A Scot to the Heart by Caroline Linden

The suggestion of a house party visit to Stormont Palace was received with joyous excitement.

“Oh, Drew, is it really a palace?”

“How long shall we stay?”

“What shall we do while we’re there?”

He listened with a mixture of pleasure and alarm. Pleasure because they sounded so excited. Alarm because . . . He hadn’t thought of how he would entertain his family; he was not going to entertain his family. He would have work to do, touring the estate and seeing how things were run. He’d been seduced by Ilsa Ramsay’s impish smile and glowing eyes into signing his own prison sentence.

“Let’s find out more!” Bella ran to the bookshelves and came back with a ragged copy of Pennant’s A Tour in Scotland. “Stormont Palace,” she murmured, flipping pages. “Here it is! ‘The house is built around a large court, with extremely pleasing gardens and a cunning maze. The dining room is large and handsome, with an ancient but magnificent chimneypiece carved with the King’s arms.’” She lowered the book, eyes wide. “Drew, was it a royal palace?”

Winnie rolled her eyes. “Of course it wasn’t! All those fine houses were built by toadies to the King, they splashed his arms everywhere.” She seized the book from Bella and read on. “ʽIn the drawing room is some good old tapestry, with an excellent figure of Mercury. In a small bed chamber is a scripture-piece in needlework, with a border of animals, pretty well-done. The gallery is about a hundred and fifty-five feet long, with most excellent paintings . . . ʼ” She flipped the pages. “Many, many paintings, apparently.” She sounded disappointed. “Perhaps it’s haunted.”

“Haunted!” Bella’s face lit up. “Might it be, Drew?”

“By all the poor souls put to death by the English duke,” put in Agnes slyly.

“With dungeons and torture racks and thumbscrews!” Winnie looked eager now, too.

“Captured chieftains left to starve in a dungeon cell! Heiresses kidnapped and wed for their fortunes and drowned in the moat,” added Bella. She draped a handkerchief over her head and advanced on Agnes, hands clutching at the air. “Save me, my dear! Let me steal your spirit so I can seek my revenge!”

“Never,” declared Agnes dramatically. “You are cursed to wander the earth forever, unavenged and restless, for the sin of consorting with the English!” She snatched the handkerchief from her sister’s head, causing a shriek from Bella and laughter from Winnie.

“It’s not haunted.” Drew ran his fingers through his hair, torn between laughing at their antics and wishing he had thought this through a little better. “It’s just an old house, closed up these many years, with some property that needs tending.”

All three sisters stared at him in disappointed silence.

“Well, that sound enticing,” murmured Winnie. “We’ll have to explore the town, I suppose.”

“I thought we might invite some friends to help make the party merrier,” Drew said desperately. God above, he ought to have kept to his plan to go alone.

Winnie perked up, her blue eyes big and bright. “Who?”

Drew glanced at Agnes. “I thought Agnes might like to have her friend Mrs. Ramsay.” She gave him a puzzled look. “And I mentioned it to Mr. Duncan, as well.”

His sister’s face grew pink. Drew wasn’t an idiot; it had taken him a few minutes, but he’d put together that Duncan hadn’t been speaking of Ilsa Ramsay or Winifred the other day. No, Duncan’s face had come alive at the thought of Agnes.

He wasn’t sure how he felt about that, but he was very interested in his sister’s feelings. Duncan could be an ass, but he was also a reliable friend and solid mate.

“Who else?” Bella and Winnie were oblivious to the tension in Agnes’s figure. “That’s only one gentleman and four ladies.”

“Am I not a gentleman?” he parried.

Bella scoffed. “Brothers don’t count,” said Winnie, “unless they serve as a conduit to other, more interesting gentlemen.”

Drew clapped one hand to his heart as if she’d struck him. “No blade is sharper than a sister’s tongue!”

Bella laughed. “Invite more gentlemen! Witty, single ones.”

“Handsome, rich ones wouldn’t go astray, either,” added Winnie.

“Whom do you think I know, who is single, handsome, rich, and witty, yet still willing to spend a week with the three of you?”

They cried out in disgust and indignation, until he laughed and promised to ransack his acquaintance for anyone who promised to amuse them. Bella said she would begin packing, and Winnie wandered off with the Tour open in her hand, leaving him alone with Agnes.

“Agnes?” prodded Drew. “What say you to this plan?”

