A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,90
at the closing of the door.
“You will be joining us, of course?” demanded the widow.
“I shall be in as soon as I refresh myself,” replied Ilsa, that same determined, polite smile carved on her face. With a suspicious sniff the woman followed the butler up the stairs.
Slowly Ilsa went to her room. A walk to Leith and back would refresh her greatly and outlast even Mrs. Crawley’s visit. But Jean would scold her fiercely, so she smoothed her hair and brushed the grass from her skirt, and went to the drawing room with all the eagerness of a condemned soul facing the gallows.
The two women were ensconced on the sofa when she arrived, a large refreshment tray nearby. Jean’s guests tended to stay awhile. Ilsa quietly seated herself, resigned.
They were discussing the recent burglaries—again. Or was it still? Ilsa let her mind wander. It had been a full week since the pardon had been offered. She thought again of Drew and wondered if the news would reach him all the way beyond Inverness. She sighed silently, wishing he would return. A fortnight, he’d said, and it was only two days shy of that.
“But you must know, Mrs. Ramsay!” exclaimed Mrs. Crawley.
She blinked, startled. “Must I?”
“Why yes.” The woman gave her a sly smile. “You’re acquainted with Captain St. James, who will be a duke.”
Her throat closed for a moment. “I am.”
The widow’s eyes gleamed, and she pounced. “Then you must know something. The fiscal is eating out of the captain’s hand, he is. I warrant the captain knows all!”
“I’ve no idea,” she said cautiously, her heart thudding.
“No?” Mrs. Crawley leaned forward, her small blue eyes hungry. “And him here all the time?”
“He is not here all the time.”
Mrs. Crawley’s smile was spiteful as she moved in for the kill. “Perhaps he told you when you met him out on the hill.”
Ilsa froze. Jean stiffened. “What is this?”
“Didn’t you know?” Mrs. Crawley, the evil witch, stirred her tea and looked to Jean. “I hear they meet frequently out there.”
Her aunt turned to her with an expression of such censure that Ilsa’s stomach cramped. “I had no idea,” said Jean icily.
“I’m sure not,” murmured Mrs. Crawley with patently false sympathy.
“We met by chance,” said Ilsa, her heart stuttering in alarm. “Often when he is looking for his sister—”
Mrs. Crawley made a derisive noise. “Indeed!”
And suddenly anger boiled over within her. This was how the gossips had hounded her last year, with innuendo and suggestion that Malcolm’s fatal duel must have been over her, that she must have had an affair with that horrid Englishman, who had done everything he could to encourage the story—not a word of which was true. Jean had made her endure it in silence, saying it wasn’t dignified to defend herself publicly. Never again.
She jumped to her feet. “Are you accusing me of indecency, Mrs. Crawley?”
Mrs. Crawley started at the counterattack. “Well—” She glanced sideways at Jean. “One hates to think that—”
“Does one?” Ilsa raised her brows. “Does one also hate to suggest it without evidence?”
“Ilsa!” hissed Jean.
The widow’s face turned scarlet. “I never!”
“Good,” said Ilsa. “I accept your apology.” She turned toward the door without a word of farewell, only to be brought up short by the butler.
“Mrs. Arbuthnot, ma’am,” he said to Jean.
Ilsa’s jaw tightened. Another scandalmonger. She wasn’t going to stay and face three of them.
But Mrs. Arbuthnot burst in, lappets and dress fluttering. “My dears, have you heard?” she cried before Ilsa could escape. “There has been a breakthrough!”
Jean and Mrs. Crawley gasped in unison, and urged Mrs. Arbuthnot to come sit and tell all. The woman was only too happy to oblige; she was breathless from hurrying to tell them. Ilsa lingered at the door, curiosity momentarily overwhelming her outrage.
“’Tis very momentous news,” Mrs. Arbuthnot gushed. “As you know, my brother-in-law Mr. Hay is in the sheriff-clerk’s office, and he tells me they have apprehended one of the villains!” She flapped her hand at Mrs. Crawley’s indrawn breath. “For certain this time, Lavinia!”
She paused for breath and accepted the cup of tea Jean urged upon her. “He’s a very low, criminal sort—English, of course. He wants that pardon! Clearly he should go to the hangman, too, but we must be consoled by the thought that he is revealing all the secrets of Edinburgh’s criminal elements.”
“But has he told them who was involved?”
Mrs. Arbuthnot nodded. “Apparently he informed the sheriff of at least one accomplice, and hinted that there is yet another, the mastermind