Page 62 of Hit Me With Your Best Scot
Cursing under his breath, Coll kept pace behind his sister and continued looking through his notes. Aden might have forgiven their mother for fleeing Scotland, buthehad no reason to do so. The woman hadn’t helped him with anything but frightening off lasses at the theater. And as for her claim that she’d sent letters he’d never received and that she’d never received the letters he’d senther, he didn’t believe it. That would mean someone—his da, Angus MacTaggert—had taken hold of them.
He slowed his charge through the milliner’s shop. Earl Aldriss, Angus MacTaggert, was a damned stubborn man. He clung to the old ways and had raised his three sons to be wild, independent, and suspicious of anything English. Especially their own mother. Did it make a difference if she’d written? Letters didn’t change the fact that she’d left the three of them behind, or that she’d never returned. If any letter contained an explanation forthat, he wanted to see it, by God.
For the moment, though, returning to the Saint Genesius and having another word with Temperance was more urgent. She’d given him perhaps two dozen names, half of which he’d already crossed off thanks to Eloise and her knowledge of theton. Most of them would have no reason in the world to wish her harm, even if she did have a large inheritance waiting for her. That still left four or five names, though, and with what Eloise had just told him, dear cousin Robert Hartwood sat directly at the top.
Comparing Temperance’s list with the one he’d made of the guests attending Lady Fenster’s idiotic masked soiree, it looked like six people Temperance had known before her flight would be in attendance—including her parents and, more significantly for her safety, her cousin Robert.
He’d used the list as a way to ask questions of Eloise, but now it looked as if he’d be attending. With every damned guest in a mask, though, he had a flea’s chance in the ocean of figuring out who it was he needed to watch.
“—new patron of Persephone Jones,” one of the other lasses in the shop was saying to her companion. “Didn’t you know? And he’s supposedly after a wife.”
Coll looked over at her. A petite blonde lass with curling ringlets framing her face and pouting lips she likelypracticed in the mirror for hours. “I am after a wife,” he said. “Are ye offering?”
The young lady squeaked like a mouse—and fainted to the floor. The other lasses rushed to surround her like a herd of cows protecting a calf, and with a short grin, he turned and left the shop.
The proper set, then, called him Persephone’s patron. He wasn’t her damned patron. He didn’t help her find roles or shop her about to other theaters. He was her damned lover, and her friend. And for the moment, her protector. Whether he wanted any or all of those things to continue indefinitely didn’t signify at the moment, because firstly he needed to keep her alive, and to stop whoever was trying to murder her.
The name he’d circled, the one most likely to try to kill her, had to be her cousin. In the Highlands, he’d have ridden to the man’s house, called him outside, and either beat him to a bloody pulp or outright ended him. But this was London, where people were civilized and family only tried to stab a relation in the back, not in the front. And so he had to be patient and careful, and figure out how to get himself close enough to Robert Hartwood to determine whether he was a villain—all while he didn’t even know what the man looked like.
Putting the list back in his pocket, he swung up on Nuckelavee. Identifying a man at a costume party without letting anyone else, including said man, know he was being tracked—that would be tricky. But he did happen to know one person who could point him out and who wouldn’t ask too many sticky questions, because she already knew the secret he’d promised to carry.
Would Temperance attend a ball in Mayfair, though? Even a masked one? If she wouldn’t do it for him, perhaps he could convince her to do it for herself. For them, because he damned well wanted to dance with her.
Temperance took the tray of glasses out of Gregory’s hands. “I can manage,” she told him, chuckling at a story Flora was telling about her early days working backstage at the Saint Genesius. “You stay and attempt to explain our general insanity to your brother.”
“I doubt anyone could do that,” her footman returned, but resumed his seat on the long couch.
“They all adore ye,” a deep Highlands brogue came from behind her as she entered the quiet kitchen.
“We’re family, I suppose. Lord knows everyone else thinks us mad.” Setting down the tray, she turned to face him. “Thank you for coming tonight. The little ones are very impressed with your title and accent.”
“And my kilt. The littlest bairn, Michael, tried to pull off his trousers and wrap a napkin about his waist.”
“Well, it’s a very attractive kilt. I can hardly blame him.” The kilt was far from the only attractive thing about him, but he’d probably already overheard both Flora and Beth refer to him as a Scottish god enough times tonight.
“Are ye truly worth a hundred thousand pounds?”
She was immediately glad she’d already put down the tray. “And where did you hear such a thing?” she managed, fluttering one hand.
“My sister. Dunnae fret, I wasnae talking about ye. But she said ye were worth a hundred thousand quid, and that yer parents likely havenae cast ye off because they hope the money’s enough to convince ye to return.”
The pleasant face her parents continued to produce for public use constantly amazed her. Perhaps they were where she’d gotten her talent for acting after all. “I imagine the reason my parents haven’t had me declared dead or disowned me is because then my cousin Robert would know he has the title and money coming to him, and he would cease to bow to their every whim. By dangling thatmoney, they keep control.” She sighed. “And no, last I knew, it wasn’t a hundred thousand pounds. It was closer to fifty thousand.”
“That’s nae a thing to scoff at, lass. Th—”
“It’s how they attempted to control me, as well,” she interrupted. “I would have the money under my own name after they died. Until then, I’d best do as they say, or it would all go to Robert.”
“Eloise thinks that after Robert weds, he’ll press yer parents to have ye declared dead.”
“He probably will. I doubt he’ll succeed.” She picked up a dishcloth, wiped her hands, and tossed it down again. “I don’t want the money. And I certainly don’t wish to be valued for it, as I was with Dunhurst.” Temperance eyed him. Of course she hadn’t mentioned the money. It always came down to that. Even with Coll, who needed money to keep Aldriss Park funded. If he had her, he wouldn’t need to respect his mother’s wishes. And while the idea that he had a legitimate reason to want to marry her had a certain appeal to it, despite what the rest of Society thought of her, she didn’t want to drag him into that game. No one ever won, except for her parents.
“Temperance,” he began, lowering his voice so no one beyond the kitchen would be able to hear him, “fifty thousand pounds equals fifty thousand reasons for someone to kill ye, if they thought it would give yer parents leave to hand over the money.”
She stared at him. “You think…” Choking on the words, she fetched the bottle of cooking wine and took a swig from it. “You thinkRobertis trying to kill me?”
“It’s the best motive I can see,” Coll returned mildly, “unless there’s someone else who’d inherit it after him.” He shrugged. “Ye know he’s betrothed, aye? Set to wed at the end of the summer.”
“Yes. To Caroline Rilence. We went to school together.”Temperance grimaced. “I keep up with the Society pages. I like to know who’s in Town, who’s marrying whom, and whether I’m still alive or not.”
