A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

Drew slept late the next day, thanks to the quantity of beer and oysters he’d consumed the night before. It had been after three in the morning before they got Ross safely delivered into the hands of his disapproving manservant, accompanied Monteith to his lodgings and shared a bottle of brandy there, stopped at the canal for a quick bathing swim, and finally staggered back to Burnet’s Close.

And now Duncan was killing a cat in the other room, from the sounds of things.

He heaved himself out of bed, barely avoiding hitting his head on the slanted ceiling under the eaves—Duncan’s spare room was clearly meant to house a dainty lady or a child instead of a grown man—and went into the other room.

“What in God’s name is that noise?” he demanded, plugging his fingers in his ears.

Duncan glanced over the violin tucked under his chin. “Music, St. James. A very gentlemanly pursuit.”

“Aye, for gentlemen who live alone in the middle of a moor.”

“I’m practicing, not performing.” Duncan scraped the bow across the strings again, producing a discordant whine that made Drew wince.

“No wonder you’re not performing. You’re an affront to that instrument.” Duncan ignored him, fiddling with the tuning pegs. “And you’re violently out of tune.”

“All art requires suffering.”

“By the artist,” he retorted. “Kindly spare the audience.”

Duncan put down the violin. “You’re the rudest guest I’ve ever had. You insult my fencing form, and now my musical talent.”

“If you had any talent, I would heartily insult it. Besides,” he added as he turned back toward his room, “I’m the only guest you’re likely ever to have, with the appalling noise you make.”

He closed the door of his room and lifted the ewer. Duncan’s manservant had filled it, although so long ago the water was stone-cold. In the army, one got used to that. He reminded himself that he was back in Scotland, mere Captain St. James once more, and he ought not to pine for the luxuries that Carlyle Castle had supplied, like warm washing water and a footman to shave him.

Duncan barged in while his face was still half-covered in shaving soap. “What ducal frolics shall you get up to today? I find myself agog to see how an English duke behaves, and if it’s any better than a lowly Scot.”

Drew flicked soap at him. “I must pay a call on the solicitor today.”

At once his friend—who practiced law himself when he wasn’t being a menace to music—struck a pose, his nose high in the air and his fist clapped arrogantly on his chest. “Bloody lawyers. Which one?”

“David MacGill, in St. Andrew’s Square.”

Duncan lifted his brows. “Only the most expensive for the Carlyles, I see.”

“Is that so?” He wiped the soapy remnants from his chin and unrolled his sleeves. “What do you know of him?”

His friend lifted one shoulder. “Wealthy—thanks to Carlyle, I presume. Thinks of himself as a modern man, less a Scot than a gentleman of Northern Britain. His offices are in the New Town, which tells you enough.”

Drew took out one of his new English suits. The duchess had raised her brows at his plain woolen breeches, and Mr. Edwards had sent him straight back upstairs to change the one time he dared wear a philibeg. The duchess, Edwards had warned him, did not approve of that. A tailor had been sent for posthaste, and Drew soon had a new wardrobe of very English breeches, waistcoats, and coats. Might as well keep to it while on Carlyle’s business.

“What business have you got with a solicitor?” Duncan apparently had nothing else to do with himself, although his questions were less irritating than his violin playing.

He buttoned up the waistcoat and tied his neckcloth. “Confidentially, aye? The duke’s not in good health, nor has he been for many years. I never even saw the fellow while I was there. But he owns a property here, which no one’s visited in twenty years or more. It’s all been left in the charge of this MacGill, with no one from Carlyle the wiser as to what he’s done with it. I’m to call upon him and find out.”

He had agreed to the errand readily, curious to see what the duke owned in Scotland. Mr. Edwards assured him that it was not much, only one estate, and could be concluded in a matter of days. All he wanted was a review of the records and instruction to Mr. MacGill to have the property put in order, against the likelihood of being offered for sale soon.

