Winnifred strode to her desk. Eagerly, she took a letter opener to Mr. Holme’s letter only to press her lips tight in frustration. The man’s handwriting was a cramped, barely legible mess. It would take her an hour to decipher.
She wrapped her shawl more tightly about her shoulders and started the tedious work of interpretation.
A soft ‘ahem’ sounded behind her.
She turned to see the butler hovering at the door once more. “Yes?”
“You have a caller, milady.” He sniffed. “A Mr. MacConnell. He says you are previously acquainted.”
Winnifred blinked. There was a time when she’d (have thrown the door open to hurried to greet Donald herself, but their friendship hadn’t ended to their mutual liking. She tapped her finger on her lips. Their parting hadn’t been unfriendly, either, and he had been a good friend. “Is the Dowager Lady Dunkeld in her rooms?”
“I believe she’s in the garden, milady. Shall I ask her to join you?”
She placed her letters in the top drawer of her desk. “Please. And please send up refreshments, as well.”
She stood and smoothed her skirts. She’d forgone a fichu this morning and the bare skin above her bodice suddenly seemed to daring for a visit with an old friend, one who’d once hoped to be a little more than that. She pulled her shawl high over her shoulders and draped the ends down her chest. There. Perfectly respectable. She would never give her husband cause to doubt her faithfulness.
She eschewed the settee, not wanting to provide an opportunity for Donald to sit to close, and settled herself on a sturdy chair, the one Sinclair always chose to settle his large frame in when he joined her in her sitting room. The clock on the mantel ticked loudly as she waited. Finally, Deirdre swept in, carrying a pair of work gloves in her hands and a smudge of dirt on her chin.
Winnifred almost smiled. The bit of soil softened the woman, made her appear almost endearing.
Until Deirdre opened her mouth. “So, I’m here to chaperone ye and a former beau, is it? Ye do have a liking for Scottish men, I’ll give ye that.” She tossed her gloves on an end table. “Not that I can blame ye.”
Winnifred’s hands clenched before she forced them to relax. “You have dirt on your face. You might want to remove it before our guest arrives.”
Deirdre scurried to the mirror over the fireplace, pulling out her handkerchief and scrubbing her chin. “Drat”.
A footman stopped in the doorway. “Mr. McConnell,” he announced, then stepped aside.
Donald strode into the room, his gaze lighting up when he caught sight of Winnifred. “Winnie. I’m glad you could see me. I was waiting for what felt like ever so long.” He took her hand, not shaking it, merely holding on tight as he looked down on her. “I thought, mayhap, that becoming a marchioness had made you forget your old friends.”
“Of course not.” She slid her hand from his and pointed to the seat across from her.
Banquo and Horatio raised their heads at the stranger’s entrance. Banquo lumbered to his feet and strolled to stand in front of Winnifred before circling twice and dropping down to curl on his side.
She winced, and tugged her toes out from beneath him.
Horatio watched as Donald took his seat then rose to sit sentinel beside him. The dog’s head was almost on level with Donald’s.
Donald licked his lips. “Nice dogs.”
Deirdre turned from the mirror, her face clear. “Yes, they are splendid creatures.”
Craning his neck around, Donald jumped to his feet and gave a stiff bow to the dowager.
Deirdre circled around the settee and dropped down. “The Dunkelds have always had Scottish deerhounds in our family,” Deirdre continued. “The most loyal of animals. And trained to protect what belongs to us.”
Winnifred pressed her lips together. She didn’t know which part of her mother-in-law’s statement was most objectionable. The idea that she was a belonging, a possession of the Archer family that needed guarding, or the idea that Horatio and Banquo would protect her against anything larger than a fly.
“Of course.” Donald sank to the edge of his seat and leaned on the opposite armrest from Horatio.
“Mother,” Winnifred said, the word tasting bitter on her tongue, “this is a friend of mine and my father’s, Mr. Donald MacConnell. Donald, the Dowager Marchioness of Dunkeld.”
“Donald, is it?” Deirdre arched an eyebrow. “Ye must have been close friends to address each other such.”
Donald chuckled. “I spent so much time in the Hannon’s house, I should have had me own bedroom. I ran errands for her father, bought his supplies, helped him in his greenhouse. He was a wee bit barmy about his plants and dirt, but we kept him in line, didn’t we, Winnie?” He winked at her, as though she were in on the joke.
Her stomach hardened. Jokes about a person’s mental health were never amusing.
