Louisa picked up a broom and began attacking the mess, her face set and her eyes flashing. “Sympathy! I suppose that’s all he offered Mr. Wemyss the goldsmith, too!”
“What can he do, Mother? If they knew who the thieves were, they would make an arrest.” Hands on hips, Drew paced through the shattered salon, searching for anything that might betray the intruders.
“Unconscionable!” Louisa muttered, whisking furiously at the piles of unraveled thread.
Drew said nothing. This invasion infuriated him, too, and part of him wanted to stalk Edinburgh every night, catch the villains and throttle them before dragging their hides to the Tolbooth jail.
The other half of him . . . He had been delicately trying to persuade his mother to sell the shop and come with him to England. Was this not the perfect motivation? Leave all this behind, he could urge. Come to Carlyle, and it will be as it was at Stormont Palace . . .
Winnie burst in, Agnes hard on her heels. “What happened?” Agnes cried.
Drew explained as their mother angrily swept, offering only a curt word now and then. Winnie, wide-eyed and quiet, hurried to help their mother while Agnes paced, her arms folded.
“This has gone too far,” she announced. “This thieving!”
“Aye,” replied Drew with forced patience. “Do you know who’s behind it? The sheriff-clerk would be well pleased to hear a name.”
She glared at him.
“Put it up for sale,” said Drew abruptly. “Don’t bother cleaning, walk away and be done with it all.”
Louisa stopped what she was doing to stare, Winnie made a startled sound, and Agnes exhaled in obvious fury. “That’s your response? Just sell Papa’s shop and run off to England?”
“It’s not been Papa’s shop for a dozen years. It’s Mother’s shop.”
“Don’t,” cried Agnes. “This is our shop!”
Louisa’s face was red. “I cannot decide that now, Andrew!”
“Why not now?” he exclaimed. “What better time to be rid of it and all the worry it entails?”
“It’s ours,” said Agnes with a furious wail. “Not yours! Nothing will ever again be ours if we all leave and go with you!”
He stared in amazement. “What are you going on about?”
“Everything!”
With a slam, the front door flew open and struck the wall, and Felix Duncan surged into the room, his face set in battle lines. “What the bloody blazes happened?” His gaze flew to Agnes. “Are you hurt?” he demanded.
With a cry she ran to him. Felix caught her as if he’d come explicitly to do just that, gathering her close and lifting her off her feet. And Agnes’s arms were around him, her face buried in his neck.
Drew’s jaw almost hit the floor. Louisa’s broom clattered as it fell. Winnie broke into an astonished but beaming smile.
After a long moment Duncan set Agnes back on her feet. He tipped up her face to his and murmured something, and she nodded, keeping her back to her family. Flushed, Duncan turned to Drew. “What the hell happened here?”
“We were robbed. What just happened here?” Drew jerked his head toward Agnes, who whirled and glared at him.
Duncan cleared his throat. “Was anything taken?”
“If nothing was taken, I wouldn’t call it a robbery, aye?”
“Stop,” exclaimed Louisa sternly. “Take your arguing into the street. Agnes, run upstairs and find the master inventory book. Bella’s been up there searching for an age. Winifred, find another broom and help me. This won’t clear itself. Andrew.” She pinned him with a fierce look. “I’ll not walk away from this shop. Turn the sign in the window. We’re not open today.”
He and Duncan stepped into the street, still quiet at this hour, and closed the door behind them. “A simple robbery?” asked Duncan, his eyes flitting up and down the short expanse of Shakespeare Square. “Same as all the others?”
“It appears so.”
“The cadies saw nothing?” Duncan pressed, referring to the City Guard who patrolled at night.
“The sheriff will be asking them, but one presumes not, or they would have raised the alarm.”
“Have you any idea what the loss is?”
“At least twenty bolts ruined or missing. Mother guessed four hundred pounds, but she’ll need the inventory book to know for certain.”
His friend nodded. “Thank God no one was hurt.”
“How many burglaries is this?” Drew had been trying to count, cursing his earlier lack of attention.
