A Scot to the Heart (Desperately Seeking Duke #2) - Caroline Linden Page 0,95

himself beyond all hope—and the gossip will ruin us, too, lamented Jean’s voice in her memory.

She pulled the fireboard into place to block the ashes of the book from sight. As long as Papa was missing, no one would believe he was innocent, or that she and Jean had known nothing. Jean would be little help, paralyzed by despair over her lost respectability. Papa had to come back—and if he did not come back soon, Ilsa would have to find him. It was the only way to save them all.

The point was driven home two days later by David MacGill. The solicitor came to call on her this time, with no pretense of affability, bearing a letter from her father, which he thrust at her as if it scorched his hand.

“This was delivered to me today and I want no part of it,” he said acidly.

Ilsa gripped the letter with rigid fingers, desperate to read it but unwilling to open it in front of him. “Did you read it?”

He flushed. “Of course I did not. You see there, it is still sealed.”

“It would be easy enough to seal again.”

The solicitor’s expression could have soured milk. “Nevertheless, I did not,” he snapped. “I have no wish to become entangled in Deacon Fletcher’s troubles. If he were here, I would inform him that I am no longer able to represent him. My other clients find it unseemly.”

Other clients like the Duke of Carlyle. Ilsa suspected MacGill knew Drew wanted to dismiss him, and was trying to avoid giving any reason for the current duke to do it.

“Well,” she told him, unable to resist a parting shot, “we both know how you abhor supporting anything unseemly.”

He understood what she meant—their old argument about shares of the William Cunninghame company, with its trade in slavery-dependent tobacco and sugarcane. His face thunderous, he barely managed a curt farewell. He hadn’t even sat down.

The moment MacGill was gone she broke the seal and tore open the letter, praying it would offer solace, comfort, hope—an explanation.

It did none of those things.

She was still reading it, over and over, when Jean opened the door. “Did you have a caller?”

Ilsa looked up with stricken eyes. “Did—did Papa say anything to you?” she faltered. “Before he . . . left. Anything at all about his business, or anything troubling him, or anything?”

Slowly, warily, Jean came into the room. “No. Of course he did not—he never did.” She hesitated. “Why?”

“Mr. MacGill has brought a letter from Papa.”

With a muffled sound her aunt rushed to the sofa, snatching the letter. Her breath sped up as she read. “No,” she whispered, her restrained facade beginning to crack. “No!”

The letter was, to all appearances, a farewell note; Papa spoke of his love for both of them, and how dear family was to him. He swore he could never harm his own blood, and he was determined to spare them any shame or upset. He begged their forgiveness for any hurt he had caused either of them and closed with a humble wish that they might forgive him for taking his leave this way.

Not one word professed innocence. The prosecutor would see it as a confession.

“Oh, Ilsa—he will be hanged—” Jean’s voice broke.

With a curse that made her aunt jump, Ilsa leapt to her feet. “There must be an explanation—some reason he would write that letter. It’s not like him.”

“No.” Jean sounded dazed. “It’s decidedly not like him . . .”

Ilsa seized her aunt’s hands. “If anyone will save him,” she said fiercely, “it must be us. No one else believes he is innocent. Will you help me?”

Jean’s lips trembled. “I don’t know how I can.”

“To whom would Papa go in a time of need?”

Her aunt shook her head. “No one. He is the head of the family—everyone looks to him.” Her chin wobbled again. “He is such a good man, Ilsa, so generous and kind, no wonder everyone loves him so—” She broke off with a sob, obviously having remembered that no one seemed to love William Fletcher now but the two of them.

But Ilsa inhaled. “Of course!” She embraced her startled aunt. “I know where to look.”

She sent Mr. MacLeod out to make arrangements as discreetly and rapidly as possible. The need to leave Edinburgh raged like a fever consuming her.

She meant to tell no one, but Agnes came to call. Ilsa didn’t want to lie to her few friends and had told Mr. MacLeod not to admit anyone. Agnes, though, was not