A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,41

far too loudly, “If your eyes are on us, you won’t be able to stare at Ilsa Ramsay, you know.”

The ball shot sideways off his club, toward the marsh. Drew swore and advanced on Duncan as Monteith and Kincaid roared with laughter.

“Ilsa Ramsay!” said Monteith in dawning delight. “She’ll be there?”

“Aye,” said Duncan, sidestepping Drew and jogging after his ball. “But you’d better act quickly, lads, now that St. James is going to be a duke and needs a bride!”

Drew stopped, glaring after his friend. “Don’t listen to him,” he told the others. “Mrs. Ramsay is dear friends with my sister Agnes.”

Monteith grinned. “Maybe so, but your eyes were fair falling from your head that night we saw her in the oyster cellar. Well done, laddie.”

“Ignore Duncan,” said Kincaid lazily. “He’s still smarting from losing the lady he fancied.”

“Oh?” Drew’s ears pricked up. “How?”

Kincaid shrugged, collecting his clubs. “He can say the most idiotic things for such a clever lad, aye? Brought it on his own head, and that always makes the sting worse.” He glanced toward the marsh. “St. James, you might want to drop another ball and leave that one.”

Grim-faced, Drew gripped his club. “I will not.” That would cost him a stroke, and the cost of the ball, all because Duncan had to shoot off his mouth about Ilsa Ramsay—doubly galling because he had a feeling Agnes was the lady Kincaid spoke of.

He tramped into the rustling grass, determined to play where he’d landed. As always.

The cabinetry shop in Dunbar’s Close was large, loud, and smelled strongly of wood shavings and varnish. Ilsa made her way through it to the office where her father spent his days.

He was there, as usual, holding court before some apprentices and journeymen, with no doubt a few upholsterers and gilders in the lot. Papa liked performing for a crowd. At the sight of her, he slapped his hands on his knees and cried, “To work, lads! Why are ye all sitting about chattering like a flock of birds?”

Liam Hewitt, sitting at her father’s side, looked up at her and smirked. The other men filed away, some murmuring greetings, a few giving her quick smiles. Ilsa knew them all, having grown up in and around the workshop. She waited until they were gone; Liam, as usual, remained in his chair, flaunting his special status as her father’s favorite.

Liam was talented, Ilsa admitted. When she married, Papa had given her a gift of some of Liam’s finely carved furnishings, taken from patterns by Mr. Chippendale but augmented by Liam’s own designs. They were very handsome, those tables and chairs, and Ilsa tried diligently to credit his skill when she sat and ate upon them.

It never quite worked. The next time she saw him, Liam would undo all that positive feeling with one snide remark or patronizing glance. Ilsa had finally concluded that he did not like her and did not want her to like him, and so she had quit trying.

“What a surprise,” cried Papa, coming forward to kiss her on the cheek. “How fare you, lass?”

“Well, Papa.” She smiled and embraced him. “I see you allow a lengthy dinner hour for your workmen.”

“Just relating some praise for our work from Mr. Aitcheson,” he returned. “We fitted his shop with new counters, shelves, and a sturdy front door.”

“Of course,” she teased back. “Mr. Aitcheson wants only the best in his jewelry shop.”

“That, and he’s mindful of all the robbery going on lately.” Papa tapped the side of his nose. “Mr. Johnstone in Queen Street, whose shop we refitted just last year, lost almost a whole shipment of tea—tea! What would any thief want with three hundredweights of tea? But Aitcheson worried for his shop, and a new lock and key will set his fears at rest.”

“That, and the new safe bolted under his counter,” drawled Liam.

Papa laughed. “Aye, that as well! Can’t be too careful, can you, now?”

“Aunt Jean nearly had a spell the other day, worrying about thieves and robberies in town,” Ilsa told him. “If you can set her mind at rest, I would deeply appreciate it.”

He patted her hand. “Jean worries with every breath she takes. No one could stop her. She’ll get over it.”

Ilsa simply smiled. After Captain St. James left, Jean had come back to the drawing room, first scolding her for receiving guests in such a ramshackle fashion and then about how the discarded draperies would expose them to the greedy sights of all manner of thieves