A Scot to the Heart

by Caroline Linden

  Inside was a familiar book. The Widower and Bachelor’s Directory. Puzzled, Ilsa checked the wrapping, but there was no note. Only when she held the book in her hands did it fall open, to a heavily marked page.

  Madam Ramsay, Edinburgh, had a thick black line drawn through it. As to her fortune, the amount had been circled and labeled embezzled, and the stocks had been marked stolen. Across the page was one phrase, writ large: mad, immoral, and spurned by all decent men.

  She stared at that for a long moment.

  For twenty-five years she had followed every rule, every stricture. She had obeyed her aunt as a child, married the man her father chose, done her best to honor and obey her husband. All those years of following the rules had left her with a pristine reputation, but no friends. Her marriage had been distant and cold. She’d been desperately lonely and unhappy. All she had asked, in the months since her mourning ended, was to have a few friends, wear what she liked, and have some fun. Mad? She’d got a pet pony and learned golf, which everyone played. Immoral? She’d gone to oyster cellars and taken walks on the hill, like so many other ladies did. Spurned by any decent man? She’d fallen in love with Drew, the most honorable and decent man she knew, and she’d thought he might be falling in love with her . . .

  She ran to the drawing room and burned the horrid little book and its spiteful words. If only she could wipe out the tide of rumor and gossip so easily. William has ruined himself beyond all hope—and the gossip will ruin us, too, lamented Jean’s voice in her memory.

  She pulled the fireboard into place to block the ashes of the book from sight. As long as Papa was missing, no one would believe he was innocent, or that she and Jean had known nothing. Jean would be little help, paralyzed by despair over her lost respectability. Papa had to come back—and if he did not come back soon, Ilsa would have to find him. It was the only way to save them all.

  The point was driven home two days later by David MacGill. The solicitor came to call on her this time, with no pretense of affability, bearing a letter from her father, which he thrust at her as if it scorched his hand.

  “This was delivered to me today and I want no part of it,” he said acidly.

  Ilsa gripped the letter with rigid fingers, desperate to read it but unwilling to open it in front of him. “Did you read it?”

  He flushed. “Of course I did not. You see there, it is still sealed.”

  “It would be easy enough to seal again.”

  The solicitor’s expression could have soured milk. “Nevertheless, I did not,” he snapped. “I have no wish to become entangled in Deacon Fletcher’s troubles. If he were here, I would inform him that I am no longer able to represent him. My other clients find it unseemly.”

  Other clients like the Duke of Carlyle. Ilsa suspected MacGill knew Drew wanted to dismiss him, and was trying to avoid giving any reason for the current duke to do it.

  “Well,” she told him, unable to resist a parting shot, “we both know how you abhor supporting anything unseemly.”

  He understood what she meant—their old argument about shares of the William Cunninghame company, with its trade in slavery-dependent tobacco and sugarcane. His face thunderous, he barely managed a curt farewell. He hadn’t even sat down.

  The moment MacGill was gone she broke the seal and tore open the letter, praying it would offer solace, comfort, hope—an explanation.

  It did none of those things.

  She was still reading it, over and over, when Jean opened the door. “Did you have a caller?”

  Ilsa looked up with stricken eyes. “Did—did Papa say anything to you?” she faltered. “Before he . . . left. Anything at all about his business, or anything troubling him, or anything?”

  Slowly, warily, Jean came into the room. “No. Of course he did not—he never did.” She hesitated. “Why?”

  “Mr. MacGill has brought a letter from Papa.”

  With a muffled sound her aunt rushed to the sofa, snatching the letter. Her breath sped up as she read. “No,” she whispered, her restrained facade beginning to crack. “No!”

  The letter was, to all appearances, a farewell note; Papa spoke of his love for both of them, and how dear family was to him. He swore he could never harm his own blood, and he was determined to spare them any shame or upset. He begged their forgiveness for any hurt he had caused either of them and closed with a humble wish that they might forgive him for taking his leave this way.

  Not one word professed innocence. The prosecutor would see it as a confession.

  “Oh, Ilsa—he will be hanged—” Jean’s voice broke.

