“Are you in trouble?” she asked hesitantly.
He gave a bark of laughter, almost like his usual self. “Always some little intrigue or another! It keeps a man on his toes.” He winked again but looked tired. “Perhaps I’ve been more unwell than I realized. I’m sorry, child. I’m not myself today.”
“Perhaps I could help—”
He waved his hand. “Nay! You’re not to trouble yourself over me.” He hesitated, his face falling in heavy lines. “Well, I’ll tell you. I was called to sit as juror recently on a charge of murder. It’s been a weight on my mind, deciding a man’s fate, and no doubt accounts for my melancholy today.” Papa roused himself with a forced smile. “Enough of my troubles. You should be thinking about handsome young men, and which of them might be worthy enough to give me grandchildren. You know it’s my fondest wish, to have a grandson to bounce on my knee.”
A little boy with wavy dark hair and hazel eyes, and a naughty sense for trouble and fun. She closed her eyes against that useless and impossible vision. “Then you’d best take care of yourself, so you can dance a reel at my wedding. I could have five sons and you’ll never get to spoil them if you don’t mind your health.”
He laughed and agreed before walking her out and tying on her bonnet as usual. “Ilsa, my child.” He took her face between his hands and gave her a searching look. “You’re the dearest piece of my heart, and a better daughter than I deserve. I don’t say enough how proud I am of you, and how precious you are to me.”
She clasped his hands. “I know, Papa. You’re a wonderful father, and I love you dearly, too.”
He smiled ruefully. “’Tis sorry I am not to be in better spirits today, but the fault is mine. Don’t hold it against me, aye?”
“Of course not!” She kissed his cheek. “You must rest, though, and let Jean send you blancmanges and mustard plasters for your chest until you feel well again.”
He groaned. “Anything save the mustard plasters! Would you push me into an early grave?”
She smiled. “Never, Papa. But someone must look out for you if you won’t do so yourself.”
He kissed her forehead. “Never you worry about me.”
He bid her farewell, and she left, more unsettled than ever. Now she had her father’s health to worry about in addition to everything else. Papa was not himself . . . though he was always cantankerous when he was ill. At least it had kept him from quizzing Jean about her doings and about Drew. She was quite certain Papa would rise from the brink of the grave to question her about Drew if he’d any idea how close they’d come to discussing marriage . . .
But they hadn’t—not really. It had been hinted at but never directly stated. And she hadn’t seen him since that lovely dinner when she’d started to feel almost like part of his family.
Ilsa pulled her jacket tighter around her despite the warm day. Once again she must have read too much into it. Not for the first time she wished she’d had more experience with gentlemen. Before she married, Jean had refused to let her go into society, claiming it would give her dangerous ideas. After she married, Malcolm hadn’t allowed her to go anywhere without him, and he only took her to events and activities that he preferred. And when he’d died . . .
I’m free, was what she had thought, once the shock had worn off. She hadn’t expected that, yet somehow it was true.
But then the trial happened, and she had not been free of anything. People had said horrible things about Malcolm and about her. Papa had insisted she attend the trial, garbed in black, to shame the rumormongers. By the time it was over she felt as though part of her had also been killed. Ever since, she had tried to think of herself as a phoenix reborn from the ashes of her former restricted life into a new life where she was an independent woman with a handsome fortune, and no man could tell her what to do.
It had taken her too long to realize that she had been denied so much in order to reflect well on a man—first her father, then her husband. Only Malcolm’s stupid, senseless death had made it clear to her that all that privilege and advantage had been a cage instead of the means to do things she believed in and cared for.
That was why she rescued a half-starved pony from the slaughterhouse and installed him in what had been Malcolm’s private study. Why the staid draperies were now upholstering two sofas at the charity school for girls. Why she went to oyster cellars instead of to the Assembly Rooms and why she danced with soldiers and merchants instead of with gentlemen and lords, who might have wanted to force her back into the useless, idle life that had threatened to drive her mad. Why she’d dismissed Malcolm’s domineering butler and hired the sensible, obliging Mr. MacLeod. Why she sacked Malcolm’s pompous attorney who didn’t believe she had the brains to manage her own money.
