A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,89

news,” she exclaimed, thinking Drew would be pleased that his plan was working.

Agnes nodded. “It’s been a great comfort to my mother. She was terribly unsettled by that shredded red silk. It looked like blood, she says, and she has nightmares the villains will come back for us.” She shivered.

“I thought Mr. Duncan and Mr. Kincaid were coming by to keep an eye on things,” said Ilsa in concern.

“Oh! They were. They do.” Pink-faced, Agnes cleared her throat. “We’ll be relieved when Drew returns, though.”

Ilsa could only agree.

Rumors sprouted and multiplied like weeds, each more shocking than the last. A thief had been identified, in possession of some of the stolen property, but had escaped the officers. Unspecified evidence had been located. There were several more members of the thieving ring still at large. There had been an attempted escape from the Tolbooth prison, aided by a corrupt officer, and was only foiled by a passing maid’s cry of alarm. A fortune in stolen gold had been recovered, buried in a field. The stolen goods had been shipped to Amsterdam, and the mastermind of the thieves had taken flight on board the ship after a fierce battle with the sheriff’s officers on the docks of Leith.

Ilsa followed the rumors with interest, wondering if any were true but as absorbed as every resident of Edinburgh. Her aunt was similarly transfixed. Every day Jean scoured the newspapers, which she then dissected in breathless indignation with her gossiping friends. Ilsa had little patience for these discussions and generally went for a walk when one of her aunt’s visitors was announced.

The worst of the lot was Mrs. Crawley, as usual. She became a daily fixture in her widow’s weeds and fluttering shawl. Ilsa took to leaving the house early and staying away, to avoid any chance of meeting her, but one morning she erred, returning from her walk as Mrs. Crawley mounted the front steps.

Her instinct was to hurry back to the fields. She had approximately six seconds to consider it; to curl her fingers into Robert’s mane to slow him down; to duck her head and start to turn away.

“Mrs. Ramsay! There you are!”

She clenched her jaw to keep from cringing. She was not fond of Widow Crawley and would have kept walking away if it wouldn’t make her aunt livid. She turned back, a polite smile on her face. “Mrs. Crawley. How delightful to see you.”

Mrs. Crawley advanced on her with hands clasped in front of her like a bishop castigating a sinner. “And how surprising! You are always gallivanting about, it seems.”

“Alas,” said Ilsa. “I hope my aunt has conveyed to you my highest regards every time I missed your call.”

“She has, of course. Miss Fletcher knows what is proper.” Unspoken but not misunderstood was that Ilsa most definitely did not. “I trust you will join us today.”

Ilsa made a noncommittal noise in her throat as she headed toward the door. “Indeed. Let us go in.” And get it over with, she added silently, wishing she’d been fleeter on her feet and had fled at the first sight of Mrs. Crawley.

The widow eyed Robert with disgust as he clopped up the steps. “Really, Mrs. Ramsay, you cannot bring a pony inside the house!”

I’d rather bring in him than you, she thought, opening the door. “He’s a very small pony, hardly anyone notices him. And he is so dear to me—aren’t you, Robert?”

He gave a soft snuffle in reply as she ruffled his mane.

Mrs. Crawley seemed to grow several inches with outrage. “I am shocked that Miss Fletcher allows this.” She raised a scolding finger. “Your butler ought to be awaiting your return to admit you. And that pony ought to be in a stable. One must make some allowances for a young widow whose mind is disordered with grief, but this is beyond the bounds of reason! If you would allow me to guide you, like your own mother might desire—which surely you must welcome, having been without her for so long—”

“Oh dear, Robert, no,” said Ilsa, removing her hat. Robert had begun nibbling at the fringe of Mrs. Crawley’s shawl as she stood reprimanding Ilsa, and now was slowly unraveling the whole thing as he pulled on the yarn.

The widow gave a cry, snatching her shawl free. Robert tossed his head and tapped his front foot on the marble floor, then trotted off toward his room.

“Show Mrs. Crawley in to see Miss Fletcher,” Ilsa told Mr. MacLeod, who had appeared