Drew wondered at that. He knew who would buy those Scottish lands: aristocrats intent on enclosing them and forcing the cottars and other tenants off them. While posted at Fort George, he had seen displaced families straggle into Inverness, reduced from independent farmers to subsistence crofters. He’d never thought to have a say about any of it, but now . . . He was deeply interested in seeing for himself.

After a quick bite at a nearby coffeehouse, for Duncan kept no food at all in his lodging, Drew walked up Bridge Street over the canal where he and Duncan had stripped down for a frigid swim last night. The New Town, as the rising development across the bridge was called, had grown considerably since he was last here. The streets were level, with proper sewers, and the buildings were of clean, uniform stone, unlike the cluttered hodgepodge of the Old Town.

As he walked, he mentally girded himself for conflict. He had dealt with solicitors before. When his father died, he’d had to step in and sort out his family’s affairs, untangling the mortgage and loans Father had taken against the mercer’s shop. Later, when he went into the army, he’d gone back and tried to make arrangements for his mother and sisters. He’d got a headache from the dry, stuffy air inside the pompous solicitor’s office, to say nothing of the sanctimonious lecture on how his father had mishandled everything. He had come away with no good opinion of the legal profession.

It was an entirely different experience as the Carlyle heir.

He arrived at David MacGill’s law offices in spacious, elegant St. Andrew’s Square and gave his name. He had made no appointment, not knowing precisely when he would arrive and not averse to catching the solicitor off guard anyway. With a sniff, the clerk took his letter from Mr. Edwards and vanished through a mahogany door. Resigned to waiting, Drew hung up his hat and took a seat, but within moments the clerk was back.

“Please, Captain, this way,” said the man breathlessly, now smiling and bowing.

Surprised but pleased, he got to his feet. As they approached the polished door, raised voices sounded angrily behind it, and then it burst open. Drew took a hasty step backward as a lady emerged, her mouth set in a furious line and her eyes flashing. Her skirts swung wide as she strode past him.

He stared, dumbstruck. It was the mystery woman from the oyster cellar, now attired in the finest manner with her hair pinned up in very fashionable curls. Her gaze touched him like a flash of lightning, scalding with contempt, and then she was gone, snatching her cloak and hat from another clerk who’d come running to sweep open the door in front of her.

For a moment he was stunned breathless. In daylight she was even more mesmerizing—and she hadn’t shown any sign whatsoever that she remembered him.

“Who was that?” he asked the clerk hovering at his side.

“Madam was on her way out,” the man assured him. “Mr. MacGill will attend you now, sir.”

His mind lingering on the woman, Drew went into the inner office. He didn’t have an appointment, but MacGill had practically thrown her out in order to see him.

“Come in, sir, come in!” MacGill was a sturdy fellow with a headful of fair curls. He bowed and scraped and offered three types of refreshment, all of which Drew declined.

“I hope I’ve not called at an inconvenient time,” he said.

“Not at all, Captain!”

“Yet there was someone in your office,” he replied. “She did not look pleased as she left.”

A frown flashed across MacGill’s face, but he gave a small laugh and waved one hand. “Mrs. Ramsay is the widow of a client of mine. I’ve served her family for years. She was quite content to make arrangements to discuss her business at a future time.”

Contentwas possibly the last word Drew would have used to describe her expression, but he had a name at last. Mrs. Ramsay.

“In the future,” he told the solicitor, “I do not expect you to dismiss anyone in favor of me.”

“No,” said the lawyer after a startled moment. “As you wish, sir.”

He nodded once. It would have to be enough. Now he hoped Mrs. Ramsay had not recognized him, so that she wouldn’t blame him for her summary dismissal from her own lawyer’s office. He opened the leather case of documents he had brought from Carlyle Castle and tried to put the intriguing woman from his mind.

Stormont Palace, the duke’s Scottish property, was a fine mansion that had been in Carlyle hands for over a hundred years, with extensive grounds and gardens. It was some fifty miles away, near Perth. Edwards believed it had been decently cared for under MacGill’s hand, but he strongly advised Drew never to take that for granted.