She stabbed her needle into the petticoat she had been mending. “Invite whomever you please. I’m going back to Ilsa’s.”

“What of Felix Duncan?”

Her mouth set and she leapt to her feet.

He followed her as she went downstairs and put on her hat. “Has Duncan done you a harm?”

Her face was stony. “No. You don’t need to walk with me.”

He did so anyway. “Do you know him?”

“Not really,” she bit out, striding along the street. “No. Not at all.”

Drew nodded. “If he did anything, I’d have to—”

“No.” She whirled on him, eyes flashing. “It’s not your problem, Drew!”

“If a friend of mine trifled with my sister, it would be.”

Her chest heaved. “He didn’t—didn’t trifle with me. He just . . .” She sighed. “He’s a scoundrel.”

“He can be,” agreed Drew. “But he’s not generally cruel.”

They had reached the Ramsay house. Agnes paused on the steps, biting her lip. “I don’t think he meant to be. It was . . . it was my mistake.”

“Agnes.” He touched her shoulder. “Can you tell me? I wish I knew more of your lives here—I hope to remedy that—but know always that I care for you and will protect you to the best of my ability. I’ve imagined a host of horrible things and all the ways I could beat him to a cinder if he did them.”

She flushed. “It’s not your problem, so there’s no need for you to do anything, let alone beat him.”

“I won’t invite him to Stormont,” he began, but she shook her head, a hint of stubborn St. James pride in her face.

“Don’t do that on my account. By all means, invite your friend.” She glanced archly at him. “Since you were kind enough to invite my friend. Has she accepted?”

Drew gave up badgering her about Duncan. He would interrogate his friend about it later. Odd, how any mention of Ilsa Ramsay always seemed to divert him from whatever he was doing. “Er . . .” He grinned ruefully. “I’ve not actually invited her yet.”

“Come on, then.” She opened the door and led him up the stairs to the drawing room. Drew almost held his breath, hoping this wouldn’t be a monstrous mistake.

It was instead a great surprise. Agnes opened the drawing room door to reveal Ilsa Ramsay on a ladder, wearing an ugly smock with a paintbrush in her hand. The ceiling of the room had been painted a pale sky blue at the edges, fading to white directly overhead. A plump older woman stood beside her, arms full of what looked like draperies, her face taut with frustration.

“But you cannot do such a thing, dear,” she was protesting in a shrill tone that instinctively made Drew’s spine stiffen. “It’s not done!”

“It is if I do it,” was her response, spoken lightly but still ringing with finality.

“Oh my,” said Agnes innocently, gazing upward. “It looks like the sky.”

Ilsa Ramsay turned around, a blinding smile on her face. “Exactly my intent! Thank you!” She caught sight of Drew and the smile vanished like a snuffed candle, but he still reeled from it. Alive with pleasure, bright with excitement, her face was . . . mesmerizing.

That must be it. He was entranced—bewitched.

He shouldn’t like it so much.

“Captain.” She put her brush back into the pot of paint balanced atop the ladder and climbed down. “I did not expect visitors.”

That was obvious. There were cloths flung over the furnishings and of course the ladder in the center of the room.

“I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Ramsay.”

“I brought him in,” said Agnes, removing her hat. “You must blame me if you get paint on your coat,” she told him before turning back to her friend. “He can stay only a moment.”

“Of course,” murmured Ilsa, as if that warning had been meant for her and not for him. “Aunt Jean, this is Captain St. James, who is Agnes’s brother as you must have guessed. Captain, may I present my aunt, Miss Fletcher.”

The draperies hit the floor with a flump. Eyes still flashing at Ilsa, Jean Fletcher bobbed a perfect curtsy. “I’m delighted to make your acquaintance, Captain.”

“The pleasure is mine, Miss Fletcher,” he said with a courtly bow.

“Are we painting the walls, as well?” Agnes was gazing upward again. The walls were a plain, ordinary green.

The older woman stiffened. “No, indeed not.”

“Yes,” said Ilsa. “Here will be the horizon.” She went to the closest wall, took a pencil from her smock pocket, and struck a line on the wall at chest height. The older woman gasped as if it had been a dagger to her chest. “And it will continue up to meet the sky above.”

“Ilsa!” The older woman was an angry shade of crimson. “People do not paint their drawing rooms to look like the outdoors!”

Drew grinned. For a moment Ilsa’s gaze connected with his, and he could swear she nearly smiled back. “I do,” she replied.