She took a deep breath. Enough pity. Neither Jean nor Papa nor even Andrew St. James would make her doubt herself again.
Tonight she should go out; Agnes had left, but Sorcha White would go to an oyster cellar with her. She would cede the drawing room to Aunt Jean and paint her Calton Hill mural in the dining room, with the golden chandelier in place of the noon sun.
And Drew . . . She blew out her breath. She would not sit around waiting for him. He knew where to find her. And if this mad attraction between them flickered out, or he decided an English bride was better for him, she would not be wrecked by it.
Things could always be worse, she told herself bracingly. Never forget that.
Chapter Eighteen
Drew was beginning to get a taste of what life would be like as the Duke of Carlyle.
Part of it he did not care for at all. After the Tattler’s sensational report, a flood of letters and supplicants looking for something from the duke appeared on Felix Duncan’s doorstep. No matter how many times Drew said he was not the duke, and could not speak for the duke, none of them were deterred from begging that he put in just a word with His Grace. Duncan reported that David MacGill had indeed been the one who let the secret slip—or rather trumpeted it about—and Drew took great pleasure in writing a severe report to Mr. Edwards about the solicitor’s shortcomings.
Before he left Carlyle Castle, Mr. Edwards had suggested he engage a secretary. Drew had thought that ridiculous—he was perfectly capable of managing his own correspondence—but now he was reconsidering. He should hire a secretary, a tall fierce one capable of standing guard, armed and intimidating, against the hordes of favor seekers.
The other side of the coin, however, was more gratifying. Being a future duke made some things immensely easier. For instance: his visit to William Scott, the procurator-fiscal. As mere Captain St. James, son of a victimized shop owner, he would have been left to cool his heels before being patronized by a deputy clerk. As the heir to Carlyle, he was escorted in and welcomed very cordially by Mr. Scott himself. When he explained that his family’s business had been attacked by the thieves, Mr. Scott hastened to apologize and assure him everything possible was being done.
And when Drew said that he thought more could be done, and he had some suggestions in fact, Mr. Scott listened with attentive and respectful interest. The man agreed it was a sound idea, and suggested that Drew go argue the case to the lord advocate, who would then need approval from the Home Office in London. Mr. Scott provided a letter of introduction to smooth the way and wished him luck.
His idea, after all, was a King’s Pardon, as ripe and juicy a plum as any criminal had ever been offered. It was legal absolution for all past offenses, not merely the most recent one. The skill and daring of the break-ins had suggested experienced thieves, with more than this sin on their consciences. All it would take was one thief, eager to clear his blotter with the law, to put an end to the robberies.
If he had to bear the impositions of the Carlyle title, he might as well seize the advantages.
But all that cost him several days, between riding to and from the lord advocate, and he’d not had a chance to see Ilsa since that last dinner at his mother’s home, before all hell broke loo
se and upended his days. They’d said only a simple farewell that night because Drew had never guessed how long it would be before he saw her again.
How blissful the life of ordinary Captain St. James seemed now, when he could hardly walk out of his borrowed rooms without being intercepted and importuned by someone, let alone escort a woman up Calton Hill for a walk, a conversation, even a kiss. Now it would be noted in the newspapers if he called upon her, and Drew didn’t want to do that after her speech the other day.
But he was desperate to see her.
Finally his sister gave him an excuse. Agnes had returned home after the robbery to help their mother sort out their losses, but she’d left a trunk at Ilsa’s. “Would you come with me to retrieve it?” she asked guilelessly.
“Of course,” he said, and saw from her smug smile that she knew he’d been dying to go.
Unfortunately Ilsa was not alone. At his entrance, her aunt and two older ladies curtsied in perfect unison before turning looks of calculating anticipation upon him. Ilsa alone gave him a smile, and he contrived to find a seat near her.