  With a curse that made her aunt jump, Ilsa leapt to her feet. “There must be an explanation—some reason he would write that letter. It’s not like him.”

  “No.” Jean sounded dazed. “It’s decidedly not like him . . .”

  Ilsa seized her aunt’s hands. “If anyone will save him,” she said fiercely, “it must be us. No one else believes he is innocent. Will you help me?”

  Jean’s lips trembled. “I don’t know how I can.”

  “To whom would Papa go in a time of need?”

  Her aunt shook her head. “No one. He is the head of the family—everyone looks to him.” Her chin wobbled again. “He is such a good man, Ilsa, so generous and kind, no wonder everyone loves him so—” She broke off with a sob, obviously having remembered that no one seemed to love William Fletcher now but the two of them.

  But Ilsa inhaled. “Of course!” She embraced her startled aunt. “I know where to look.”

  She sent Mr. MacLeod out to make arrangements as discreetly and rapidly as possible. The need to leave Edinburgh raged like a fever consuming her.

  She meant to tell no one, but Agnes came to call. Ilsa didn’t want to lie to her few friends and had told Mr. MacLeod not to admit anyone. Agnes, though, was not deterred and argued her way past the butler.

  “What are you planning?” she demanded breathlessly upon bursting into the drawing room.

  Ilsa squeezed her hands into fists. “What do you mean?”

  Her friend closed the door with a bang. “I saw it in the papers, that your father contacted you. Was it really a confession?”

  “Of course not! He’s innocent!”

  Agnes nodded. “I know. But I also know you, Ilsa. What are you going to do?”

  She hesitated. Would Agnes tell anyone—specifically her brother? Unwillingly she thought of Drew; he had been gone three weeks now. He must have been delayed at the fort.

  Not that she could ask him to help her, not with this. Ilsa was keenly aware that she was probably breaking some law. Drew had his family to think of, his future position, the duchess whose displeasure he feared. “I don’t know what you mean. What could I do?”

  Agnes’s eyes darkened in anguish. “The rumors—”

  Her spine went rigid. “They’re wrong.” She turned away. “I don’t listen to them.”

  There was a rustle, and Agnes appeared in front of her, taking her hands. “You don’t have to be alone. Let me help you.”

  She struggled. Agnes was intelligent and thoughtful, and Ilsa was about to explode from the anxiety building inside her. But telling Agnes would make her friend an accomplice. What if she argued against it? Ilsa couldn’t spare any of the hope and bravado she’d scraped together. “What would you do?” she asked, unable to resist. “If it were your father.”

  Her friend didn’t hesitate. “Go after him. Demand an explanation. I would want to know the truth, and why he fled and left me to face the storm alone. I—I would need to see him again because I would not be able to believe it without that.”

  Her lips parted in gratitude, and she gripped Agnes’s hands. “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “Exactly.”

  Agnes gave a nod. “Let me go with you.”

  “Absolutely not.” Ilsa released her and stepped back. “You know nothing about anything.” Sheriff Cockburn had already come to see her again, stern-faced and curt. Mr. MacGill had told him about the lett
er, though not the horrible, guilty things it said. Ilsa had had to show the sheriff the letter. Brazenly she told him she did not think it was Papa’s handwriting, and that she thought it was an attempt to cast false aspersions on her father. The sheriff hadn’t been convinced, but he’d gone away.

  Frowning in frustration, Agnes paced away. “When are you leaving?”

  Ilsa said nothing. After a moment Agnes sighed and came to embrace her. “Promise you’ll be careful,” she whispered tearfully.

  That, at least, she could do. Ilsa nodded. “Would you look in on Robert?” she asked on impulse. “It would be a great comfort to me.”

  “Of course! We shall walk him out every day and spoil him with apples and carrots.”

  Ilsa managed to smile.

  “I would do more,” said Agnes urgently. “We all would. Drew—”

  Ilsa held up a hand to stop her. Even if Drew were here, she couldn’t ask him for help. And Drew wasn’t here, so it didn’t matter anyway. “No, Agnes. There’s nothing you can do.”