Mr. MacGill nodded when informed of Drew’s purpose, his thumbs hooked in his waistcoat pockets. “I’ve no doubt you’ll find all in perfect order there, Captain.”

“One hopes,” said Drew. “I intend to visit it myself, so we shall see.”

MacGill’s brows rose. “Indeed, sir! I shall send word along at once.”

He smiled briefly. “If it is in perfect order, is that necessary?”

The lawyer blinked, then nodded. “True, true! Ah . . . well, what shall I show you, then?”

For hours he pored over the records the solicitor brought out. Stormont Palace did appear to be in fine condition. Though not profitable, it supported itself. Surely with a little effort it could be brought into even better shape, and be a valuable piece of the ducal portfolio instead of a burdensome afterthought.

When he stepped back out into the square, he was mildly surprised by the angle of the sunlight. He’d been there longer than expected, and MacGill had never left his side. He wondered how many other clients had been turned away during his visit. Shaking his head at the difference between a lowly new lieutenant and the heir to a duke, he walked back to the Old Town, to his mother’s house, where he had promised to dine.

Unlike yesterday, he found everyone at home this time. Isabella and Winifred ran to fling themselves at him with shrieks of welcome. Laughing, he caught one in each arm, then had to adjust when Agnes joined them. He looked over their heads to see their mother, Louisa, smiling at the sight of them all.

“Save me, Mother,” he exclaimed. “I’m overwhelmed!”

This brought a round of protest and even mild abuse. “Such a soft little man you’ve become, in the army,” scoffed Bella.

“I daresay we shouldn’t tell his colonel that three girls can overwhelm him,” added Winnie.

He huffed. “Like a flock of geese, you are. Honk, honk, honk, and so much flapping of wings . . .”

“Andrew,” said his mother in gentle reproof. “That is ungentlemanly.”

Abashed, he kissed her cheek and then swung her off her feet in an embrace, grinning as his mother squawked indignantly and his sisters burst out laughing.

“Well!” Flustered, Louisa clapped one hand to her head, adjusting her cap. “At least we know it’s really you. Come in, come in!”

Dinner was a feast, with his favorite dishes in every course and good Scotch claret throughout. He inhaled happily. He’d missed his mother’s kitchen, and when Annag brought in the crowning glory, the roasted beef, he might have moaned in ecstasy. He certainly ignored his sisters’ teasing about his appetite, right through the sweets course.

“’Tis more than the rest of us could eat in a week,” whispered Winnie, eyeing his plate.

“How fortunate the army has the feeding of him,” said Bella. “Our cupboards would be bare.”

“I’m being appreciative,” Drew retorted, ladling more cream on his plum pudding. “’Tis the finest meal I’ve had in months, even including at the castle.”

“And are you going to tell us why you’ve been to Carlyle Castle?” asked his mother, raising her eyebrows. Instantly the room fell silent, and all three sisters turned to him with expectant faces.

He swallowed his bite of pudding and laid down his fork. She’d been very restrained—all of them had been. He’d got to enjoy a delicious dinner in peace. “Aye. But I warn you, we’ll need more claret.”

“Why?” demanded Bella as Agnes jumped up and began pouring.

“Papa always said they were the coldest people there at Carlyle,” put in Winnie. “I couldn’t possibly hate them more!”

“No,” he said, holding up one hand. “You’ll not hate them when you hear.” Agnes raised a skeptical brow, but the younger girls looked interested. He took a deep breath. “The duke is in poor health. His younger brother died a few months ago.”

Someone made a dismissive noise under her breath. “How unfortunate,” said Louisa, shooting a sharp glance around the table.

Drew leaned forward. “The brother was the duke’s heir.” No one’s expression changed. “The duke has no children, nor even a wife. When he dies, the title will have to go to a male St. James, descended from a previous duke.”

Bella sucked in her breath. Agnes jerked in her seat.

“You?” said Winnie incredulously. “No. Drew, you can’t mean . . .”

