Katharine Ashe - When a Scot Loves a Lady

“The director would also like confirmation of Seton’s resignation from the Club, from his own hand.”

“Then, no Scottish rebels or French spies after all?” Yale’s gaze shifted between Leam and Gray.

“Not at this time.”

“Then why did you mention them?” They’d known each other for years, but Leam did not entirely trust his old friend. Colin Gray possessed one purpose in life: to keep England safe. Leam did not fault him for it, but neither did he understand it. He felt no such staunch loyalty to anything. He only pretended it.

“I hoped you would bite at the bait. But clearly that is not to be.” Gray’s regard remained sober.

“Will you do this last favor?”

Jin’s ship was berthed in Bristol. Leam could make it there on horseback and still arrive at Alvamoor in time for Christmas. He would like to see the sailor once more before retreating to Scotland. And he owed it to Gray, the man who had come to his rescue when he’d needed it five years earlier.

He nodded.

“Good.” Gray strode toward the door. He paused there. “Keep yourself out of trouble, Yale.”

“Not a breath of scandal shall be linked to my name.”

The viscount looked as though he wished to smile. “I daresay.” He bowed to Constance. “My lady.” He departed.

Upon the hearth rug, Hermes shifted onto his side with a lazy sigh.

“What do you say, Con,” Yale quipped, assessing her from brow to toe. “Join me for a midnight stroll? With you on my arm I shall be in heaven.”

“Oh, Wyn. Go.”

Silvery eyes alight, the young man grinned, bowed, and followed Gray from the house.

Constance chuckled. “He is incorrigible.”

“He holds you in very high esteem.”

“He likes to pretend he does, but I have yet to encounter the girl who could—” Abruptly she turned from her contemplation of the door to Leam. “Are you truly going to Scotland? Permanently this time?”

“Aye.”

She tilted her golden head. “Can you be happy at Alvamoor?”

“It is my home, Constance.”

“Won’t she always be there, in a manner?”

“Better in the ground than in the house.”

She flinched, a delicate withdrawal of tapered shoulders. “Those words are not you.”

“They are as much me as aught else.” More so. Nothing remained of the foolish lad he had been six years ago.

“You have not forgiven her in all this time?”

“The righteous make far too much of forgiveness.”

She remained silent a moment. Then, “I am to dine with Papa this evening. He will no doubt read the paper while we eat and leave to me all the conversation.”

Leam smiled for her sake. She sought to divert him. Even as a mere slip of a girl she had. But she had been too late. “Give my best to His Grace.”

She lifted her cloak from a chair. “Why don’t you join us? Papa asked after his favorite nephew only this morning.”

“Thank you. I am otherwise engaged.” If he were to make it to Alvamoor by Christmas, he must move swiftly to meet Jinan on the coast. Yale, of course, would accompany him.

Her carriage stood at the curb, an elegant vehicle with the ducal crest covered. He handed her in.

She squeezed his fingers. “After the season I will come up to Alvamoor for the summer.”

“Fiona and Jamie will be in alt. As will I. Until then.” He reached to shut the door. Constance’s hand on his sleeve arrested him.

“Leam, have you considered marriage? Again?”

“No.” Never again.

She held his gaze. “Have a pleasant trip, darling,” she said softly. “Happy Christmas.” She drew her cloak close about her and sat back on the squabs.

The rumble of the carriage receded down the street. He pivoted about and for a long moment stared at the door to 14½ Dover Street. For five years he had given his life to the king’s pleasure, behind that door with the raptor-shaped knocker, and in ballrooms, drawing rooms, and squalid alleyways throughout London. Throughout all of Britain. Commenced in desperation on an eastern-

sailing ship, his tenure as a member of the Falcon Club had distracted him. Aye, for a time, it had distracted.

He turned away and started up the street. Gas lamps and the tread of his boots marked his passage through the midnight gloom. He needed the scent of the north in his senses. The Lothians at midwinter called, vibrant skies crystal clear unless they were fraught with clouds or pouring buckets of rain or barrels of snow upon a man’s lands.

Christmas at Alvamoor. This year, the first in five, he would remain past Twelfth Night. He would remain indefinitely.

As he walked, the back of his neck prickled, and he knew he was watched. As with so much of late, he cared little.

A fortnight later Somewhere along the road, Shropshire

“Kitty, I do beg your pardon.” Lady Emily Vale dragged up the hood of her cloak to cover pale, short-cropped locks and a finely tapered jaw. “My parents’ home is not three miles distant, yet I am certain Pen cannot drive the carriage another yard in this blizzard.”

“Come now, Athena, it cannot be helped.”

“I meant to tell you, I have changed it to Marie Antoine.” Emily buttoned the throat of her cloak and pursed her lips. “Those ninnies in the Ladies Regiment ruined Athena for me. They hadn’t any interest whatsoever in literature or politics. All they knew of ancient Greece were gowns and headdresses.”

Kitty smiled. Through the carriage window and a curtain of snow she surveyed the excessively modest inn in the failing light of evening. A squat two stories, the structure boasted a peeling marquee, rough-hewn door, and four wretchedly small front windows. The yard stretched less than forty feet in either direction, blanketed in snowy furls and cords.

Beyond, along a string of unprepossessing stone and timber buildings, the village’s main street, thickly white and swirling with wind, simply fell away into the river. Save for smoking chimneys, the only other visible movement was at the door of a pub teetering over the edge of a dock as a patron passed into it, escaping the storm.

The inn’s stable, however, seemed sturdy enough for the carriage and team. A donkey brayed. The stable, it seemed, was already inhabited.

The accommodations could not be helped. But it mattered little where Kitty lost herself in England as long as it was far from London.

“This will do,” she murmured. “This will do quite well.”

“I suppose it has the advantage of being as far from your mother and her beau as my parents’ home,” Emily offered.

“I daresay.” Kitty’s grin widened. Douglas Westcott, Lord Chamberlayne, adored her mother as much as her mother adored him. But the dowager would not even go to the shops without her spinster daughter. For years they had been inseparable, as close as mother and daughter could be. In Kitty’s estimation this did not leave sufficient space for proper lovemaking, or for a widowed gentleman to address his suit to a widowed lady with any measure of success. And so four days earlier, at shockingly short notice to the woman with whom she had spent every day for the past decade, and with only a kiss on the cheek, Kitty had set off to Shropshire for Christmas.

She pressed open the carriage door. “This storm will help with your little problem too, Marie.”

“Do you think so?”

“It could not have been more fortuitously arranged.”

A boy emerged from the stable, clomping through the white up to his knees. The coach leaned as Mr. Pen jumped off the box, snow descending from his coat in chunks.

“Poor man.” Kitty pulled her hood over her hair arranged into elegant plaits that morning by her superior maid. At some point during the day of increasingly slow travel, Emily’s first coachman had outstripped the servants’ carriage on the road, declaring his determination to achieve his master’s estate before the storm set in.