  Only she could do this, and the fewer people who knew about it, the better.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Drew rode into Edinburgh late, later than he should have been on the road, but heavy rain had made the journey agonizingly long.

  Felix Duncan leapt up at his entrance. “There you are!”

  “Had to go by way of Aberdeen. A bridge near Croy was washed out.” He peeled off his dirt-caked coat. “What’s happened?”

  It had been six days since Duncan’s letter reached him in Ardersier. It had taken the messenger three days to get there from Edinburgh. Nine days without information had nearly driven him mad.

  Duncan followed him into the other room. “I wrote to you as soon as I heard a whisper of Fletcher’s name. The sheriff was reluctant to act on rumor—the deacon sits on the bloody town council—but things have got worse. Fletcher tried to see Browne, who’s claiming the pardon, in prison—”

  “What?”

  “Aye. He was allegedly there to see a lad in for nicking some bread from a grocer, and asked to see the famous thief, recently caught. The keeper refused and he wasn’t pleased by it. The next day he left Edinburgh on an early coach, with no word to anyone. Told his servants and foreman he would be gone a few days and gave them leave.”

  “That looks guilty as sin.”

  Duncan made a grimace of agreement.

  “And what of Ilsa?” Drew splashed water on his head. His back strained and ached at the motion, and he thought longingly of lying on the comfortable bed under the eaves. Instead he lowered himself into the chair and pried off his boots for the first time in two days.

  His friend hesitated. “It’s not gone well for her, in town. The sheriff thinks she must know something. He sent his men to search her house, which led the whole town to believe she’s an accomplice. The rumors are licking like bonfire flames at her feet.”

  Quietly he swore. “Agnes?”

  “Has been to see her,” confirmed Duncan. “Including just today. She had to argue her way into the house and declares she practically shoved the butler aside to gain entrance. She thinks Mrs. Ramsay is about to flee town herself, to find her father and bring him home to prove his innocence.” He cleared his throat. “And, coincidentally, escape the gossip, I imagine.”

  Drew rubbed his face with both hands. “Damn.” He glanced up. “Agnes is sending you word, eh?”

  Duncan flushed. “She turned to me for advice in your absence, and she’s the only one Mrs. Ramsay will speak to. I offered Mrs. Ramsay my support and assistance directly, which she politely declined. But I’ll tell you this—she’s frightened, and with good reason.”

  Drew nodded. “Thank you.” He levered himself up and went to the desk. “Take one more note to Agnes for me, and I’ll be in your debt.”

  The carriage was waiting early the next morning. Mr. MacLeod took out her trunk and helped the driver stow it. Ilsa, who had not slept, pulled up the hood of her cloak, hugged her white-faced aunt good-bye, and stepped outside, eyes down. It was the first time she’d left the house since that horrible day Liam intercepted her, and she felt exposed and vulnerable just descending the steps.

  “Ilsa! Ilsa, wait!”

  She flinched. There went her hope to leave quietly and unnoticed. Why oh why hadn’t Agnes respected her wishes?

  “Have you come for Robert? Thank you,” she said as Bella St. James, the fastest of them, flung herself in front of the carriage.

  “Wait, please,” the girl begged as her sisters dashed up, out of breath and, in Winnie’s case, hatless. “You can’t go off like this, you can’t!”

  “I must,” she said in a low voice. “Please keep your voice down.”

  Winnie squeezed her hands together, looking anguished. “You can’t think anyone blames you!”

  Oh, but they did. Ilsa had Mr. MacLeod send out a boy to buy all the papers, and there was rampant speculation that Ilsa and perhaps Jean, too, had urged Deacon Fletcher to flee. The St. James girls must know it. She looked at Agnes in reproach, feeling betrayed.

  “It’s not right—it’s not fair!” cried Bella.

  “Life seldom is.” Her voice sounded brittle to her own ears. “Go home, please.”

  “Drew is back,” whispered Bella urgently. “If you’ll only wait—”

  God help her. “I have to go,” she tried again.

  “We worry for you.” Agnes, the turncoat, stood an arm’s length away, pale but composed. “We don’t want you to race off into danger.”