He nodded, watching his mother’s face turn pale. “I appear to be first in line for it.”

The girls erupted in shock, babbling questions and exclamations. One hand at her throat, Louisa reached for her claret and drained the glass.

“Well, Mother?” he prompted. “Do you think I’m a liar, too?” Agnes flushed; she was the one who’d voiced blatant disbelief.

“No,” Louisa said. “But—but it is too incredible, Andrew!”

“So thought I, but the duchess was quite clear. Her solicitor has a chart of the family, and there’s no one between the current duke and me.” He spread his arms. “You’d better get used to calling me Your Grace, sisters.”

Bella hooted, Winnie threw her napkin at him, and their mother scolded both. Only Agnes gave him a peeved frown. “Of course we won’t. Don’t be vain.”

He grinned at her. “Vain! When I’ve brought a trunk full of gifts for my dear family?” He held up one hand as Bella fairly leapt out of her seat in excitement. “I left it with Felix Duncan. You’ll have them tomorrow.”

“Felix Duncan,” said Louisa in disapproval. “Andrew, you ought to stay here, with us.”

“Agnes has already taken herself off to stay with her friend,” piped up Bella. “She’s left her room for your use, Drew.”

“But if you don’t want it, may I take it?” asked Winnie eagerly before he could speak. “It’s so unfair Agnes has a room to herself, and now she’s not even here—”

“She’ll come back,” said Louisa, “particularly if Andrew is not staying with us.”

“I’ve given my word to Mrs. Ramsay!” protested Agnes in outrage. “Mama, you said I might stay with her for a month—”

“Who is this friend?” interrupted Drew, his attention caught by that name. He glanced at his sister’s flushed face. If by some strange chance her friend was the same woman he’d danced with in the oyster cellar—the same woman who had kissed him and then disappeared—he couldn’t imagine his mother approved of Agnes spending time with her.

He, on the other hand, was keenly interested to know more.

“My dear friend Ilsa Ramsay,” said Agnes. “She very kindly offered me a room in her house when you wrote that you were coming to visit. She’s so pleased to have me, Mama! And you must admit it is easier in front of the mirror in the morning, if I’m not here—”

“That is true,” agreed Bella. “She spends an eternity brushing her hair and uses all the warm water.”

“I do not!” Agnes turned back to their mother. “And she has such a small household, she says my company is very welcome and brightens her day immeasurably. Please say I may stay, Mama.”

“There’s no reason to impose on Mrs. Ramsay if your brother won’t be here.” Louisa looked to him. “Surely you’ll reconsider? Felix Duncan is such a scapegrace.”

Under no circumstances did Drew want to live with his mother again. He loved her, but he was a grown man. He’d specifically told Mr. Edwards to find a property with a separate cottage for his mother’s use. The solicitor, thinking he meant to avoid any conflict between his mother and a future, yet-to-be-found wife, had nodded; Drew had never told him it would be necessary even if he never married.

“I have no intention of putting you out,” he said. “I’m pleased to stay with Duncan, but that doesn’t mean Agnes must change her plans.” He turned to his sister as if he’d just had the happiest thought. “Perhaps you should invite her to dine with us, Agnes, if her society is so quiet and limited.”

Silence descended on the table. Bella and Winnie looked sideways at their mother, while Agnes turned pink. Louisa sighed. “No one would call Mrs. Ramsay’s society quiet or limited,” she murmured. “Agnes, I have no wish to argue with you. You may stay with her for the month you promised. Andrew, you are most welcome here—”

“I’m already settled with Duncan, so Winnie is welcome to take Agnes’s room.” He said it in his captain’s voice and his mother gave in, to Winnie’s squeal of delight.

After dinner he sat and obligingly answered question after question about Carlyle Castle and the duchess. His family still had the mixture of animosity and curiosity that he’d felt before his visit there, and from time to time they would shake their heads over his description of something, like the tall, narrow windows in the formal dining room that dated from the castle’s Norman past or the long gallery filled with dour-faced portraits of past St. Jameses.