“Let us go sit in the—the dining room.” Miss Fletcher appeared to make a great effort not to look at the ceiling, the mark on the wall, the discarded draperies, or her niece. “At least it is tidy and proper in there.”

“I beg you not to trouble yourself, ma’am,” said Drew. “I’ve no wish to intrude. Agnes, perhaps another time—”

“Drew came to ask if you would care to accompany us to Stormont Palace, Ilsa,” said Agnes. “We’re to spend a week there, exploring the maze and hunting for ghosts.”

“Ghosts!” Ilsa’s brows went up in delight. Miss Fletcher made another pained noise.

“I make no promises about ghosts,” Drew said, but couldn’t resist adding, “on either side of the question.”

“As long as you can’t swear there are none, we have hope.” Ilsa removed her smock but seemed to have forgotten about the cloth around her head. It showed off her neck and shoulders, and a glorious expanse of bosom; she wasn’t wearing one of those kerchiefs women usually shrouded their shoulders and bosoms with. It took an effort to keep his eyes on her face.

“Then you’ll join us?” he asked. “My plan is to depart in three days’ time.”

“Perfect.” She bestowed that dazzling smile upon him and Drew nearly wobbled on his feet. “I should be finished painting by then.”

This was too much for Miss Fletcher. She excused herself and stalked from the room, pausing at the door to call back sternly, “Do not throw out the draperies!”

Agnes grinned as the door closed. “You’re going to throw them out?” She walked over to the pile of drapery fabric and picked up one.

Ilsa shrugged. “She keeps hanging them back up. The only way to stop her is to dispose of them.”

Drew glanced around. With the windows uncovered, the room was filled with light. He tried to picture it with hills and grass painted to the line she’d marked, with a bright blue sky rising above it.

“Calton Hill,” he murmured.

Her head came up in surprise. “Yes, that’s right.”

Drew gestured at the wall behind her. “Will you paint the Edinburgh view there?”

She came to stand beside him and studied the wall. Right now it held a large painting in an ornate frame. “An excellent thought. I hope my artistic skills are sufficient.”

“Paint it as it is on a winter day with fog, and no one will be able to tell. Great gray clouds with a steeple here and there.”

She laughed. “Not precisely the view I wish to capture.”

“Hmm. Something more like this, then?” He nodded at the painting. It depicted five somber ladies all in black, except for the white caps on their heads and the wide, old-fashioned collars around their necks. “Family?” Drew asked doubtfully.

“No.” Ilsa grimaced. “My father bought it. My aunt thinks it adds solemnity and dignity to the room.”

He couldn’t help it; a snort of laughter escaped him. She did the same, and in a moment both were shaking with it.

“The solemnity of a gallows,” he said, lips trembling.

“Ladies that severe must send their victims to be drawn and quartered,” she returned.

“Hanging is too tame for them?”

“Can’t you just see them with the scythe and dagger?” Ilsa lowered her voice dramatically. “Pronouncing sentence and carrying it out on the spot?”

“And finishing in time for tea. Ah—I spy a decanter of sherry there, as well. Thirsty work, drawing and quartering.”

Ilsa laughed again, sending his heart leaping. Buoyed, he turned and swept out one hand at the opposite wall. “Paint Arthur’s Seat there, beside the hearth. Our father used to take us there—” He broke off at the sight of Agnes. Lord, for a moment he’d entirely forgotten his sister was in the room, listening and watching with sharp interest.

Ilsa turned. “A splendid idea.” She glanced at him, followed his gaze, and cleared her throat. “Shall we take those to the charity school, Agnes? Perhaps they can use the fabric.”

“You really mean to get rid of the drapes?” Agnes came closer, her eyes skipping between the two of them. “Altogether?”

Ilsa flushed but gave a firm nod. “I do. Perhaps I’ll replace them with something lighter.”

“All right. And you’ll come to Stormont Palace?”

Drew looked away, studying a sconce on the wall with fierce interest. Agnes had noticed something, damn it.

Ilsa wet her lips. “I don’t want to intrude on your family. Perhaps I should not . . .”

“Oh, he plans to invite other people.” Agnes shot a challenging look at Drew. “Isn’t that right? Mr. Duncan, you said, and some handsome, witty gentlemen, as well.”

“Right,” he said, glaring at that sconce. “Monteith, perhaps. And Kincaid. It would only be a week’s sojourn.”

