“My brother-in-law?” Just when her life seemed to be coming together, Sir Williamson was pulling the rug out from under their feet. The Duke of Ross had married her oldest sister, Iseabail. The gentle caring husband, who had convinced them all of his reformed ways, was responsible for everything?
She remembered the first time they had been introduced to Ross at their home in Urquhart Castle. Ross had hated their home, and though he had been pleasant enough to their faces, she and her sisters had left their home the very next day with the permanent brands of bastard attached to their name.
Yet, they had all believed his professed innocence. The careless rake was reformed and atoning for sins that weren’t meant to destroy their lives. Ross had taken the Blair sisters under his wing and paraded them around town as his wards while he wooed Iseabail. He had been so benevolent, the consummate defender of their honor.
She shook her head. If it were true, Ross was worse than William and much more dangerous…her sister was having his baby.
“As I said, she cannot return to Harding House. She must stay here.” Sir Williamson stood up to leave.
“Now hold on one blasted moment.” Simon said as he rose to his feet.
Caillen sat in stunned silence. She looked to Simon whose coloring was as white as her own. He had grown up with Ross. They were best friends, had been rogues and rakes together, and now they were being told that the man who was closer than a brother to Astley had more than likely set his townhome on fire. A fire that could have left Astley trapped on the upper floor. Could have killed his son, her son, and countless servants, all in an effort to destroy the book Sir Williamson was leaving with in his possession.
How many horrible men would attempt to destroy Blair sisters to gain money they didn’t possess?
Twelve
Sir Williamson,
I have received information from Bow Street Runner, Jonathan Payne, who comes highly recommended by the late Duke of Nithesdale and the current Duke of Ross, in regard to the sabotage at the construction sites of the Forth and Clyde Canals. He was with Ross at the time of Astley’s retrieval and learned some very interesting information while in France.
He met a man deep in his cups at The Happy Hag Tavern who claimed a French émigré by the name Comte Mathieu Armand du Motier was not all that he seems. The Comte reportedly traveled to England when Napoleon stole his family wealth and killed his parents and older brother. Except this man claimed the second son died along with his family. If this information is true, the imposter Comte may be responsible for the destruction of the canals, since he is involved with obtaining funding for the project and is attempting to push the agenda of Scotland importing American grain due to the country’s recent crop failures. He advised there was more to the story about the canals,but the gentleman with whom he was speaking, became suspicious, and he left The Happy Hag with the utmost haste.
I believe Mr. Payne will be an excellent asset to the Crown. He has shown dedication, discretion, and the ability to ferret out information where others have struggled. I regret to inform you that I will be resigning my commission and taking on my duties as the Earl of Dorset. It is a position I am ill-suited for, but I must think of my wife, child, and the vast number of servants and tenants I have acquired with my estates.
If it weren’t for my countess, I would have sailed far and fast before accepting this current assignment. You bastard, I know you had a hand in this. I am forever in your debt, but hate you just the same.
Dorset
—A letter to Sir Robert Williamson, War Office London, England from former agent, Elias Drake, who had been in the unique position of being a citizen of France and England. He rescued the Earl of Astley from Mont Saint Michel, France while sailing as a privateer for the Crown. For his dedication and service, he was made Earl of Dorset, a defunct title which he regrettably used while undercover.
Simon stopped Williamson from leaving with a slap of his crutch against the doorframe, blocking the door. Williamson looked at his crutch and slowly let his eyes travel the length of it before turning to face him.
“Do not think you can drop a cannon ball like that and then walk out this door. One, we require more explanation as to Ross’s part in this sordid affair, and two, I have not yet readTheWhispers of the Ton.” He snatched the paper from Williamson’s hand and sat down on the settee next to Caillen.
Gazing down at the etching on the newspaper, Simon noticed the printed date was the next day. “How did you obtain an advance copy of this trash?”
Except it wasn’t trash. Caillen was glorious in it, and the look of love and concern on her face as she gazed upon him, was nothing but a dream.
“I have my ways,” Williamson responded.
“Damn you, Williamson. I’m not threatened by your big hulking stature. There are ways to chop down the biggest tree in the forest, after all.” He didn’t voice what truly bothered him was how the spymaster drew Caillen’s attention. She watched him with an interest he did not care for. He supposed every woman watched Williamson when he walked into a room, and perhaps that was the exact reason why the man never went to ton events. Being a Douglas fir surrounded by holly bushes drew every eye to the stout tree. The attention didn’t necessarily assist a man in his quest to do the observing instead of being the observed.
Caillen moved closer, her thigh brushing his as she waited for him to unfold the paper. He looked down at her, vulnerability evident in the tension in her face. “I know you’ve viewed the etching and its caption, but the actual letter to the readers will probably be rather ugly. Are you ready for that?”
“I’m ready.”
He smiled down at her, proud of the strength she was beginning to recapture, and he unfolded the paper.
They studied the etching in silence. He looked a bit healthier than he actually was, but it wasn’t far from what his appearance had been before his capture by the French. Caillen, on the other hand, was as enticing as any goddess in mythology. Her golden hair tumbled down around her shoulders in glorious waves that made him want to take out her pins and run his fingers throughit, right then. Her scent was intoxicating at this proximity, causing a warring between his mind and body. His mind wanted to run, but his body wanted to nuzzle into her neck and follow the ebb and flow of her essence all the way to her core.
Get a grip, man.
The etching only displayed her profile. The likeness, however, was uncanny. Sir Williamson was correct. If she walked out his front door after this paper was published tomorrow, a person would have to be blind not to recognize her. The one detail missing from her rendering was the hairline scar through her eyebrow where he’d painstakingly stitched her closed that fateful day. If he had not been tasked with teaching his youngest sister the art of embroidery years ago, he would have never been able to make the scar as minimal as it was today.
He moved on to the article that accompanied the etching. ‘Blah, blah, blah, he’d returned to town…fire…unknown lady nurse.’The damned author may as well have issued a reward for the lady nurse’s identity. Drat, blast and damn.
“I will be sending over a new agent to work within your household. I believe you are in need of a valet.”