The conversation was wretched. The ladies tried to pry out of him how long he meant to stay in Edinburgh, the condition of the duke, and what his personal fortune was. They knew he had been to see the procurator-fiscal and wondered aloud about his role in the recent scandalous robberies; would he be called to the jury? They brushed aside or outright ignored Ilsa’s every attempt to divert the conversation, and when Agnes returned to say her trunk was ready to be carried home, it was with mingled relief and dismay that Drew leapt to his feet and made his farewells.
Ilsa followed them to the door. “Thank you for calling,” she said as Agnes deliberately stepped away and fawned over Robert, who had emerged from his room with a brisk whinny to beg for the apple she’d brought him.
Drew gave a soft huff of laughter. “Much good it did me.” He lowered his voice. “Perhaps you’ll reconsider haunting Duncan’s lodgings.”
Some of her usual spark returned. “If only I could.”
His sister was still cooing over Robert, so Drew took a chance. “Do you walk out tomorrow?”
“Yes, if the weather is fine.”
“Perhaps to the Botanic Garden?”
Her face brightened further. “Yes, I could . . .”
He bowed close to her. “I fancy a walk there myself, around eleven.”
With joy in her face, she whispered back, “I hope you have a very, very pleasant stroll, Captain.”
Ilsa didn’t go often to the Botanic Garden, which was a mile distant on the northern edge of town. It was the sort of place visitors went to see, or those citizens with a passion for plants and vegetables. Jean and her circle attended lectures there presented by a professor from the university, and that had been enough to dissuade Ilsa from going.
Today, though, she pinned on her new hat and put on her favorite morning dress, and asked Maeve to accompany her and Robert. The pony tried to amble up the familiar slope of Calton Hill, but pricked up his ears to explore somewhere new.
It was early still when they reached the garden, the plants dewy and lush. Ponies were not permitted, so she sent Maeve and Robert to wander in the field outside the walls. At the gatehouse there arose a problem; she had no order to visit, and it was not open to visitors until twelve. Ilsa hesitated uncertainly until the fellow asked her name. When she told him, he bowed and apologized, and opened the gate for her.
Once inside she found herself apparently alone. The garden fluttered and trilled with birds, but no other people, not even gardeners. It was peaceful and somehow invigorating. She took a deep breath and felt her shoulders ease.
Strolling leisurely, marveling at the plants, she had made it to the statue of Mr. Linnaeus, patron saint of botanists, when Drew found her.
“A sight that does feed my poor soul.”
She turned in pleasure. “Mr. Linnaeus?”
Drew came closer. “No. All I see is you.” His gaze seemed to devour her. “’Tis good to see you.”
That low growl did something inside her, quietly peeling back the veneer of decorum and propriety that muted her passionate urges. She smiled. “And you, Captain.”
He offered his arm, his expression focused and intent. Ilsa slid her hand along his forearm, letting her breast graze the side of his arm to see his hand contract into a fist.
“I’m puzzled by one thing,” she said as they walked around the pond. “The garden isn’t open for viewing until twelve, yet the man at the gate admitted me after asking my name.”
Drew had a satisfied air. “I discovered that the promise of a donation to Dr. Hope worked wonders upon his willingness to bend that rule.”
She caught her breath. “You bribed him so we could walk in the garden?”
He turned up the path that led to the greenhouse, the slate roof tinged blue in the rising sun. “No,” he said, opening the door for her. “I bribed him so I could have a private conversation with you and not be rushed or interrupted.”
“My.” She raised her brows at him. “One wonders why you desire so much privacy . . .”
His eyes smoky, Drew brushed his thumb across her lips. Ilsa’s heart lurched into her throat. “You’ll see.”
Mercy, whispered her helpless heart. “Show me . . .”
His fingers curled around the nape of her neck. His lips skimmed across her brow. “Patience, love.” He pressed a light kiss to her temple, right by her ear.