“Too many,” said Duncan. “Other victims have offered rewards, with no result.”
“How much?”
“Ten guineas, in one case. Some of the stolen goods have been returned or discovered in the streets or along the road to Leith. I wonder who the devil takes the trouble to rob a shop, then scatters the take around the city.”
“Strange, indeed.” Drew glanced at the undamaged door. “And how is it,” he murmured, “that no one’s seen anything or heard anything? They must not be long at their work. Look—this lock was opened as easily as if the villains had a key.”
Duncan stooped to study it. “A picklock?”
“Something like that.” Drew pictured the bolts of silk. “If there’s more than one thief . . .”
“To carry off twenty bolts of cloth, there must be,” said Duncan. “Someone would notice a cart waiting in the street.”
“Precisely.” He fell silent, thinking. When they’d been children and misbehaved, his father had told them confession and penitence would excuse them from serious punishment. He’d said it was more important to him that his children could admit their mistakes and try to set things right than that they take a whipping. Drew had escaped multiple thrashings by prompt confession, even though he’d been punished in other ways. The philosophy had served him fairly well ever since, too . . .
“What are you going to do?”
With a wrench Drew pulled his thoughts back to the conversation at hand. “I told Mother not to mind it too much. Seems a perfect moment for her to sell the shop and come with me to Carlyle, eh? She and the girls.”
The other man’s throat worked. “I didn’t think you meant to make them go . . .”
“Make them!” Drew scoffed. “As if I could make them do anything! I invited them, to provide a better situation for my family after all these many years of being away and leaving Mother and the girls to manage on their own. But if the shop is gone, or failing, that’s certainly less reason for any of them to stay.”
Duncan said nothing.
“Have you got anything to say about Agnes?” prompted Drew. “Or should I assume you’ve apologized for whatever idiocy you committed that roused her fury?”
Color crept up his friend’s broad cheekbones. “’Tis not your concern.”
“No,” Drew agreed. “’Tis Agnes’s, and she’s already told me I may not thrash you for it, more’s the pity. But I would still like to know.” He stepped into the street and headed toward the sheriff-clerk’s offices.
“May not! Could not,” retorted Duncan, keeping pace with him.
“I’ve seen you fence and box,” Drew replied. “She’s saving you, idiot.”
Duncan tried to smother his laugh with a cough. “Aye, tell yourself all the lies you want.” He motioned at the shop. “What will you do?”
Drew hesitated. “I have one idea, rather audacious. Tell me what you think of it . . .” And they put their heads together and discussed it all the way back toward Castle Hill.
It turned out that the St. James shop was not the only one to have been robbed recently. Nearly every night while they were at Stormont Palace had seen another robbery; every morning another shopkeeper had discovered his or her premises in tumult, and every day the Highland guardsmen who walked the streets after dark could not account for it. The thieves seemed to have an uncanny sense for avoiding being seen, and in consequence a new level of fear and apprehension gripped the city.
Unfortunately, Ilsa’s m
ain source of information was a steady parade of Jean’s friends, dour matrons and stern dowagers trooping through their drawing room to discuss the latest rumors about the thieves over tea and cake. Jean professed herself terrified and alarmed, but had an insatiable appetite for gossip about robberies, the more alarming the better. To escape, Ilsa spent more time than ever wandering the fields around Calton Hill with Robert, even if she felt unaccountably lonely doing so now and had to endure renewed argument from her aunt about it.
There were no more invitations to dine or take tea with the St. Jameses; they were occupied restoring their shop. She saw nothing of Drew and had only brief greetings from Bella and Winnie. Agnes spent most of her time with her family now, with Felix Duncan escorting her back and forth from the shop or her home most days.
“My mother is in a fine fury,” she told Ilsa. “The thieves took the finest bolts of silk, some already promised and paid for. Now Mother is out the cost of the silk and must refund the customers’ payments. It’s mortifying to her, having to tell her customers that she cannot deliver their orders because we were robbed.”
“But that’s not her fault,” Ilsa protested.