  She lowered her voice even more. “We discussed this yesterday, and nothing has changed for me. Can you not do me the courtesy of trusting me to know what I must do and not do? Have you no faith in me?”

  Agnes was blinking hard. “We have faith in you,” she said, her voice quiet but trembling with emotion. “We are your friends, and we don’t want you to get . . . hurt.”

  Ilsa swallowed. Arrested, was what Agnes had almost said. Their concern made her eyes sting, but they didn’t understand. How could they? They probably didn’t notice the faces peering from neighboring windows, but she did; she was used to them now, because she’d seen people stop outside her house to gawk and whisper. She’d seen the sheriff’s officers stroll up and down the street several times a day, casting watchful eyes upon her door. She knew Mr. MacLeod had disposed of numerous items left on the steps, though he never would tell her what they were.

  She was glad her friends didn’t know about all that, but it reminded her that she couldn’t let them dissuade her from the only course of action open to her. “Thank you for taking care of Robert. He would be so lonely with only my aunt.”

  Agnes bit her lip and glanced at her sisters. Tears slipped down Bella’s cheeks. Winnie’s gaze flitted from Agnes to Ilsa and back, as if begging one of them to relent. Ilsa’s heart ached. She didn’t want to part on bad terms with such dear friends.

  She bowed her head and murmured, “Tell your mother I am terribly, terribly sorry for the damage to her shop. Tell your brother . . .” She paused. “Tell him I said good-bye.” The word made her throat thicken, so she shook her head and said quickly, “No, don’t. Don’t tell him anything. I must go.”

  “Ilsa, please wait—talk to him—” whispered Bella.

  Mr. MacLeod held the carriage door open and she climbed in, feeling both protected and imprisoned in the box of the carriage. The St. James girls drew back, whispering furiously among themselves. A small throng of people had collected across the street, avidly watching. Ilsa settled herself in the carriage, determined to ignore them even if their scrutiny made her skin crawl. The thief’s daughter, she imagined them whispering. Fleeing with the stolen funds, no doubt. Perhaps they ought to lock her in the Tolbooth to bring her vile father out of hiding. This town which had been her home all her life had changed into something different in the course of a few days.

  A thump on the back of the carriage made her jump. She knocked on the side panel. “Go!” The carriage start
ed forward, then stopped, and the door opened again, giving her a jolt of alarm that she would be dragged from the vehicle by an angry crowd.

  To her amazement Andrew St. James swung inside, closing the door behind him with a snap.

  For a moment a wave of relief, longing, hope, even joy rose up inside her. It seemed an eternity since she’d laid eyes on him and now here he was—somehow he’d made it back to town and raced to her side.

  When it was too late.

  “What are you doing here?” was all she could gasp. She knocked on the side of the carriage again. “Go!”

  “Don’t do this.” He reached for her hands. “Don’t go. Tell the driver to stop the carriage.”

  Ilsa recoiled. “What?”

  “Ilsa,” he said urgently. “Listen to me. You can’t help by running after your father.”

  She stared at him. How she had wished Drew was here, and now what he was saying . . . “That’s not your decision to make.”

  He exhaled impatiently and dragged one hand through his hair. It was getting long, and there was stubble on his face and dark circles under his eyes. “I’m trying to persuade you, not command you.”

  “With what argument? You leap into my carriage and tell me to stop without so much as asking why I might have made this choice—”

  “Why did you?” His head came up, his eyes intent on hers.

  Ilsa flushed, thinking of the cruel stares and the horrid little book and Liam’s mortifying display. She had no wish to describe that humiliation. “I have good reason.”

  “And I have good reason for asking you not to go. Will you listen to me?”

  Jaw tight, she turned her head to stare blindly out the window. She couldn’t refuse him and yet this was not what she had so desperately wanted from him.

  “Leaving, particularly this way, at this time, looks very bad,” he began carefully. “It suggests you know where he went.” A pause. “Do you?”

  She glared at him in outrage.

  Drew sighed. “It also makes people think you’re part of his plot.”