Her skin felt cold and hot at once when he released her and stepped back. The stoves that warmed the plants in winter were snuffed out, but she would have sworn there was a blazing furnace behind her. A sheen of perspiration made her shift stick to her bosom and she took a deep breath to quell it. “I hope everything is being done for your mother and the shop,” she said, seizing on the most ordinary topic she could find.
“Yes.” He led her through the soaring ferns and palms. “Which is to say, not much. They’ve no idea who the thieves are, but I’ve made a suggestion for running them to earth.”
“Oh?”
He nodded once. “Aye. That’s why I’ve been so occupied of late.” He gave her a look. “Why I’ve not been to call sooner.”
Her skin prickled. She was surely the most sinful creature in the world, imagining how he might have come to call, kissed her, made love to her on the drawing room sofa and made good use of the privacy offered by Jean’s impenetrable new drapes. “Hmm,” she said, hoping it sounded politely interested and not lustful.
His wicked mouth curved, as if he knew what she was trying not to think about. “But that’s not why I hoped to speak to you.”
“Oh no!” she protested, flushing from head to toe. “I—I want to know. What have you suggested? Shall you haunt every attic in Edinburgh, hoping to act upon the guilty consciences and send the thieves screaming into the streets?”
His knowing smile only grew wider. Ilsa waved one hand in front of her heated face, recalling how they’d concluded that night of haunting.
“No, a more craven appeal to the guilty conscience. A King’s Pardon,” he said.
Ilsa blinked. “A pardon?”
“For one man, who gives information on the rest of them.” He lifted his shoulder. “To stop the robberies. Those robbed deserve to know and seek justice, and everyone else, including my family, deserves to sleep in peace. The thieves have been devious. It’s almost as if they had keys, or someone opening the doors for them. They’ve never had to break in violently, which is surely how they’ve gone so long undetected.”
That had not been in the newspapers. “And the procurator agreed?”
“And the lord advocate. They’ve sent a man to London for the Crown’s approval.”
Ilsa said nothing. The English Crown would be more likely to approve such a proposal made by the Duke of Carlyle’s heir.
Again Drew divined her thoughts. “My inheritance has become terribly cumbersome of late, and this is one counterbalancing advantage.”
&nb
sp; She didn’t really want to talk about that, the inheritance that would take him from Scotland and probably from her. “If you didn’t wish to discuss that, what did you want to tell me that was worth bribing a professor of botany for the use of this garden?”
“First, to apologize.” They had come to a bench nestled in a stand of spiky palms. Drew shed his coat and spread it on the seat for her. He sat beside her, one elbow on his knee so he could face her. “I asked to spend time with you, and then vanished for days.”
She waved one hand. “It’s nothing.”
“Not to me.” He caught her hand and brushed his lips over the pulse in her wrist. “I did miss you.”
“Some of that is inevitable,” she told him. “Even courtship is conducted at more leisure.”
She wished she could snatch back that word as soon as she said it.
“Indeed,” he said in that lower, rougher voice. “And here I’ve come to tell you I must leave again.”
Ilsa looked up in dismay.
“I’ve got to return to Inverness and resign my commission. It was fully half the reason I returned north, and my colonel’s not the sort to countenance a mere letter.”
“And are you subject to his disapproval any longer?”
He grimaced. “’Tis a deep-grained habit. But, more to the point, I wish to be done with it.” He still held her hand and now spread it open, palm up, on his knee. Idly his fingers swirled over hers. “There are other matters demanding my attention now.”
“Yes.” She watched his fingers as if in a daze. “Your family—”
“No.”
“The demands of your inheritance—”
“No.” Somehow he was closer to her, the heat of his body making her hot and flushed again.
“What?”
“You,” he whispered after a moment. “Nothing but you, Ilsa.” He raised her hand to his lips, sucking lightly at her palm. Ilsa gripped the bench to keep from sliding into a puddle on the ground.
A Scot to the Heart Page 21
