A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

That day was the beginning of a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake. Jean sent the sheriff’s officers away with a flea in their ear, but when she closed the door on them, she looked at Ilsa with worry in her eyes.

“My dear, did you know William was leaving?”

“No,” Ilsa exclaimed. “As I told the officers.”

Jean nibbled her lip, a shocking sign of distress for her. “They will discover the ladies were here yesterday. They will think we warned him of something.”

Ilsa swallowed. “I told him what they said—and he denied everything, Aunt. Categorically.”

The older woman stiffened. “Naturally he did! William would never engage in such behavior!”

Ilsa nodded and didn’t say what she was thinking: But he secretly fled town within hours.

The newspapers exploded with wild and lurid charges against Papa, not only of the robberies but of every sordid thing a man could do: lewd behavior at the raucous Cape Club, rumors of multiple mistresses, tales of ruinous gambling at the cockpits, and more than one charge of cheating.

It was as if the entire town had been simply bursting for this chance to destroy William Fletcher. His name entirely eclipsed those of the two common thieves actually under lock and key.

Agnes and her sisters visited, and loyally proclaimed they didn’t believe a word of it.

“If I were unjustly accused, I would go into hiding until I could clear my name,” was Winnie’s confident assertion.

Agnes nodded. “He’s surely gathering proof of his innocence, to silence every chattering biddy in this town. Have faith, Ilsa.”

She managed to smile. “I do.”

“If only Drew would return,” burst out Bella, ignoring the furious motion Agnes made at her. “He would put a quick end to this nonsense.” She noticed her sister’s agitation. “What? You know he would, Agnes. Now that everyone knows he’s to be a duke, they all listen to what he says. He could shield Ilsa from this evil gossip. How rude of him not to be home already!”

Ilsa flinched as if a blow had landed against her heart. She wished Drew were here, too, even as she shuddered at what he might think. Drew’s own family had been robbed, and he had gone to great lengths to get the pardon offered, driving the authorities to finally make a bold move to catch the thieves. No matter what she believed, Papa’s disappearance made him look very guilty. Would Drew believe in him if all the authorities in Edinburgh didn’t?

“Drew will be back soon,” Agnes was saying, “and this will all be sorted. Any man would defend himself, and Mr. Fletcher will want to clear his name. Winnie is right.”

Her sister beamed. “Of course I am! You mustn’t worry, Ilsa.”

Their support buoyed her, but when they left the walls seemed to close in. She yearned for a walk, but people would stare at her, even more than they had for her companion pony.

The next days were worse. The sheriff’s officers came again, armed with orders to search her house. Jean took to her bed and Ilsa huddled with Robert in his room, pressing her face into his neck to muffle the sounds of officers tramping through her home, prying into her life and belongings, looking under the beds and in the wardrobes, rifling her neat little library and writing desk for any betraying evidence against Papa—or her.

They suspected her of warning Papa. Mrs. Arbuthnot, no doubt, had told her brother-in-law of her visit, and Papa’s servants remembered her coming to see him. Ilsa told them she knew nothing to warn her father of, but she feared they didn’t believe her.

Agnes brought Mr. Duncan to offer his assistance. “Out of my own concern for your safety as well as in St. James’s stead,” he said.

“Felix is a solicitor,” Agnes put in. She knew Ilsa had sacked Mr. MacGill. “If you need any advice.”

Ilsa managed a smile. “I do recall. And I thank you, sir, but I don’t know what there is to be done.”

Jean’s friends deserted her. Where once someone had called almost every day, now no one came. Jean’s defiant confidence had gone silent; she sat in the empty drawing room and stared at nothing, the very proper drapes closed protectively. When Ilsa ventured in one day, her aunt asked in a low voice, “What will become of us, without William?”

“He’ll be back,” she said firmly. “I know he will.”

“Back?” Jean reared up in sudden wrath. “How can he come back, Ilsa? He is ruined!”

“He’ll come back to clear his name.”

Her aunt stared at her before subsiding onto the sofa. “No, child. I’ve tried and tried to tell you, and now you see the brutal truth of it. A good name once ruined is lost forever.”

