Page 40 of What a Highlander’s Got to Do

Nick made a sound, like a growl. “No. Her hair is . . . gossamer.”

He had no idea why they both gaped at him.

“Gossamer?” they parroted in tandem. And then they laughed again.

“He must be in love,” Penny said.

“He must be.”

What rot. He wasn’t in love. He just wanted to find her again. To . . .

To what?

He didn’t believe this was love, but it was something. And he planned to do whatever it took to explore these strange feelings.

But first, he had to find her again.

How on earth could he do that? There were upward of ten thousand members of the ton, all descending on London for the Season. They all had hundreds of servants. That was a lot of searching.

The only saving grace was that this was a Scottish household . . .

And then, suddenly, like a bolt from the blue, the answer came to him.

There was one woman who knew the comings and goings of everyone in society—particularly the Scots. One woman who would know the answer to this question.

But it was a dangerous pursuit. She was a dangerous woman. Just the thought of it sent a frisson of trepidation up his spine. Nick had to find a way of querying this maven without letting on he had any interest in the woman in question.

Because if she realized his true intent, this could end in disaster.

But there was nothing for it.

He had to go visit his mother.

A dangerous pursuit indeed.

* * *

As Nick strolled up the curved drive to his childhood home, the infamous Moncrieff Mansion, Uncle Malcolm came rushing out with a look of terror on his face.

“Don’t go in there,” he warned. “She’s on a mission.”

Nick grimaced. Visiting his mother was a challenge on a good day, but when she was on a mission, it was even worse. Lord knew what he would end up doing. Once he’d had to entertain a house full of orphans she was trying to pair up with families, and once when she was attempting to reform prisons, she’d made him tour Newgate. More than once he’d escorted bluestockings to musicales. He hadn’t minded the bluestockings—they were interesting—it was the musicales that turned his stomach.

Normally, he would take Malcom’s advice and flee, but today he had a mission of his own.

“Are you serious?” his uncle bellowed as Nick continued up the drive. “You don’t know what you’re in for.” And when Nick ignored him, he shook his head and took off in the opposite direction.

But no doubt, it was probably too late for him.

The great foyer was silent and cool as Nick let himself into the house. The marble beneath his feet was bright and white and the banister gleamed. The air smelled faintly of beeswax. It was an elegant and peaceful milieu, hardly the horrors Malcolm’s gloom brought to mind.

But then he heard it, from his right, in the parlor.

Laughter.

Female laughter.

He tried not to shudder.