“John MacNaughton dinnae live here?”
“No, my lady.”
Some activity behind the butler and a musical voice asked, “Who is it, Gibbs?”
The butler turned away. “A lady, Your Grace. She says she is the Countess of Kinmarloch. Looking for John MacNaughton, the Duke of Dunmore.”
A fluting laugh. “Oh, yes, women are coming out for the new duke in full-force. And so early in the morning. Have her come in so I can see the candidate.”
Helen was ushered through the door by the butler. There, in the hall of this fine London house, she was confronted by Jack Pike’s counterpart in beauty even though this lady was his opposite in every way. Short where he was tall. Soft and curving where he was hard and muscular. Dark-haired and fair-skinned where he was blond-brown and golden. Full, pouty, luxurious lips to his sculpted ones. Round, kissable cheeks to his angular cheekbones.
Feminine where he was masculine.
She saw Jack and this woman next to each other in her mind’s eye, and her breath was taken away.
“Yer Grace.” She stumbled over the words and curtsied.
The beauty surveyed her. “Scottish, of course. I should have known when Gibbs said Kinmarloch. Come into the drawing room, Lady Kinmarloch.”
Seated across from the duchess, Helen noted for the first time the color of her elegant dress. Black. Mourning. Most ladies did not marry while mourning, at least not in Scotland. Even if it were a distant relation who had died.
It came to her, then. She knew the house number had seemed familiar.
“Are ye the widow of Norman MacNaughton, the previous Duke of Dunmore?” It was a brusque question.But that is my way.
Startled violet eyes. A beautiful and sad smile. “I am.”
John MacNaughton might still be unmarried. He likely was. Helen should feel hope, but she did not.
“My condolences to ye, Yer Grace.”
“Thank you, Lady Kinmarloch.”
“I wrote many letters to ye and yer late husband.”
“Did you? I don’t recall.”
“I asked for some help. Kinmarloch is surrounded by Dunmore as ye probably know—”
“I don’t actually.” The duchess let out another beautiful laugh. “I know nothing of the place. Sadly, yes. But it’s so far, and everything of significance is in London.”
“Aye, but the—”
“And one gets so many letters asking for help. So many charities. So many musical societies and literary societies wanting endorsements or letters of support or, most vulgarly, money. Did you come to my house to ask for help? Is that why you’re looking for the current duke?”
The duchess did not need to know why Helen wanted to see John MacNaughton. “Do ye know where His Grace lives? Is his house near here?”
Lady Dunmore studied Helen again. “I have only your word you are who you say you are.”
“Aye, that is true, but—”
“And the current Duke of Dunmore is a very private man. Not welcoming to unexpected callers. But he is a very particular friend of mine. An intimate friend, one might say.” The duchess stood.
Helen recognized her time with the duchess was over. She stood as well.
Again, the laugh. Like a bird singing. “I will tell the duke about you, I promise. He will write to you in—what was it? Kinmarloch?”
“Aye, thank ye, Your Grace, but I am in London—”
