A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

Lord Adam St. James, youngest son of the third Duke of Carlyle, had been a charmer. Drew dimly remembered his grandfather as an old man, sitting by the hearth with a mug in one hand and a blue silk cap on his head, telling some amusing story of his years spent perambulating Europe, skipping out of the way of wars and blockades before settling down. Despite the terrible falling-out with his elder brother that resulted in his banishment from Carlyle Castle, Lord Adam had had a handsome income from his mother’s dowry funds, enabling him to live like a gentleman all his days. Upon his death, though, the income ceased, and Drew’s father, George, had used his inheritance to purchase a silk shop, confident that it would keep his family in style.

For several years it did. Not luxurious style, but affluent enough for Drew to attend school with the sons of gentlemen and wealthy merchants. Louisa taught the girls music and embroidery. The St. Jameses had not been wealthy but they had been genteel.

When George died, the summer Drew was seventeen and eager to enter university, that illusion was blown away. George, it turned out, had had a gentleman’s head for business, which was to say, no head at all. He had let accounts go unpaid. He was in debt to his suppliers. The ledgers were a disaster. There was a mortgage no one had known about that must be paid.

Louisa had had to rouse herself from grief and begin to manage the shop. Drew had learned how to negotiate payments and argue with lawyers. The girls, still children, had all been put to work, sweeping threads and lint, stitching samples for the display cases. When all that had still not been enough to pay their bills, Drew had taken the king’s shilling and joined the army, desperate for any income to support his family.

The shop, though, had pulled through. Thanks to Louisa’s fierce efforts, it had come back to modest prosperity, providing a steady income, and thus a decent home and enough to eat.

This morning the once-neat little shop was a mess. Drew surveyed the damage in grim silence. All the drawers had been opened—a few forced, breaking the latches—and their contents scattered across the floor. The iron money box had been safe with Mr. Battie, who kept the accounts, but the stock had been pillaged. One bolt of red silk had been sliced into ribbons and strewn around the salon like a bloody sacrifice, an act of wanton destruction that made Louisa turn pale and collapse into a chair. Other bolts had been thrown on the floor and trod upon, and dozens of rolls of expensive silk were missing. It was hard to know for certain how many until the inventory could be tallied, but the cabinet where the finest bolts were usually stored under lock and key was nearly empty.

“Who could do this?” murmured Louisa into the stark silence, her hand at her lips.

A fool, thought Drew. Robberies had been plaguing Edinburgh for several months now. The other victims had been the usual sort of places robbed—a jeweler, a goldsmith, a bank. There was already a reward on offer for the capture of the thieves, and Drew, to his bitter regret, had not paid much attention to the crime wave. What could his family’s small shop have to tempt a thief, when there were far more affluent shops all around?

“And what if we had been here?” Louisa went on, her voice rising. “What might those villains have done to me, or to your sisters?” She waved one hand at the slashed scarlet silk.

“All the robberies have been at night when no one is in the shops.” Drew sighed, rubbing his brow. “’Tis a pity Mr. Battie didn’t hear anything.”

The bookkeeper lived in the rooms upstairs. He had discovered the damage when his charwoman arrived early in the morning and let out a wail. Mr. Battie had sent a boy running to tell them and then gone to the sheriff-clerk as soon as Drew and his mother arrived.

“’Tis a great relief he did not,” countered his mother. “He might have come downstairs and been murdered!”

Drew doubted the man was that foolish, or the thieves that deadly. A bolt of silk could not fight back. He stepped over to the door to examine the lock. For all the tumult inside, the outside of the shop looked as it always did. The front door had been closed and the back door leading into the alley was still barred from the inside. Only a few scratches on the lock plate indicated any trespass.

“They got in easily.” He looked at his mother. “Is this lock sound?”

She flushed angrily. “Sound and stout enough these past five years, Andrew! It was repaired only a few months ago!”

He held up his hands. “Aye, aye!”

A sheriff-officer arrived then with Mr. Battie, but there was little they could tell him. He assured them a report would be filed and their losses recorded, but beyond that he could only offer his sympathy. He left with a suggestion that they call upon the procurator-fiscal and offer another reward.

Louisa picked up a broom and began attacking the mess, her face set and her eyes flashing. “Sympathy! I suppose that’s all he offered Mr. Wemyss the goldsmith, too!”

“What can he do, Mother? If they knew who the thieves were, they would make an arrest.” Hands on hips, Drew paced through the shattered salon, searching for anything that might betray the intruders.

“Unconscionable!” Louisa muttered, whisking furiously at the piles of unraveled thread.

Drew said nothing. This invasion infuriated him, too, and part of him wanted to stalk Edinburgh every night, catch the villains and throttle them before dragging their hides to the Tolbooth jail.

