A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,15

a snap she closed the book and went to pay for it. It wasn’t the same as stowing away on a ship to America, but now she was free to read about doing it, at least. She would take what she could.

Chapter Four

Drew slept late the next day, thanks to the quantity of beer and oysters he’d consumed the night before. It had been after three in the morning before they got Ross safely delivered into the hands of his disapproving manservant, accompanied Monteith to his lodgings and shared a bottle of brandy there, stopped at the canal for a quick bathing swim, and finally staggered back to Burnet’s Close.

And now Duncan was killing a cat in the other room, from the sounds of things.

He heaved himself out of bed, barely avoiding hitting his head on the slanted ceiling under the eaves—Duncan’s spare room was clearly meant to house a dainty lady or a child instead of a grown man—and went into the other room.

“What in God’s name is that noise?” he demanded, plugging his fingers in his ears.

Duncan glanced over the violin tucked under his chin. “Music, St. James. A very gentlemanly pursuit.”

“Aye, for gentlemen who live alone in the middle of a moor.”

“I’m practicing, not performing.” Duncan scraped the bow across the strings again, producing a discordant whine that made Drew wince.

“No wonder you’re not performing. You’re an affront to that instrument.” Duncan ignored him, fiddling with the tuning pegs. “And you’re violently out of tune.”

“All art requires suffering.”

“By the artist,” he retorted. “Kindly spare the audience.”

Duncan put down the violin. “You’re the rudest guest I’ve ever had. You insult my fencing form, and now my musical talent.”

“If you had any talent, I would heartily insult it. Besides,” he added as he turned back toward his room, “I’m the only guest you’re likely ever to have, with the appalling noise you make.”

He closed the door of his room and lifted the ewer. Duncan’s manservant had filled it, although so long ago the water was stone-cold. In the army, one got used to that. He reminded himself that he was back in Scotland, mere Captain St. James once more, and he ought not to pine for the luxuries that Carlyle Castle had supplied, like warm washing water and a footman to shave him.

Duncan barged in while his face was still half-covered in shaving soap. “What ducal frolics shall you get up to today? I find myself agog to see how an English duke behaves, and if it’s any better than a lowly Scot.”

Drew flicked soap at him. “I must pay a call on the solicitor today.”

At once his friend—who practiced law himself when he wasn’t being a menace to music—struck a pose, his nose high in the air and his fist clapped arrogantly on his chest. “Bloody lawyers. Which one?”

“David MacGill, in St. Andrew’s Square.”

Duncan lifted his brows. “Only the most expensive for the Carlyles, I see.”

“Is that so?” He wiped the soapy remnants from his chin and unrolled his sleeves. “What do you know of him?”

His friend lifted one shoulder. “Wealthy—thanks to Carlyle, I presume. Thinks of himself as a modern man, less a Scot than a gentleman of Northern Britain. His offices are in the New Town, which tells you enough.”

Drew took out one of his new English suits. The duchess had raised her brows at his plain woolen breeches, and Mr. Edwards had sent him straight back upstairs to change the one time he dared wear a philibeg. The duchess, Edwards had warned him, did not approve of that. A tailor had been sent for posthaste, and Drew soon had a new wardrobe of very English breeches, waistcoats, and coats. Might as well keep to it while on Carlyle’s business.

“What business have you got with a solicitor?” Duncan apparently had nothing else to do with himself, although his questions were less irritating than his violin playing.

He buttoned up the waistcoat and tied his neckcloth. “Confidentially, aye? The duke’s not in good health, nor has he been for many years. I never even saw the fellow while I was there. But he owns a property here, which no one’s visited in twenty years or more. It’s all been left in the charge of this MacGill, with no one from Carlyle the wiser as to what he’s done with it. I’m to call upon him and find out.”

He had agreed to the errand readily, curious to see what the duke owned in Scotland. Mr. Edwards assured him that