A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,81
see her, he could find time. Just a few days ago he had asked to spend time with her. It was how she had told herself things would end, but it still caused a sharp ache in her chest.
Aunt Jean came in and clucked in disapproval. “Mrs. Crawley is coming to call. You really must put on your cap, it isn’t proper.”
Mrs. Crawley was one of Jean’s friends, though Ilsa couldn’t see why. She had been widowed young and seemed to have been steeping in sanctimonious bitterness ever since. No one in Edinburgh took more pleasure in the misdeeds and misfortunes of others. Jean claimed she merely had high standards—implying that Ilsa did not—but Ilsa thought she was a raven, living off the corpses on the gallows.
She shot to her feet. “You must make my excuses, Aunt. I was just going . . .” Her mind emptied; where? “To visit Papa,” she blurted. She’d not seen him since returning to town, and strangely he had neither come to call nor sent a note.
Jean frowned. “Alone? Of course not. Get Mr. MacLeod—”
“No,” she said firmly. “I shall walk down High Street in broad daylight as I’ve always done.”
Her aunt’s face darkened. “My dear, you cannot—”
“I’ll be home by dinner,” she said, and fled.
Papa was not in the workshop. That was unusual. Mr. Henderson, the foreman, told her Papa hadn’t been into the shop for days. Ilsa thanked him and left, holding her head high despite Liam Hewitt’s insolent scrutiny.
But the servant at Papa’s house in Forsyth Close let her in with a warm greeting, betraying no sign of worry, and directed her to the parlor. “Is aught wrong, Papa?” she asked as she went in.
“Eh?” He jerked away from the desk where he was hunched over, writing. “Ilsa! What are you doing here?”
She stopped, surprised by his belligerent tone. “I came to see you.”
He closed his eyes, exhaled, and rose. His back to her, he closed the top of his desk, and when he turned around his usual, genial smile was back in place. “And glad I am of it, too! You startled me, is all.”
She returned his embrace, still puzzled. “Is aught wrong?” she asked again, this time in real concern.
“Nay!” He waved one hand.
“You’re at home, and not in the shop,” she pointed out. “That’s not like you.”
He made an exaggerated grimace and thumped himself on the chest. “A touch of catarrh. The leech told me to stay home and rest.”
“Oh.” She blinked. Papa wasn’t often laid low by illness. “You sound fine now, so it must be working.”
He winked. “I’m fit as a fiddle, lass, and twice as handsome!” He led her to the sofa. “Tell me the news with you. You’ve just returned from Perth, aye?”
“A few days ago.” Ilsa couldn’t put her finger on it, but something about Papa was off. “I told you you wouldn’t even notice I was away.”
He scowled. “Don’t say that! Of course I noticed. I’ve been ill, child. Have some compassion.”
She laughed reluctantly. He meant a flurry of sympathy and attention. “You just said you’re fit as a fiddle! I’m glad you didn’t pine away for me.”
Her father patted her hand. “It’s not manly to pine. I missed you, aye, but I had things to tend to.”
“A love affair gone sour?” she murmured with a teasing look.
“My love affairs are not your concern, and they do not go sour. I’m a gentleman, lass.” He coughed, a little too dramatically. “I’ve had much suffering to endure, alone and unloved.”
“You might have sent for Jean, if you were lonely and unwell.”
Instead of laughing or rolling his eyes, he stiffened. “No reason to trouble her.”
Ilsa regarded him in worry. This was not like Papa. “Something is bothering you. Is it the shop?” Normally his cabinetry business was quite busy.
“The shop is fine.”
She bit her lip. “You’ve not been wagering again, have you?”
When Malcolm died, Ilsa had found gaming debts in her husband’s papers. Malcolm had been a regular at the card tables; she recognized those markers, but he’d never been one for cockfighting. When Ilsa confronted her father, he admitted that he’d gone to Malcolm a few times for help covering lost wagers—only in rare moments when he was short of ready funds, he explained, and he swore he’d repaid Malcolm every farthing. After a furious argument, he’d promised to stop going to the pit behind the Fleshmarket, and every time since when she’d asked, he swore that he’d kept his word.