How the Scot Was Won by Caroline Linden
11
Nothing could dim Felix’s good humor.
Not the weather, gray and cloudy though it was for several days. Not the crush of demands from clients. Not the thieves plaguing Edinburgh, although he did keep a keen ear out for anything that hinted at resolution.
He even went to see his father without being summoned. Lachlan barely glanced up as Felix dropped into a chair opposite his desk. “What’s the trouble now?”
“No trouble at all,” said Felix.
His father’s brows went up. “A rare and wondrous thing.”
He grinned. “Ain’t it?”
That got Lachlan’s attention. He straightened in his chair and pushed back his law book. “Why?”
Felix laughed. “All my life, you’ve scolded me for trouble. Now you fret over no trouble?”
“You only come to me when there’s trouble,” Lachlan replied. “Either you’re lying, or you don’t even know what trouble you’re in.”
Felix reflected. “In other words, whatever I say shall be treated as unreliable.” He shrugged. “I might as well be on my way. Apologies for disturbing you.” He started to rise.
“Wait,” growled his father. He drummed his fingers on his desk in frustration. “Why did you come?”
Felix sank back in the chair. “You allege that I never tell you anything, and you must rely on the intelligence of others to discover my actions. So today, I’ve come to tell you something.”
Now his father looked wary. “And it’s not trouble?”
“Completely the opposite.”
Lachlan leaned back and folded his arms.
“I’ve met a lady.” Felix paused, then shook his head. “No—strike that. I’ve fallen in love with a lady.”
His father studied the papers on his desk. “It is not Miss Catriona Hill, is it.”
“No,” said Felix apologetically. “It was never going to be Miss Hill.”
Lachlan grunted.
“But I think you will like her very much. She’s beautiful, of course, but also sensible and clever—she would make a fine attorney—and warm-hearted and very good-humored…” Felix stopped himself and cleared his throat. “I believe she cares for me as well. I want to marry her.”
“Who is the fortunate lady?”
“Miss Agnes St. James.” Felix waited for his father to declare that he had known all along. Not only had he divined it a few weeks ago, but Felix had been escorting Agnes to and from the St. James shop for over a week now in full view of all Edinburgh. His father was sure to have heard about that from half a dozen people.
But Lachlan merely nodded.
“All right.” Felix opened his arms. “You’re not surprised. What, pray, is the opinion among your friends as to her answer?”
“I’ve no notion,” replied his father. “I’ve not discussed you or your love affairs with anyone. What is your opinion? Is she likely to accept?”
“What?” Felix stared. “I—surely you knew. You pressed me about her before I went to Perth.”
“And you denied every word. Said she refused you.”
He cleared his throat. “At the time, she did.”
“Then I must congratulate you on arguing a persuasive appeal. A man’s own self is the most difficult client to advocate for.”
“One moment.” Felix was stuck on his father’s earlier words. “Surely you’ve already analyzed the match with Lord Lindow and Sir Patrick,” he said, naming two of his father’s colleagues and friends.
“I have not,” said Lachlan, unperturbed. “After you upbraided me for it, I stopped attending to gossip about you.”
He barely managed to keep his jaw from sagging open. “Entirely?”
Lachlan grimaced. “As little as possible. I hoped you would tell me yourself, if there was anything important to know. And now—“ His face worked, the granite facade cracking for a moment. “’Tis very happy I am for you, lad,” he finished quietly.
“You—you truly didn’t know?”
Lachlan sat forward, elbows on the desk, and sighed. “You were right, aye? I’ve confessed it. You’re my son, my only family, but you’re a man and not in need of my protection.”
“Protection!” Felix jolted.
His father nodded. “How else to keep my promise to your mother? You’ve got her mischievous spirit, and I swore to her I would keep you from harm. Without her to advise me, I feared I wouldn’t be able to discern when you needed my help. But you’ve not needed me for years, I think.” He paused. “I wish you great joy with your lady.”
Felix was still stunned. “Thank you,” he said after a moment.
Lachlan gave him a level stare. “So, will she accept this time?”
“I hope so.” He gave a firm nod. “I believe so.”
“Very good. When will I meet the lass?” His father smiled ruefully. “It’s been twenty-five years since there was a woman in our family.”
