Page 28 of The Devil Wears Kilts
“See that ye do.”
Once Ranulf changed out of his riding coat and boots, he returned downstairs to his office. Now he had English servants running through Tall House, but there was little he could do about that. Myles’s assessment of his situation was correct, and hiring people who knew nothing at all about Highland troubles made sense.
He sank into the flimsy chair behind the too ornate mahogany desk and pulled out pen and paper to write a letter to Arran. His brothers needed to know that the fortnight had now become an open-ended excursion, and he needed a few more of his things sent down to London.
For a moment he considered asking for one or both of them to join him here, but with Donald Gerdens making his presence known, they were likely safer where they were. Especially Bear; if he and any Gerdens ever ended up in the same room, only one of them would leave it on his own two feet. And he didn’t want Munro put into an English prison. Not for anything.
Yes, he was accustomed to a loud, full house of family and friends, but that was at home. This, whatever else it was, was not home. It never would be. He sat back for a moment. What he could most use here was someone who knew the lay of the land, someone who knew which other “reformed” Scots were in London and in what numbers.
That made his thoughts turn to his uncle. Yes, Myles Wilkie would have been perfect, except Ranulf remained unsure whether he could trust the viscount’s judgment. The fact that Myles had been trying to help and caused such a near disaster almost made it worse.
On the other hand, when a man had limited resources, there were no perfect options. He could always ask Charlotte, he supposed, except for the fact that firstly, she wanted him to be less Scottish; secondly, he wasn’t certain they were speaking; and thirdly, that would mean a quiet, protracted conversation where he could very likely do something idiotic like kiss her again.
Perhaps Myles was the wiser choice, after all.
“M’laird?”
He looked up from the half-finished letter to see Owen standing in the doorway. “Everyone is safe back at Hanover House?”
“Aye. And I think Lady Winnie’s pleased to have Una there with her. A touch of home, I ken.”
Ranulf nodded. “I feel a mite better with Una there, as well. Anything else?”
“Well, I’m nae entirely certain. Peter says footmen and such’ve been coming by all morning, saying ‘by yer leave’ or ‘with respect,’ and handing over these.” The former soldier held up a tray piled high with cards and notes, and one ribbon-wrapped box.
Hm. “Let’s see ’em.”
He’d attended Oxford, because it was the law that the firstborn son of every Scottish laird receive an English education. He’d then insisted that his brothers go as well, because he’d wanted them to know who and what they were all up against. And so he knew what sat on his salver: the most dangerous and insidious of all things English. The calling card.
Dismissing Owen, he went through all of them. A few were from men and women to whom he’d been introduced at Almack’s by Charlotte. Most were from people he’d never heard of, inviting him to breakfast, luncheon, and soirees. Evidently the Sasannach were excited to have a devil in their midst. Perhaps they thought he’d dance a jig and play the pipes for them.
It was tempting to toss all of them into the wastebasket, but he resisted the impulse. The Hanovers, and thereby his sister, might well be attending some of these events, so an invitation for him would come in handy—like the one he’d received yesterday for the Evanstone soiree. Still, though, it felt like looking at pieces of some silver-embossed puzzle when he didn’t know what picture they all formed.
He saved the box for last. No note or card accompanied it, and he shook it a little before he untied the ribbon. It felt heavy for such a small thing, and caution made him set it flat and push back in his chair before he flipped off the lid with one finger. Nothing moved inside, no scent emerged, and he slowly stood to look down into it. A small ball of wool had been stuffed inside, leaving no open space at all. Wool to him meant Cheviot sheep, which meant some sort of message from another laird with a seat in the Highlands who didn’t like his so-called anarchic plans to keep his people close and see that they were educated and fed and employed.
Wool, though, wasn’t that heavy. Frowning, he picked up the box and tipped it over. The wool fell with a dull thud. Taking a breath, he pulled the thing apart with his fingers. A moment later a solid lead musket ball dropped onto the polished surface of the desk. Now that was a better threat than a handful of dirty wool.
“Well, now,” he murmured, not surprised to see that someone had scratched the word “MacLawry” onto the surface of the ball. He picked it up, letting it roll about in his palm. After Almack’s, everyone would know he was in London. But not everyone would wish him to know that he was in danger. “Peter!” he called, seating himself again.
The footman reappeared in the doorway. “Aye, m’laird?” His gaze dropped to the desktop, and he stepped forward. “That was in that wee box?”
“Aye. A ball with my name on it. Poetical, don’t ye think?”
Peter picked it up, clenching it in one fist as though he wanted to grind it into dust. “The man who brought the box wasnae in livery,” he said after a moment, his lined face grim. “Tall lad, light hair, but I doubt I’d recognize him again. Damnation.”
Shaking his head, Ranulf held out his hand for the ball. “Dunnae worry yerself. We knew trouble waited here. Kind of it to make itself known, really.” He pushed to his feet. “Have someone go by Mr. Smythe’s tailor shop in the next hour or so, will ye? He’s prettying up a coat fer me.”
“Aye. And where’re ye off to, then?”
“A stroll. I ken we’d be better off if I knew the streets around here better.”
The footman scowled. “Ye can’t think to go out now, m’laird!”
“Why not, because someone wants me dead? Since when has someone not wanted me put under the ground? I find it more helpful at the moment to know who might be in London fer the Season and living on my doorstep.”
“Well, Owen and I are goin’ with ye.”
“No, ye aren’t. Fergus is. Ye’re going to watch the door. Owen!”
