spoke so highly of you. Or that dashing Sir Philip Hamilton, over in St. Andrew’s Square, would be lucky to have you, and he just bought a very fine new set of drawing room furniture, which sets my mind at ease that he could provide for you . . .”
“Good-bye, Papa.” She kissed his cheek. “I will see you in a few days.”
He walked her out. “All right, then, have your little adventure with the Misses St. James. But mind you come home safe and sound to me, or I’ll have to order the apprentices to take up their chisels and awls, and lead my own army to rescue you.”
She laughed with him and left. Yes, she did want to have a little adventure. But she wasn’t so sure about coming home to her father.
Chapter Ten
The party set out on a fine sunny morning. It was almost fifty miles to Stormont Palace, and on his own Drew would have done it in a day. Instead, he bowed to his mother’s wishes and they stopped for the night at an inn near Kinross.
Drew purposely kept his distance from Ilsa. Not only did he wish to prove Duncan wrong about staring at her, but she was always with his sisters, particularly Agnes. Since Agnes was still throwing around sharp looks whenever Felix Duncan opened his mouth, this wasn’t as difficult as expected. Thankfully Monteith and Kincaid were jolly companions, and Winnie and Bella were on better behavior than usual.
He kept his attention resolutely elsewhere and remembered that he had brought all this on himself. He could have ridden to Perth alone and made his inspection in peace and solitude. No one would have teased him, as Bella did, or given him a hard time about the journey, as Monteith did, or scolded him for drinking too much, as his mother tried . . . or given him a small, intimate smile, as Ilsa did when they passed each other on the stairs.
So overall, it was worth it.
They turned into the gates of Stormont Palace in the late afternoon, as the slanting sun gilded the sandstone to deep bronze. Ivy spread like a spiderweb up the walls of the house, though the front was clear of it as they came along the winding drive.
Drew had been riding beside the first carriage with his mother and Bella and Winnie. Aside from one shocked exclamation and a long look at him, his mother made no response after sighting the house. Bella and Winnie, on the other hand, kept up a furious pelter of questions directed at Drew, ignoring Mother’s admonishments not to shout or to hang out the windows of the carriage.
As they drew nearer, he slowed his horse to fall back to the second carriage, where Agnes and Ilsa rode with Ilsa’s maid. He touched his hat as Ilsa smiled at him through the open window. “Welcome to Stormont, ladies.”
“It’s very grand.” Agnes leaned out her window.
“But lovely,” added Ilsa.
Drew nodded. If he hadn’t spent several weeks at Carlyle Castle, he would have been stopped dead in his tracks by the house. It was an impressive sight, and only more so the closer they got. A pair of towers rose on either side of the front, crenelated and square. Wide steps led up to the entrance. The windows were tall arches reminiscent of the Norman Carlyle Castle, but more plentiful and graceful; it should be bright inside. He knew there was a courtyard, and a river ran near the house, but from the front it had the look of a quaint little citadel, proud and secure in its domain.
“When you said palace,” said Kincaid, pulling up beside him, “I thought you meant like Hamilton Palace, just a fine big house. This was once a royal residence, aye?”
“An abbot’s,” admitted Drew.
Kincaid gave him a sideways look. “And now yours.”
Drew shook his head. “Not mine—not yet.”
Still, he pulled up and dismounted a little bit away from the others. His mother and sisters spilled from the carriages, exclaiming and pointing. His friends clustered around the horses, one of whom seemed to have a loose shoe.
He studied the house. Palace. Castle. Either of those words fit. Mine. There was a word that ought not to fit, yet somehow did. A handful of servants were lining up on the steps, headed by a slim fellow with spectacles gleaming in the sun. That would be Mr. Watkins, the estate ste
ward. They were waiting to greet him—as the nearest thing to the owner.
At Carlyle Castle he had been unquestionably a guest. Upon the death of the duke he might take possession, but while the duchess lived, it would always feel like her home. Even if Her Grace removed at once, it would take years and years to remake it in any other style and taste, and cost a considerable fortune. Not that Carlyle Castle gave any feel of home to someone who had lived in far more modest accommodations his entire life; he had come to think of it as his future quarters, significantly more lavish than those at Fort George but similar in purpose.
This house, though . . . He liked everything he could see. He liked that it was in Scotland. It wasn’t his yet, but already he felt more attached to this house than to Carlyle Castle.
“This visit is off to a promising start,” said a voice beside him.
With a start Drew looked down at Ilsa Ramsay, who had left the others and stood watching him. “Is it?”
She grinned. “Not only are your sisters amazed and excited, your mother has declared herself impressed.”
“That is promising,” he agreed.
“And you . . .” She stepped nearer, studying him. “You’re also pleased.”
“Am I?” Lord, he couldn’t resist leaning closer. “How can you tell?”
“The way you stand. The ease of your shoulders.” Her voice dropped and her eyes glowed. “The look on your face, fiercely interested and intrigued.”
His heart was banging against his ribs. “Seen that look before, have you?” he murmured.
She arched her brows. “Perhaps. Have I misunderstood what it means?”
“I doubt it.” If he had looked at the house anything like the way he looked at her, no wonder she thought him pleased. “It means I am taken aback by how very appealing it is. It means I find myself suddenly anticipating this inheritance with immense pleasure, unqualified by any sense of responsibility or obligation.” His horse tossed his head, restless, and Drew calmed him without taking his eyes off Ilsa. “It means I like the look of it from top to bottom.”
A Scot to the Heart Page 11