“Of course not. But one lady suggested, rather tartly, that Mother ought to have replaced the lock and door when this trouble began.” Agnes rolled her eyes and threw up her hands. “It doesn’t make sense, but everyone is on edge! I cannot believe no one has caught these villains. It’s been months.”
“Perhaps the reward offer will turn up something.” Ilsa didn’t have much confidence, though. The rewards hadn’t accomplished anything so far.
“Drew says he spoke to the procurator-fiscal and proposed a new reward.” Here Agnes grew grim again. “Of course, he also suggested Mama sell the shop and go with him to England. And perhaps now he’s right, curse it, but I—I—” She stopped, biting her lip.
Ilsa didn’t want to talk about that, either. A few days ago Drew had said the duke might live another thirty years and he would remain just a Scot, with no pressing need to leave Edinburgh. It was a hard jolt to hear that now he was urging his mother to sell so they could leave town immediately.
“I am certain that if you don’t wish to go, you could find a way to remain here,” she murmured.
Agnes pretended she didn’t hear. Ilsa had been openly fishing for information for several days, since Mr. Duncan seemed to have nothing else to do but squire Agnes about town, and Agnes—for a change—seemed quite happy for him to do it, but her friend had grown more close-lipped than ever about him. Weeks ago she would have spent hours musing or ranting about the man, and now she said not a word. Ilsa felt . . . shut out.
“I think I should be at home now.” Agnes flushed, not meeting Ilsa’s gaze. “My mother is beset by worries and indignation over the shop, and I ought to be there to help her.”
“Oh,” faltered Ilsa. She had not foreseen that. “Bella—and Winnie—”
“They are no real help, and both imagine thieves around every corner. I believe Winnie would be ecstatic if our own home were broken into—the excitement! The drama! The danger! She asked Drew to leave his sword with her, which thankfully he refused to do.” Agnes’s eyes flashed. “Besides, I’m the eldest, and Mama relies on me more.”
Ilsa did not point out that Agnes was the eldest daughter, not the eldest child. “Of course you must do as you think best,” she said, making herself smile.
Agnes sighed with gratitude. “I knew you would understand! Drew said—” She stopped, coloring. “I hate to leave you alone, but of course you’re not. Your aunt is here, and you have Robert and all the servants.”
Only Robert provided real companionship, and he was a pony. Ilsa’s smile grew wistful. “Of course. Your family needs you, and I shall be fine.”
Agnes embraced her and went to pack her things. Ilsa sat in lonely silence for a moment, contemplating the new order.
She had sent a note to Mrs. St. James the day after the robbery, expressing her shock and outrage and offering any assistance she might make. The reply had been gracious and kind, thanking her for the generous offer but nothing more.
Ilsa hadn’t expected much else, but since then it felt as if she had been slowly but inexorably edged out of the circle again, as before the visit to Stormont. Too late she realized she had latched on to that warmth and welcome far too quickly, seizing on their kindness and obviously making more of it than they intended.
More than any of them intended, perhaps. Despite what he said on the hill, she hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of Drew since the robbery. She burned to ask Agnes about him—to know about him, even if he were too busy to see her—but did not dare. Surely if he wished to see her, he could find time. Just a few days ago he had asked to spend time with her. It was how she had told herself things would end, but it still caused a sharp ache in her chest.
Aunt Jean came in and clucked in disapproval. “Mrs. Crawley is coming to call. You really must put on your cap, it isn’t proper.”
Mrs. Crawley was one of Jean’s friends, though Ilsa couldn’t see why. She had been widowed young and seemed to have been steeping in sanctimonious bitterness ever since. No one in Edinburgh took more pleasure in the misdeeds and misfortunes of others. Jean claimed she merely had high standards—implying that Ilsa did not—but Ilsa thought she was a raven, living off the corpses on the gallows.
She shot to her feet. “You must make my excuses, Aunt. I was just going . . .” Her mind emptied; where? “To visit Papa,” she blurted. She’d not seen him since returning to town, and strangely he had neither come to call nor sent a note.
Jean frowned. “Alone? Of course not. Get Mr. MacLeod—”
“No,” she said firmly. “I shall walk down High Street in broad daylight as I’ve always done.”
