A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

Scandal broke like a dam bursting: a leak here, a trickle there, until the whole edifice gave way in a flood.

The sheriff’s office had been swamped with leads after Drew left town. Mr. Duncan heard it from the procurator-fiscal’s office and told Agnes, who confided in Ilsa during a morning walk with Robert.

“That is excellent 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 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 of the whole plot.”

“Good heavens!” Jean clapped one hand to her bosom, riveted. “Who is the mastermind?”

“Now, he hasn’t said yet,” replied the woman with a trace of disappointment. “Mr. Hay thinks he wishes to extort something else—as if a King’s Pardon isn’t enough! But he did give some clues, which have tantalized the sheriff to no end! Oh, thank you, dear.” She took a sip of tea and accepted a plate of cake.

“What are the clues, Cora?” demanded Mrs. Crawley, her weak chin quivering. Ilsa thought she was annoyed not to have been the first to hear—and share—this news.

Mrs. Arbuthnot shook her head. “He didn’t name the man, Lavinia. He said only that it’s a prominent man of the town, and that it’ll cause a great stir when he’s revealed.”

“What else?” Jean wanted to know.

Mrs. Arbuthnot knew plenty. “He—the thief who turned, that is—is a nasty bit of goods called Browne. Mr. Hay heard that he led the sheriff to a set of false keys, which so far have opened the doors of Mr. Wemyss’s shop, Mr. Johnstone’s shop, and there are several other keys they’ve not identified yet. Imagine it! The thieves had keys to the burgled shops!”

Ilsa barely heard the ensuing excited conversation. Drew had mentioned keys . . . and so had Papa.

Papa was not only a cabinet-maker; he was also a locksmith. And she thought he might have done work for one of the victims—a grocer who’d lost a great deal of tea.

No.It was madness to think Papa would be involved in the robberies. He was one of the most respected men in town, a deacon and town councilman. What’s more, he was a wealthy man, with a successful shop. Why would he risk all that for petty thieving?

There was no more prominent locksmith in Edinburgh, though. And it would cause a mighty stir if someone accused him of thieving.

She closed her eyes and bit down on her lip, furious at herself. Papa! It couldn’t be.

But he did have a weakness for gambling, and he had been tense and twitchy the other day when she mentioned the robberies. He’d told her to mind her business. He was ill, she argued to herself, even as her feet started moving toward the door. It meant nothing; there were dozens of locksmiths in Edinburgh, to say nothing of criminals skilled in picking locks. This villain, Browne, was surely casting about for someone else to throw to the wolves, to secure the pardon and save his own neck. He probably made the keys himself.

A new thought struck her even as she slipped out the door and hurried downstairs. Papa should know in case Browne did mean to accuse him. She seized her hat, flung a shawl around herself, and bolted.

She was running by the time she reached her father’s house, where he was putting on his hat to go out. “Papa, have you heard?” she demanded.

He frowned at her. “Why are you screeching at me, child? I’ve not got time to talk now.” He took up his walking stick and motioned her back out the door, held open by the servant. “If you wish to walk with me, come.”

She followed him into the street. “Mrs. Arbuthnot came to call today and what do you think she told us?”

“Some gossip of illicit love affairs?”

Ilsa shook her head. “It was about the thieves.”

He snorted. “What can she know? I’ve never met a sillier woman.”

Ilsa smiled fleetingly. “Her brother-in-law is in the sheriff-clerk’s office, and she heard from him that they have a thief in custody.”

“Oh. Aye. I knew that.”

“The man wants the pardon, of course, but he says he’ll inform on the other thieves. Papa, Mrs. Arbuthnot said he gave the sheriff a bunch of false keys, which fit the locks of shops that were robbed.”

“And?”

“Papa!” Ilsa tugged at his arm, but he only raised a brow at her, his pace unchanged. “He said he would accuse a prominent man of the town, and you’re a locksmith. You told me you refitted the lock of one of the victimized shops.” Now that she was saying it aloud, it sounded even more ridiculous.

“Half the shops in Edinburgh have had their locks refitted. Every wright and locksmith has been busy from morning till night,” he said, with a certainty that made her wilt in relief.

“Of course,” said Ilsa, calming down. “But what if one of the thieves worked in your shop—?”

Of a sudden he stopped, gripping her arm. “What?”

“Well—it’s possible, isn’t it? Your apprentices learn how to fit locks . . .”

His eyes narrowed, and she had the sense he was furiously angry. “Cora Arbuthnot ought to keep her mouth closed, and the same for the blabbering fool who put that word in her ear. Surely you don’t think my lads would do such a thing?”

“No!” She lowered her voice until it was barely audible. “But perhaps it is something to prepare for. If she’s telling the matrons of Edinburgh . . . well, people may start to suspect you. Mrs. Crawley was there, and she’ll tell everyone in town.”

“’Tis arrant nonsense, and I’ll not dignify it with a response.” He relented at her expression. “Forgive me, Ilsa. I swear to you on your mother’s grave, I had nothing to do with this thieving.”

She exhaled in unspeakable relief. “I knew you couldn’t have. But why—?”

“People will say anything when they feel the hangman’s rope tightening about their necks.” He patted her hand. “You heard the story that there was a pitched battle on the docks at Leith, no? Complete with a cavalry charge and cannon. Twaddle.” He made a face of disdain.

“But if people believe it . . .” She faltered. “Don’t let them drag you to the hangman, Papa, just because people have lost their heads.”

“Aye, you’re right. Edinburgh wants to hang someone. Too many robberies, too many losses over too many months.”

“But you’ve been worried,” she began.

Her father’s mouth eased. “Not for myself, and not on this matter. A man who used to work for me has been locked in the Tolbooth. I’m going to see him now. John Lyon is a good lad. His mother begged me to look in on him, fearful he’s fallen in with scoundrels. If I can save him from the gibbet, I must make an effort, aye?” He looked away from her. “He’s not even your age, child. A young man with a wife and a babe on the way.”

She took a calmer breath. “Of course. You must try to help him.” She didn’t remember John Lyon but she could picture his type: a young wright trying to support his family, falling prey to a scoundrel in the numerous taverns and gaming pits around town. It didn’t take much to trip up a man.

Her father bade her go home and not to worry about him. Feeling much better, Ilsa did. She avoided her aunt, who was pestering Mr. MacLeod to physically bar every door and window now that the thieves might have keys. To avoid an argument about safety she stayed in that evening. After the alarm she’d given herself today, a quiet night had some appeal.

But in the morning, a grim-faced officer from the sheriff-clerk knocked on her door. Papa was gone from Edinburgh.