The other half of him . . . He had been delicately trying to persuade his mother to sell the shop and come with him to England. Was this not the perfect motivation? Leave all this behind, he could urge. Come to Carlyle, and it will be as it was at Stormont Palace . . .

Winnie burst in, Agnes hard on her heels. “What happened?” Agnes cried.

Drew explained as their mother angrily swept, offering only a curt word now and then. Winnie, wide-eyed and quiet, hurried to help their mother while Agnes paced, her arms folded.

“This has gone too far,” she announced. “This thieving!”

“Aye,” replied Drew with forced patience. “Do you know who’s behind it? The sheriff-clerk would be well pleased to hear a name.”

She glared at him.

“Put it up for sale,” said Drew abruptly. “Don’t bother cleaning, walk away and be done with it all.”

Louisa stopped what she was doing to stare, Winnie made a startled sound, and Agnes exhaled in obvious fury. “That’s your response? Just sell Papa’s shop and run off to England?”

“It’s not been Papa’s shop for a dozen years. It’s Mother’s shop.”

“Don’t,” cried Agnes. “This is our shop!”

Louisa’s face was red. “I cannot decide that now, Andrew!”

“Why not now?” he exclaimed. “What better time to be rid of it and all the worry it entails?”

“It’s ours,” said Agnes with a furious wail. “Not yours! Nothing will ever again be ours if we all leave and go with you!”

He stared in amazement. “What are you going on about?”

“Everything!”

With a slam, the front door flew open and struck the wall, and Felix Duncan surged into the room, his face set in battle lines. “What the bloody blazes happened?” His gaze flew to Agnes. “Are you hurt?” he demanded.

With a cry she ran to him. Felix caught her as if he’d come explicitly to do just that, gathering her close and lifting her off her feet. And Agnes’s arms were around him, her face buried in his neck.

Drew’s jaw almost hit the floor. Louisa’s broom clattered as it fell. Winnie broke into an astonished but beaming smile.

After a long moment Duncan set Agnes back on her feet. He tipped up her face to his and murmured something, and she nodded, keeping her back to her family. Flushed, Duncan turned to Drew. “What the hell happened here?”

“We were robbed. What just happened here?” Drew jerked his head toward Agnes, who whirled and glared at him.

Duncan cleared his throat. “Was anything taken?”

“If nothing was taken, I wouldn’t call it a robbery, aye?”

“Stop,” exclaimed Louisa sternly. “Take your arguing into the street. Agnes, run upstairs and find the master inventory book. Bella’s been up there searching for an age. Winifred, find another broom and help me. This won’t clear itself. Andrew.” She pinned him with a fierce look. “I’ll not walk away from this shop. Turn the sign in the window. We’re not open today.”

He and Duncan stepped into the street, still quiet at this hour, and closed the door behind them. “A simple robbery?” asked Duncan, his eyes flitting up and down the short expanse of Shakespeare Square. “Same as all the others?”

“It appears so.”

“The cadies saw nothing?” Duncan pressed, referring to the City Guard who patrolled at night.

“The sheriff will be asking them, but one presumes not, or they would have raised the alarm.”

“Have you any idea what the loss is?”

“At least twenty bolts ruined or missing. Mother guessed four hundred pounds, but she’ll need the inventory book to know for certain.”

His friend nodded. “Thank God no one was hurt.”

“How many burglaries is this?” Drew had been trying to count, cursing his earlier lack of attention.

“Too many,” said Duncan. “Other victims have offered rewards, with no result.”

“How much?”

“Ten guineas, in one case. Some of the stolen goods have been returned or discovered in the streets or along the road to Leith. I wonder who the devil takes the trouble to rob a shop, then scatters the take around the city.”

“Strange, indeed.” Drew glanced at the undamaged door. “And how is it,” he murmured, “that no one’s seen anything or heard anything? They must not be long at their work. Look—this lock was opened as easily as if the villains had a key.”

Duncan stooped to study it. “A picklock?”

“Something like that.” Drew pictured the bolts of silk. “If there’s more than one thief . . .”

“To carry off twenty bolts of cloth, there must be,” said Duncan. “Someone would notice a cart waiting in the street.”

“Precisely.” He fell silent, thinking. When they’d been children and misbehaved, his father had told them confession and penitence would excuse them from serious punishment. He’d said it was more important to him that his children could admit their mistakes and try to set things right than that they take a whipping. Drew had escaped multiple thrashings by prompt confession, even though he’d been punished in other ways. The philosophy had served him fairly well ever since, too . . .

“What are you going to do?”

With a wrench Drew pulled his thoughts back to the conversation at hand. “I told Mother not to mind it too much. Seems a perfect moment for her to sell the shop and come with me to Carlyle, eh? She and the girls.”

The other man’s throat worked. “I didn’t think you meant to make them go . . .”