Her aunt’s face darkened. “My dear, you cannot—”
“I’ll be home by dinner,” she said, and fled.
Papa was not in the workshop. That was unusual. Mr. Henderson, the foreman, told her Papa hadn’t been into the shop for days. Ilsa thanked him and left, holding her head high despite Liam Hewitt’s insolent scrutiny.
But the servant at Papa’s house in Forsyth Close let her in with a warm greeting, betraying no sign of worry, and directed her to the parlor. “Is aught wrong, Papa?” she asked as she went in.
“Eh?” He jerked away from the desk where he was hunched over, writing. “Ilsa! What are you doing here?”
She stopped, surprised by his belligerent tone. “I came to see you.”
He closed his eyes, exhaled, and rose. His back to her, he closed the top of his desk, and when he turned around his usual, genial smile was back in place. “And glad I am of it, too! You startled me, is all.”
She returned his embrace, still puzzled. “Is aught wrong?” she asked again, this time in real concern.
“Nay!” He waved one hand.
“You’re at home, and not in the shop,” she pointed out. “That’s not like you.”
He made an exaggerated grimace and thumped himself on the chest. “A touch of catarrh. The leech told me to stay home and rest.”
“Oh.” She blinked. Papa wasn’t often laid low by illness. “You sound fine now, so it must be working.”
He winked. “I’m fit as a fiddle, lass, and twice as handsome!” He led her to the sofa. “Tell me the news with you. You’ve just returned from Perth, aye?”
“A few days ago.” Ilsa couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about Papa was off. “I told you you wouldn’t even notice I was away.”
He scowled. “Don’t say that! Of course I noticed. I’ve been ill, child. Have some compassion.”
She laughed reluctantly. He meant a flurry of sympathy and attention. “You just said you’re fit as a fiddle! I’m glad you didn’t pine away for me.”
Her father patted her hand. “It’s not manly to pine. I missed you, aye, but I had things to tend to.”
“A love affair gone sour?” she murmured with a teasing look.
“My love affairs are not your concern, and they do not go sour. I’m a gentleman, lass.” He coughed, a little too dramatically. “I’ve had much suffering to endure, alone and unloved.”
“You might have sent for Jean, if you were lonely and unwell.”
Instead of laughing or rolling his eyes, he stiffened. “No reason to trouble her.”
Ilsa regarded him in worry. This was not like Papa. “Something is bothering you. Is it the shop?” Normally his cabinetry business was quite busy.
“The shop is fine.”
She bit her lip. “You’ve not been wagering again, have you?”
When Malcolm died, Ilsa had found gaming debts in her husband’s papers. Malcolm had been a regular at the card tables; she recognized those markers, but he’d never been one for cockfighting. When Ilsa confronted her father, he admitted that he’d gone to Malcolm a few times for help covering lost wagers—only in rare moments when he was short of ready funds, he explained, and he swore he’d repaid Malcolm every farthing. After a furious argument, he’d promised to stop going to the pit behind the Fleshmarket, and every time since when she’d asked, he swore that he’d kept his word.
This time, though, Papa’s mouth compressed. “Nay. Don’t fret yourself.”
She was not reassured. “What, then? It’s—it’s this spate of robberies, isn’t it?”
It was a reasonable question. Not only had it consumed her and Jean, everyone in town was talking about the thieves. Papa owned a prosperous shop, full of valuable tools and with a healthy income. It was only natural he would worry about being robbed, and all the more so if he were ill and unable to watch over it.
But to her astonishment her father erupted off the sofa. “’Tis not your concern, Ilsa,” he exclaimed in a temper. “Stop nattering at me!”
For a moment the words hung in the air, stinging and acrid. Ilsa went very still, as startled and cowed by his sudden fury as she had been as a child.
“All right,” she whispered after a moment, when his fierce glare did not abate. “I only worried about you, Papa . . .”
He gripped his wig. “Ah, lass, you don’t need to. Don’t fash yourself over me, I’ll come about.”
A Scot to the Heart Page 20
