“What about Dixon’s family, Sydney? What do you know about them?” Ciaran turned his tumbler in his hand, watching with what looked like lazy interest as the liquor swirled in his glass. But Lachlan knew better. Ciaran’s knuckles were white, and his body tense as he awaited Sydney’s reply.
“Only that he doesn’t have any. Not in London, anyway.”
“Where, then?” Ciaran’s gaze met Lachlan’s over the top of his glass. “English countryside somewhere?”
“No.” Sydney brought his own glass to his lips, and tipped the remaining liquor down his throat. “His family is Scottish, I believe, on the mother’s side. Dixon’s got some cousin or some such way up in the Highlands somewhere.”
Lachlan went utterly still, his gaze fixed on the flames dancing in the grate, his ears filled with the hiss and snap of burning wood. He was afraid to move, afraid to look at Ciaran—afraid to do anything that might reveal his sudden, intense urgency.
“Oh?” He managed at last, every nerve in his body straining to keep his voice even. “Where in Scotland would that be?”
“Christ, who knows? He told me once, but…” Sydney blew out a breath, tipped his head back against his chair, and closed his eyes as he tried to recall. “Someplace north. That is, all of Scotland is north, of course, but this was as far bloody north as you can get, on the northwestern coast.”
Lachlan gripped his tumbler, and made himself concentrate on the cool, smooth glass under his fingertips as dread clutched at his throat. Jesus, he was one moment away from tackling Sydney and shaking the name out of him.
“Let’s see. It’s one of those damn tongue-twisting Scottish names, isn’t it? Someplace called Ach…Achhilt…”
“Achiltibuie?” Ciaran’s voice was low and tense.
“Yes! That’s it. Achiltibuie. Remote place, he said.”
“Very remote,” Ciaran echoed faintly. His face had gone white. “It’s the neighboring village to Lochinver, where we grew up.”
“Indeed? What an odd coincidence. Dixon mentioned his family is mostly gone, but he has a cousin or two up there he corresponds with.”
Sydney rose and wandered over to the brandy decanter, but turned around again in surprise when Ciaran and Lachlan both leaped to their feet. “Are you off, then?”
“Yes. It grows late. It’s nearly time for Lady Entwhistle’s ball.” Lachlan dropped his glass on a side table.
“Is it as late as that?” Sydney retrieved his pocket watch and flipped it open to check the time. “Egads, it is. I’d better dress at once.”
“We’ll see you there, then?”
Sydney beamed. “Indeed you will. Your sister has promised me her first dance.”
Ciaran abandoned his glass next to Lachlan’s. “Our sincerest thanks, Sydney. You’ve been a tremendous help to us.”
“Have I, indeed? I can’t imagine how, but I’m pleased to hear it.” Sydney gave them an affable smile. “Until later this evening then, gentlemen.”
Lachlan managed to keep calm until Sydney’s butler closed the front door behind them, but then he sprinted across the street toward the carriage, with Ciaran right on his heels, shouting to the driver as he ran. “Lady Chase’s, in Bedford Square, and hurry, man!”
The driver’s eyes went wide. “Yes, sir. Right away, sir!”
They’d hardly slammed the carriage door behind them before Lachlan was hammering his fist on the roof. “Go, damn you.”
The carriage screeched away from the curb, the whole equipage rattling as it careened over the rutted street.
Ciaran had thrown himself into the opposite seat, and now his eyes met Lachlan’s, stark panic in the blue depths. “Christ. Dixon’s bloody cousin will have told him everything. Isla’s attack—”
“Except he won’t have said it was an attack. That’s the part everyone in Lochinver forgets. James Baird attacked Isla. He hurt her, and he would have done worse if given the chance. That part of the story never gets told, does it? No, Dixon’s cousin will have written that Isla’s a whore, and I’m a murderer.”
Ciaran dragged a hand through his hair, his face ashen. “How could this have happened, Lachlan? We were so sure that story would remain buried, and now…Jesus. Finn will hear of it, and how do you suppose he’ll react? We lied to him. He’d be well within his rights to toss us all out on our arses.”
“He would be.” What sense was there in arguing? Ciaran was right. They’d lied, or neglected to reveal an important truth, which was the same thing. Why should Finn excuse them? “I should have told them the truth. Every word of it, right from the beginning.”
But he hadn’t. He’d held back because of his promise to his mother. He hadn’t trusted Finn with the truth, even after Finn had given him every reason to trust him. Now his silence had put Hyacinth in danger. Jesus, he’d never regretted anything more in his life.
If anything should happen to her…