Finally their mother clapped her hands. “’Tis late! As thrilling as this news is, the shop will not run itself tomorrow. Andrew, walk your sister to Mrs. Ramsay’s, if you please.”

“Mama, it’s two streets away,” Agnes muttered.

“Aye, and there have been robberies in this town of late!” Their mother gave a stern look. “Bankers, silversmiths, even a grocer’s shop. Who knows but that our own shop may be next!”

Drew opened his mouth to say something about that—his family wouldn’t need to labor in a shop much longer, thieves or no—but realized she was right about the time and said nothing. Winnie and Bella fell upon him with more hugs and reminders to bring their gifts the next day. Agnes followed him to the door and put on her cloak. They bid their mother good-night and went out into the street.

“Tell me about this dear friend who invites you to live with her,” he said as they walked along the dark High Street. The oil streetlamps cast only the faintest circles of illumination.

Agnes gave him a look, half reproof, half amused. “You’ll like her, Drew.”

“Will I, now?” Above them, a window creaked open, and he pulled his sister away from the oncoming deluge of waste. “Why is that?”

“Ilsa speaks her mind and enjoys life.”

That, he thought, fit the woman he’d seen last night. But what Agnes was saying was more important at the moment. He gave her a considering look. “Something you’ve not been able to do.”

Her mouth turned downward. “Not much, no.”

Agnes was twenty-four and still unmarried. William Ross had once said she was a very handsome lass, until Drew gave him a narrow-eyed look and Ross shut his mouth. The fellow was right, of course—Agnes was tall and slender with their mother’s blue eyes and their father’s dark hair—but Drew knew him too well. Agnes deserved better than Ross.

“I think that will change,” he told his sister now. “The duchess has granted me an income. No more captain’s pay, aye? There’ll be money for new gowns, a carriage . . . perhaps even a Season in London, if you and Winnie and Bella are so inclined.”

Her brow puckered. “You’re going to make us English.”

“No,” he said at once. “Just richer Scots.”

“With an English castle.” She gave him a look. “And an English title. That makes you English.”

He clenched his jaw. “I didn’t tell Mother yet, but the Carlyle solicitor is searching for a house for us, near the castle.”

Agnes gaped at him. “In England? You—you want us to leave Edinburgh?”

He stopped walking. “Don’t you want to? Dark narrow streets, people emptying their piss pots on our heads, a shop that demands all your time . . . I thought you’d be pleased to hear of it.”

She bit her lip. “I never wanted to go to England. I’m not going to inherit anything.”

“But I intend to settle a proper dowry on you.”

“The income from the duchess is that generous?”

No, it wasn’t, not with all three sisters already of marriageable age. Drew hoped to give each of them five hundred pounds at least. Edwards had hinted that something more might be arranged but had not yet committed to it.

At his hesitation, Agnes threw up her hands. “So you’re to be the next duke, and will be treated as such, because that’s what the duchess wants—a respectable heir. And we’ll be the poor relations, to whom nothing is owed or due, but who are now expected to uphold the dignity of a family who never cared tuppence for us. I knew they would never want anything to do with us. And you’re a fool, Andrew St. James, if you think you mean much to them, either.”

“Agnes,” he tried to say, but she backed away from him.

“Good night, Drew. I’m happy for you, truly I am, but don’t presume I’ll go along with your plans.” She turned and hurried into the house behind her.

His fingers curled into a fist. Damn. Agnes, as usual, wasn’t wrong. He would have to do better, looking out for them. How ironic if it should turn out to have been an easier task when he had no expectations at all.

As he turned away, his gaze caught on the windows above him. They glowed with light, unobscured by any drapes, and a woman was silhouetted at one side, a book in her hands.

Drew stopped. He backed up for a better view. Agnes came to join her, and the woman turned away. He wondered if she’d seen him.

The one thing he did not wonder about was her identity. Ilsa Ramsay was unquestionably the woman who had kissed him last night.