“Make them!” Drew scoffed. “As if I could make them do anything! I invited them, to provide a better situation for my family after all these many years of being away and leaving Mother and the girls to manage on their own. But if the shop is gone, or failing, that’s certainly less reason for any of them to stay.”

Duncan said nothing.

“Have you got anything to say about Agnes?” prompted Drew. “Or should I assume you’ve apologized for whatever idiocy you committed that roused her fury?”

Color crept up his friend’s broad cheekbones. “’Tis not your concern.”

“No,” Drew agreed. “’Tis Agnes’s, and she’s already told me I may not thrash you for it, more’s the pity. But I would still like to know.” He stepped into the street and headed toward the sheriff-clerk’s offices.

“May not! Could not,” retorted Duncan, keeping pace with him.

“I’ve seen you fence and box,” Drew replied. “She’s saving you, idiot.”

Duncan tried to smother his laugh with a cough. “Aye, tell yourself all the lies you want.” He motioned at the shop. “What will you do?”

Drew hesitated. “I have one idea, rather audacious. Tell me what you think of it . . .” And they put their heads together and discussed it all the way back toward Castle Hill.

It turned out that the St. James shop was not the only one to have been robbed recently. Nearly every night while they were at Stormont Palace had seen another robbery; every morning another shopkeeper had discovered his or her premises in tumult, and every day the Highland guardsmen who walked the streets after dark could not account for it. The thieves seemed to have an uncanny sense for avoiding being seen, and in consequence a new level of fear and apprehension gripped the city.

Unfortunately, Ilsa’s main source of information was a steady parade of Jean’s friends, dour matrons and stern dowagers trooping through their drawing room to discuss the latest rumors about the thieves over tea and cake. Jean professed herself terrified and alarmed, but had an insatiable appetite for gossip about robberies, the more alarming the better. To escape, Ilsa spent more time than ever wandering the fields around Calton Hill with Robert, even if she felt unaccountably lonely doing so now and had to endure renewed argument from her aunt about it.

There were no more invitations to dine or take tea with the St. Jameses; they were occupied restoring their shop. She saw nothing of Drew and had only brief greetings from Bella and Winnie. Agnes spent most of her time with her family now, with Felix Duncan escorting her back and forth from the shop or her home most days.

“My mother is in a fine fury,” she told Ilsa. “The thieves took the finest bolts of silk, some already promised and paid for. Now Mother is out the cost of the silk and must refund the customers’ payments. It’s mortifying to her, having to tell her customers that she cannot deliver their orders because we were robbed.”

“But that’s not her fault,” Ilsa protested.

“Of course not. But one lady suggested, rather tartly, that Mother ought to have replaced the lock and door when this trouble began.” Agnes rolled her eyes and threw up her hands. “It doesn’t make sense, but everyone is on edge! I cannot believe no one has caught these villains. It’s been months.”

“Perhaps the reward offer will turn up something.” Ilsa didn’t have much confidence, though. The rewards hadn’t accomplished anything so far.

“Drew says he spoke to the procurator-fiscal and proposed a new reward.” Here Agnes grew grim again. “Of course, he also suggested Mama sell the shop and go with him to England. And perhaps now he’s right, curse it, but I—I—” She stopped, biting her lip.

Ilsa didn’t want to talk about that, either. A few days ago Drew had said the duke might live another thirty years and he would remain just a Scot, with no pressing need to leave Edinburgh. It was a hard jolt to hear that now he was urging his mother to sell so they could leave town immediately.

“I am certain that if you don’t wish to go, you could find a way to remain here,” she murmured.

Agnes pretended she didn’t hear. Ilsa had been openly fishing for information for several days, since Mr. Duncan seemed to have nothing else to do but squire Agnes about town, and Agnes—for a change—seemed quite happy for him to do it, but her friend had grown more close-lipped than ever about him. Weeks ago she would have spent hours musing or ranting about the man, and now she said not a word. Ilsa felt . . . shut out.

“I think I should be at home now.” Agnes flushed, not meeting Ilsa’s gaze. “My mother is beset by worries and indignation over the shop, and I ought to be there to help her.”

“Oh,” faltered Ilsa. She had not foreseen that. “Bella—and Winnie—”

“They are no real help, and both imagine thieves around every corner. I believe Winnie would be ecstatic if our own home were broken into—the excitement! The drama! The danger! She asked Drew to leave his sword with her, which thankfully he refused to do.” Agnes’s eyes flashed. “Besides, I’m the eldest, and Mama relies on me more.”

Ilsa did not point out that Agnes was the eldest daughter, not the eldest child. “Of course you must do as you think best,” she said, making herself smile.

Agnes sighed with gratitude. “I knew you would understand! Drew said—” She stopped, coloring. “I hate to leave you alone, but of course you’re not. Your aunt is here, and you have Robert and all the servants.”