“Please think of me, Ilsa,” said Agnes. “Don’t leave me alone with them for a whole week.”

Ilsa smiled reluctantly. “I shall consider it.”

“Good.” Agnes went and pulled the bell. “Shall we have tea? I’m famished.”

“Yes, of course,” murmured Ilsa.

“It was your idea,” Drew told her under his breath. “Do say you’ll come.”

She glanced at him, her eyes wary.

His mouth quirked. “But you must promise not to give me away if I pretend to be a ghost, to give my sisters something to occupy their time.”

At this her smile slowly returned, impish and conspiratorial. “That is something I would not miss seeing!”

“Excellent,” he whispered, with a wink. He bowed, and as he did so, added in a bare breath, “Thank you. It looked to be a tedious journey until your suggestion.”

“I hope you still think so, whilst wandering the corridors clanking an old chain,” she whispered back.

He grinned and took his leave. His sister gave him a searching look, but he simply grinned at her and left, too full of . . . something to let it worry him.

Agnes closed the door behind the captain and folded her arms. “The trip was your idea?”

“Hmm?” Ilsa realized she was still smiling at the door the captain had disappeared through, and turned her back to it. The cloth she’d wound around her hair brushed her shoulder, and with dismay she jerked it off. That whole time she’d been standing there with an old piece of linen on her head, looking a fright. Why did she constantly find new ways to embarrass herself around him?

“Drew didn’t mention it until this morning,” said Agnes. “When did you suggest it to him?”

Ilsa looked at her. “When he met us out walking.” Then she retaliated for the nosy questions. “When you stormed off in disgust because Mr. Duncan was with him.”

Agnes flushed scarlet. “I did not! That was not—! I—my mother needed me, and my sisters!”

“Not that you cared about that before Mr. Duncan arrived.” Ilsa tilted her head. “And you were very abrupt with him at the Assembly Rooms the other evening . . .”

Her friend’s chin set mulishly. “So you continued walking with Drew and Mr. Duncan for some time, for him to tell you about this house and you to make suggestions about visiting it.”

“Oh no,” said Ilsa. “Mr. Duncan left almost as soon as you did. Fair ran away, now that I think about it. He makes such a fine figure in his kilt. A man with good legs—”

“Ilsa!” Agnes’s eyes flashed. “Are you flirting with my brother?”

She paused. She was certainly trying not to. “No.”

“Why did he invite you?”

Now it was her turn to go pink. “I’ve no idea. You must ask him. He’s your brother.”

Agnes bit her lip. “You haven’t forgotten that he’s going to live in England and become a duke, have you?”

Not for one bloody minute. “I have not.” She forced a smile. “Three days’ time! What shall I pack?”

Agnes came to take her hands. “I know you’ve been determined to go your own way and find your own pleasures these last few months. And you deserve it, you really do. I just—I just worry—”

“What?” Ilsa drew a determined breath and met her friend’s gaze. “You worry I will callously trifle with your brother? I shan’t. Even though you were right, I do like him. You never told me he was so delightfully irreverent, nor so considerate of you and your sisters.”

Agnes raised one brow skeptically. As if she knew how tissue-thin that excuse was.

Ilsa threw up one hand. “The captain told me he was going to visit a house, and I suggested a house party for your sake because of your distress over his future inheritance. My dear,” she said gently as Agnes jerked free and retreated a step. “That is not his fault, or his choice. You know these things—titles—are very strictly decided, not bestowed at anyone’s whim. Your brother is to be commended for recognizing what it will allow him to do for his family, not just for himself, and stepping manfully into the responsibilities of the position.”

Agnes sighed. “If only it weren’t a dukedom! Something simpler, a baronetcy or something would be perfectly fine. Or better yet, just a fortune, unencumbered.”

“Fortunes are always encumbered,” said Ilsa wryly.

At this reference to her late husband, Agnes went pale. “I didn’t mean—”

Ilsa shook her head. “I know. Just as my suggestion meant nothing beyond what it was.”

“So,” said the other woman on a sigh. “Shall you go with us? You must, you know, as it was all your idea and now Winnie and Bella are eager to hunt ghosts.”

An image of the captain draped in ragged sheets and rattling a chain to amuse his sisters crossed her mind, and she bit back a smile. “If you wish me to come, I shall.”

For Agnes, she told herself, and her sisters. And she would do her very best not to flirt with their impossibly appealing brother.