Ilsa’s temper sprang up as quickly as her aunt’s. “How dare you say that! Papa is innocent.”

Jean slashed one hand. “He will forever be doubted! Lavinia Crawley always says—”

“A pox on Mrs. Crawley,” said Ilsa loudly. “And Mrs. Arbuthnot, too, if they have turned you against your own brother.”

Her aunt’s face turned red. “Yes, you will always blame me when I have done nothing but try to keep you and your father on an honest, respectable path. And now William has ruined himself beyond all hope—and the gossip will ruin us, too—” She stopped, covering her face with both hands.

Ilsa bit back a dozen replies—that Jean had delighted in salacious gossip about others, that Papa was innocent, and what good was a sterling reputation if it couldn’t withstand mere rumors?

She had to get out; she was going mad without exercise and fresh air. She put on a drab brown cloak, pulled up the hood, and slipped out, leaving Robert behind—Mr. MacLeod had to take him out for his wandering now, to her bitter regret.

She made it a few streets, clutching the cloak at her throat, before a man fell in step beside her.

“Running off to retrieve the stolen goods?” he asked in a booming voice. “Where did your dearest papa hide the bounty from the goldsmith’s? Or the bolts of silk? I wonder, did he steal those for you?”

With a start Ilsa recognized Liam Hewitt, her father’s head wright. “Leave me alone,” she bit out.

He smirked. “’Tis a public street, and we happen to be going the same way.” Even though she sped up, he kept pace with her. “What a dark day this must be for you, Madam Proud and Haughty.” He laughed. “Although, just wait until he’s caught and hanged!”

Never had she hated someone as much as she hated Liam in that moment. He was deliberately baiting her and drawing attention to her; people were turning to watch. Tomorrow the gossip rags would be full of this, she thought in despair. “Don’t say such a thing,” she whispered harshly. “That will never happen!”

“No? Why not? Mrs. Ramsay,” he said with sly, affected surprise, “did you help Deacon Fletcher escape?”

It felt like the entire street full of people, shopkeepers, chairmen, running boys on errands, ladies with servants at their heels, gentlemen on their way to the counting house and coffeehouses, had stopped to watch and listen—and judge. Her face burned and her skin crawled. “Stop,” she pleaded again, low and furious. “Please.”

“Am I making you uncomfortable?” His eyes gleamed mockingly. “Not so proud and disdainful anymore, are you? All these years you’ve thumbed your nose at me and now you’re begging for my help.” He clicked his tongue. “Not that it’ll save him from the hangman.”

She whirled on him, shaking with fury. “How dare you?” she demanded. “I don’t care if you hate me—I certainly despise you—but how could you walk the Canongate exclaiming that Papa will be hanged, at the top of your lungs? After all he did for you? He’s treated you like his own son!”

Liam smiled bitterly. “Hardly. But I suppose it might look like that to a spoiled daughter. I daresay he took to me because you were such a disappointment.”

Her throat was raw and her hands were in fists. “Stay away from me,” she said, quietly but clearly, “or I will summon the law.”

“Oho!” He laughed as she turned and walked away, slipping on a cobble in her haste. “Summon the law as much as you like! I daresay they’ll be coming for you soon in any event.”

She reached home and slammed the door behind her, leaning against it until her shaking subsided. She hid her face in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut to hold back tears of humiliation. It was no secret Liam disliked her, but Papa had been his mentor, his patron. He had taken Liam into the shop when he was a young man, training him and grooming him to manage the business himself someday. How could Liam betray Papa like that?

“Ma’am.” Mr. MacLeod approached with sympathy in his eyes. “Are you well?”

“Yes.” She swiped at her face and untied her cloak.

“This was left on the step earlier. I took the liberty of peeking inside very briefly, to make certain it wasn’t . . .” He paused. “Dangerous.”

She gave a joyless huff and took the slim wrapped packet, the string loose. “Thank you, Mr. MacLeod.”

Inside was a familiar book. The Widower and Bachelor’s Directory. Puzzled, Ilsa checked the wrapping, but there was no note. Only when she held the book in her hands did it fall open, to a heavily marked page.

