A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,101

the Edinburgh sheriff apprehend William Fletcher, but neither would he exert himself to save the man unless it was necessary to help Ilsa. Because no matter how he tried to slant and explain the apparent facts, they looked very bad for Fletcher.

Duncan’s letter to him at Fort George said only that Thomas Browne, a common criminal familiar to the sheriff-officers, had come forward to claim the pardon. Under questioning, he readily gave up one accomplice, Edward Stephens, a fellow known for gambling and long suspected of thieving, who was apprehended on the verge of boarding a coach for Berwick in possession of stolen goods.

But Browne had also declared that the leader of the ring, the mastermind of every operation, was still at large, with the tantalizing hint that it was a highly respected citizen of Edinburgh. Rumors sprouted at once. Stephens had done odd jobs for Fletcher, and Browne told the officers the thieves had used false keys to open the locks of the robbed shops. Within hours Deacon Fletcher’s name had come up, and Duncan had sent his letter express at dawn the next morning.

Drew hadn’t slept the previous night because he’d roused the deputy procurator from his bed and demanded to know all. It was a shameless abuse of his newly elevated status, and he did not care. Unfortunately what he learned was that things had only got worse for the deacon.

Browne’s accusations were credible, detailed, and complete, in the sheriff’s eyes. He had led the officers to a bunch of keys hidden near Fletcher’s cabinetry workshop in Dunbar’s Close, which opened a number of victims’ doors. Stephens had become far more cooperative when it emerged that his wife had helped sell some of the stolen goods; in exchange for her freedom, he told the officers where to find more items waiting to be smuggled to Berwick. The goldsmith had identified several pieces as his.

Browne refused to name the mastermind; he wanted a reward for that, not just a pardon. Suspicion had already fallen on Fletcher because of the keys and where they were found, and the fact that William Fletcher was known to have been hired to repair or replace locks at some of the burgled shops. Officers had uncovered Fletcher’s history of wagering—and losing—at the cockpits. It was circumstantial, but highly suggestive.

Once the man fled Edinburgh, though, both Browne and Stephens swore that William Fletcher was indeed the planner and instigator of their robberies, that they shared their spoils evenly between them, and that he’d told them often that if any of them got caught, he would leave them all to twist on the rope. No one, he’d allegedly boasted, would believe he was a thief.

Everything fit. The sheriff believed Browne and Stephens. Drew couldn’t see a reason not to.

He knew it would be harder for Ilsa. Drew’s own father had certainly fooled him, charming and genial, never hinting that he’d mortgaged the silk shop and gone into debt. It wasn’t as bad as robbing half of Edinburgh, but it had taken Drew years to repair the damage and cost him his chance at attending university, as he’d dreamt of doing. Ilsa had been raised as a beloved only child, adoring and adored by her father, and she would defend him to the last. Drew didn’t even plan to try convincing her.

He drew a deep breath of bracing salty air as she stepped stiffly down. “I’ll secure rooms,” was all he said.

She didn’t look at him. “Thank you.”

He took two rooms and asked for dinner. Fortunately the inn was almost empty, and the innkeeper was able to offer them a private parlor. They ate in silence.

“Will we travel again tomorrow?” he asked after a while.

Her glance was dark with suspicion. God, how he hated that.

“I’ll speak to the driver if we are,” he added. “Tell him to make preparations.”

She reached for her wine. Most of her dinner was still on her plate. “No, I don’t think so.”

He nodded. So Dunbar was their destination, not merely a waypoint. Coaches left for England every day, and the harbor offered flight abroad. Did Ilsa suspect—or know—her father was here? Fletcher had left Edinburgh several days ago; it would be foolish for him to linger so near for so long, but then again, no one had found him yet.

“Shall I go with you tomorrow?”

“No!” She flushed and rubbed her temple. “Please don’t ask me questions,” she said softly. “You say you don’t care whether Papa is innocent or not, but