“Soon,” said Felix, thinking rapidly. “Well—once she says yes. No point otherwise.”
His father gave a bark of laughter. “No, indeed!” He sobered, then put out his hand. “Thank you for telling me. It makes my heart glad.”
“Aye.” Slowly Felix smiled back and clasped his father’s hand. “Have I your blessing?”
Lachlan raised his brows. “You’ve never lacked it, Felix.” There was a tap at the door, and Mathison the clerk peeked in. “Go to it, lad, and win your lady’s heart.”
Felix’sgood feeling persisted for several days.
St. James had gone back to Fort George near Inverness to resign his army commission, and asked Felix to see to his family in his absence. From his expression, it was obvious his friend knew he would be there anyway.
He was. He was invited to tea, and to sit with them in church. Louisa St. James’s approval was evident in the way he and Agnes were always allowed to close up the shop and linger. He had learned to leave a few minutes for her to put her hair and dress back to rights before they walked home together, arm in arm.
Felix had got so far as planning where and how he would propose, when the first ominous ripples of scandal broke. He strode into Agnew’s one morning, late as usual—he and Agnes had walked slowly that morning—and found a larger crowd than usual around the table where he and Hunter sat.
“What’s about?” He had to squeeze through to find his partner.
“Rumors.” Hunter nodded toward the man speaking. “About the thieves. Word is someone might be reaching for the pardon.”
After the St. James shop was robbed, Drew had flexed his new influence and urged the Procurator-Fiscal to offer a King’s Pardon to any thief who came forward and gave evidence about the crimes. Such a pardon would save a man from prosecution not only for the robberies but for every other crime he had committed in his life. The offer, printed in the papers, had caused a renewed flurry of gossip.
This seemed different, though. “But who is it?” one fellow was asking, in hushed tones.
Michael Oliphant, the bearer of these tidings, shrugged. He defended criminal charges and was frequently in and around the Tolbooth jail. “No name was mentioned.”
“What clues were given?” asked Felix, to a rumble of chuckles.
Oliphant winked. “That it was a name we would all ken—a man of some prominence.” Startled mutters swept the small crowd.
“The thief?” whispered Felix to Hunter, incredulous.
His partner nodded. “’Tis said there’s more than one thief, and that the mastermind is a substantial man of town. Oliphant’s been boasting that he’s heard things from a deputy sheriff.”
Felix twisted his mouth. Criminal lawyers always claimed that.
“If a prominent man is involved, we ought to be able to deduce who he is,” said one man.
“The ablest minds in Edinburgh, right here,” added another, eliciting more chuckles.
A few names were bandied about, analyzed for likelihood, and mostly dismissed. The more prominent the man, the more stupid he would be to risk everything by robbing shops up and down the High Street. Felix listened skeptically, until one name caught his ear.
“Deacon Fletcher.”
William Fletcher was Deacon of the Wrights, a town councillor, and owner of one of the largest cabinetry shops in town. He was also the father of Ilsa Ramsay, who was soon likely to be—if Felix read the signs correctly—Mrs. Andrew St. James, the future Duchess of Carlyle.
“Fletcher,” scoffed one. “He could buy and sell half this town, and send the other half to jail!” The man who’d proposed it shrugged, and the discussion flowed on.
Except in Felix’s mind, where little scraps of info were tumbling together into a worrisome bundle. Fletcher made fine furniture, like the walnut bookcases and cabinets in Lachlan Duncan’s law chambers, and the heavy, carved door to the offices with the good lock in it.
Felix remembered that lock. Several years ago, one of his father’s clerks had been caught reading files and selling the info he gleaned from them. Lachlan had had every lock in the office replaced, even on the cabinets, and Fletcher’s men had done them all. Because Fletcher was also a locksmith.
The door of the St. James silk shop had been opened as easily as if the thieves had a key. Like many in Edinburgh, Mrs. St. James left the key hanging just inside the door, in plain sight. She’d never missed it, but if someone took an impression of it… someone able to make a false key…
He retreated to a private table to dash off a quick note. Then he muttered an excuse to Hunter and went out to hire an express messenger to Fort George.
