A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,83

. . .

I’m free, was what she had thought, once the shock had worn off. She hadn’t expected that, yet somehow it was true.

But then the trial happened, and she had not been free of anything. People had said horrible things about Malcolm and about her. Papa had insisted she attend the trial, garbed in black, to shame the rumormongers. By the time it was over she felt as though part of her had also been killed. Ever since, she had tried to think of herself as a phoenix reborn from the ashes of her former restricted life into a new life where she was an independent woman with a handsome fortune, and no man could tell her what to do.

It had taken her too long to realize that she had been denied so much in order to reflect well on a man—first her father, then her husband. Only Malcolm’s stupid, senseless death had made it clear to her that all that privilege and advantage had been a cage instead of the means to do things she believed in and cared for.

That was why she rescued a half-starved pony from the slaughterhouse and installed him in what had been Malcolm’s private study. Why the staid draperies were now upholstering two sofas at the charity school for girls. Why she went to oyster cellars instead of to the Assembly Rooms and why she danced with soldiers and merchants instead of with gentlemen and lords, who might have wanted to force her back into the useless, idle life that had threatened to drive her mad. Why she’d dismissed Malcolm’s domineering butler and hired the sensible, obliging Mr. MacLeod. Why she sacked Malcolm’s pompous attorney who didn’t believe she had the brains to manage her own money.

She took a deep breath. Enough pity. Neither Jean nor Papa nor even Andrew St. James would make her doubt herself again.

Tonight she should go out; Agnes had left, but Sorcha White would go to an oyster cellar with her. She would cede the drawing room to Aunt Jean and paint her Calton Hill mural in the dining room, with the golden chandelier in place of the noon sun.

And Drew . . . She blew out her breath. She would not sit around waiting for him. He knew where to find her. And if this mad attraction between them flickered out, or he decided an English bride was better for him, she would not be wrecked by it.

Things could always be worse, she told herself bracingly. Never forget that.

Chapter Eighteen

Drew was beginning to get a taste of what life would be like as the Duke of Carlyle.

Part of it he did not care for at all. After the Tattler’s sensational report, a flood of letters and supplicants looking for something from the duke appeared on Felix Duncan’s doorstep. No matter how many times Drew said he was not the duke, and could not speak for the duke, none of them were deterred from begging that he put in just a word with His Grace. Duncan reported that David MacGill had indeed been the one who let the secret slip—or rather trumpeted it about—and Drew took great pleasure in writing a severe report to Mr. Edwards about the solicitor’s shortcomings.

Before he left Carlyle Castle, Mr. Edwards had suggested he engage a secretary. Drew had thought that ridiculous—he was perfectly capable of managing his own correspondence—but now he was reconsidering. He should hire a secretary, a tall fierce one capable of standing guard, armed and intimidating, against the hordes of favor seekers.

The other side of the coin, however, was more gratifying. Being a future duke made some things immensely easier. For instance: his visit to William Scott, the procurator-fiscal. As mere Captain St. James, son of a victimized shop owner, he would have been left to cool his heels before being patronized by a deputy clerk. As the heir to Carlyle, he was escorted in and welcomed very cordially by Mr. Scott himself. When he explained that his family’s business had been attacked by the thieves, Mr. Scott hastened to apologize and assure him everything possible was being done.

And when Drew said that he thought more could be done, and he had some suggestions in fact, Mr. Scott listened with attentive and respectful interest. The man agreed it was a sound idea, and suggested that Drew go argue the case to the lord advocate, who would then need approval from the Home Office in London. Mr. Scott provided a