Only Robert provided real companionship, and he was a pony. Ilsa’s smile grew wistful. “Of course. Your family needs you, and I shall be fine.”

Agnes embraced her and went to pack her things. Ilsa sat in lonely silence for a moment, contemplating the new order.

She had sent a note to Mrs. St. James the day after the robbery, expressing her shock and outrage and offering any assistance she might make. The reply had been gracious and kind, thanking her for the generous offer but nothing more.

Ilsa hadn’t expected much else, but since then it felt as if she had been slowly but inexorably edged out of the circle again, as before the visit to Stormont. Too late she realized she had latched on to that warmth and welcome far too quickly, seizing on their kindness and obviously making more of it than they intended.

More than any of them intended, perhaps. Despite what he said on the hill, she hadn’t caught so much as a glimpse of Drew since the robbery. She burned to ask Agnes about him—to know about him, even if he were too busy to see her—but did not dare. Surely if he wished to 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.

This time, though, Papa’s mouth compressed. “Nay. Don’t fret yourself.”

She was not reassured. “What, then? It’s—it’s this spate of robberies, isn’t it?”

It was a reasonable question. Not only had it consumed her and Jean, everyone in town was talking about the thieves. Papa owned a prosperous shop, full of valuable tools and with a healthy income. It was only natural he would worry about being robbed, and all the more so if he were ill and unable to watch over it.

But to her astonishment her father erupted off the sofa. “’Tis not your concern, Ilsa,” he exclaimed in a temper. “Stop nattering at me!”

For a moment the words hung in the air, stinging and acrid. Ilsa went very still, as startled and cowed by his sudden fury as she had been as a child.

“All right,” she whispered after a moment, when his fierce glare did not abate. “I only worried about you, Papa . . .”

He gripped his wig. “Ah, lass, you don’t need to. Don’t fash yourself over me, I’ll come about.”

“Are you in trouble?” she asked hesitantly.

He gave a bark of laughter, almost like his usual self. “Always some little intrigue or another! It keeps a man on his toes.” He winked again but looked tired. “Perhaps I’ve been more unwell than I realized. I’m sorry, child. I’m not myself today.”

“Perhaps I could help—”

He waved his hand. “Nay! You’re not to trouble yourself over me.” He hesitated, his face falling in heavy lines. “Well, I’ll tell you. I was called to sit as juror recently on a charge of murder. It’s been a weight on my mind, deciding a man’s fate, and no doubt accounts for my melancholy today.” Papa roused himself with a forced smile. “Enough of my troubles. You should be thinking about handsome young men, and which of them might be worthy enough to give me grandchildren. You know it’s my fondest wish, to have a grandson to bounce on my knee.”

A little boy with wavy dark hair and hazel eyes, and a naughty sense for trouble and fun. She closed her eyes against that useless and impossible vision. “Then you’d best take care of yourself, so you can dance a reel at my wedding. I could have five sons and you’ll never get to spoil them if you don’t mind your health.”

He laughed and agreed before walking her out and tying on her bonnet as usual. “Ilsa, my child.” He took her face between his hands and gave her a searching look. “You’re the dearest piece of my heart, and a better daughter than I deserve. I don’t say enough how proud I am of you, and how precious you are to me.”

She clasped his hands. “I know, Papa. You’re a wonderful father, and I love you dearly, too.”

He smiled ruefully. “’Tis sorry I am not to be in better spirits today, but the fault is mine. Don’t hold it against me, aye?”

“Of course not!” She kissed his cheek. “You must rest, though, and let Jean send you blancmanges and mustard plasters for your chest until you feel well again.”

He groaned. “Anything save the mustard plasters! Would you push me into an early grave?”

She smiled. “Never, Papa. But someone must look out for you if you won’t do so yourself.”

He kissed her forehead. “Never you worry about me.”

He bid her farewell, and she left, more unsettled than ever. Now she had her father’s health to worry about in addition to everything else. Papa was not himself . . . though he was always cantankerous when he was ill. At least it had kept him from quizzing Jean about her doings and about Drew. She was quite certain Papa would rise from the brink of the grave to question her about Drew if he’d any idea how close they’d come to discussing marriage . . .

But they hadn’t—not really. It had been hinted at but never directly stated. And she hadn’t seen him since that lovely dinner when she’d started to feel almost like part of his family.

Ilsa pulled her jacket tighter around her despite the warm day. Once again she must have read too much into it. Not for the first time she wished she’d had more experience with gentlemen. Before she married, Jean had refused to let her go into society, claiming it would give her dangerous ideas. After she married, Malcolm hadn’t allowed her to go anywhere without him, and he only took her to events and activities that he preferred. And when he’d died . . .

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.