Madam Ramsay, Edinburgh, had a thick black line drawn through it. As to her fortune, the amount had been circled and labeled embezzled, and the stocks had been marked stolen. Across the page was one phrase, writ large: mad, immoral, and spurned by all decent men.

She stared at that for a long moment.

For twenty-five years she had followed every rule, every stricture. She had obeyed her aunt as a child, married the man her father chose, done her best to honor and obey her husband. All those years of following the rules had left her with a pristine reputation, but no friends. Her marriage had been distant and cold. She’d been desperately lonely and unhappy. All she had asked, in the months since her mourning ended, was to have a few friends, wear what she liked, and have some fun. Mad? She’d got a pet pony and learned golf, which everyone played. Immoral? She’d gone to oyster cellars and taken walks on the hill, like so many other ladies did. Spurned by any decent man? She’d fallen in love with Drew, the most honorable and decent man she knew, and she’d thought he might be falling in love with her . . .

She ran to the drawing room and burned the horrid little book and its spiteful words. If only she could wipe out the tide of rumor and gossip so easily. William has ruined 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 deterred and argued her way past the butler.

“What are you planning?” she demanded breathlessly upon bursting into the drawing room.

Ilsa squeezed her hands into fists. “What do you mean?”

Her friend closed the door with a bang. “I saw it in the papers, that your father contacted you. Was it really a confession?”

“Of course not! He’s innocent!”

Agnes nodded. “I know. But I also know you, Ilsa. What are you going to do?”

She hesitated. Would Agnes tell anyone—specifically her brother? Unwillingly she thought of Drew; he had been gone three weeks now. He must have been delayed at the fort.

Not that she could ask him to help her, not with this. Ilsa was keenly aware that she was probably breaking some law. Drew had his family to think of, his future position, the duchess whose displeasure he feared. “I don’t know what you mean. What could I do?”

Agnes’s eyes darkened in anguish. “The rumors—”

Her spine went rigid. “They’re wrong.” She turned away. “I don’t listen to them.”

There was a rustle, and Agnes appeared in front of her, taking her hands. “You don’t have to be alone. Let me help you.”

She struggled. Agnes was intelligent and thoughtful, and Ilsa was about to explode from the anxiety building inside her. But telling Agnes would make her friend an accomplice. What if she argued against it? Ilsa couldn’t spare any of the hope and bravado she’d scraped together. “What would you do?” she asked, unable to resist. “If it were your father.”

Her friend didn’t hesitate. “Go after him. Demand an explanation. I would want to know the truth, and why he fled and left me to face the storm alone. I—I would need to see him again because I would not be able to believe it without that.”

Her lips parted in gratitude, and she gripped Agnes’s hands. “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “Exactly.”

Agnes gave a nod. “Let me go with you.”

“Absolutely not.” Ilsa released her and stepped back. “You know nothing about anything.” Sheriff Cockburn had already come to see her again, stern-faced and curt. Mr. MacGill had told him about the letter, though not the horrible, guilty things it said. Ilsa had had to show the sheriff the letter. Brazenly she told him she did not think it was Papa’s handwriting, and that she thought it was an attempt to cast false aspersions on her father. The sheriff hadn’t been convinced, but he’d gone away.

Frowning in frustration, Agnes paced away. “When are you leaving?”

Ilsa said nothing. After a moment Agnes sighed and came to embrace her. “Promise you’ll be careful,” she whispered tearfully.

That, at least, she could do. Ilsa nodded. “Would you look in on Robert?” she asked on impulse. “It would be a great comfort to me.”

“Of course! We shall walk him out every day and spoil him with apples and carrots.”

Ilsa managed to smile.

“I would do more,” said Agnes urgently. “We all would. Drew—”

Ilsa held up a hand to stop her. Even if Drew were here, she couldn’t ask him for help. And Drew wasn’t here, so it didn’t matter anyway. “No, Agnes. There’s nothing you can do.”

Only she could do this, and the fewer people who knew about it, the better.