In the wee dark hours, she’d dreamed of noble knights—in the form of the earl—riding to her rescue. But despite his kisses and lust, Ives was a busy man. Now that she was out of his demesne, he had no reason to care what she did.
She might long for a shining knight, but she and her sister were all they could count on. She posted the letter to the queen.
With regret, she cut off another pearl from her mother’s wedding necklace. The countess had been justifiably proud of the exquisitely matched pearls, but she’d had the long chain cut in two to provide chokers for both her daughters for their one season.
And now they were using the heirloom to sustain their freedom. Iona had become inured to cutting up her mother’s legacy, but a tear still crept down her cheek as she took money in exchange for precious memories.
Then she bought a train ticket to the Calder station. In Calder, she found a carter waiting to see if there were any guests for the castle. She climbed in with a load of building supplies heading that way.
Calder Castle wasn’t as impressive as Wystan. It was an ancient stone fortress with crenellations, a Gothic exterior, and an incredibly large tower keep. The courtyard teemed with men carrying tools and building materials.
Hoping to avoid being seen by Lydia, the Malcolm Librarian, or Mr. Ives, her husband, Iona pulled her old-fashioned bonnet closer and aimed for the kitchen door in the rear. It helped that she and Isobel knew more about kitchens than ballrooms. Going in through the kitchen also meant her sudden appearance wouldn’t startle Isobel—always a bad thing.
She handed the reference letter to the elderly butler to whom the scullery maid presented her. He carried it off into the depths of the house, leaving Iona twiddling her thumbs and wondering if she could afford a night in the village inn if Isobel were not here.
To her relief, her sister rushed in with no sign that her arrival had caught her by surprise. “Iona, thank the stars! I was so worried. Let us go to my room. The castle doesn’t have a steward’s cottage, but I have my very own lovely room.”
“Don’t you have an office?” Iona asked worriedly. “Won’t people think it odd if you interview me in your chamber?”
Isobel huffed a sigh. “I hate this. Of course, you’re right. My office is a cubbyhole full of moldering old bookkeeping journals. Let me take you out to the kitchen garden.”
She pulled on a cloak and they walked into the cloudy, windy afternoon.
“I’ve written the queen,” Iona said without preamble. “Mother always said we should if we needed help. I have asked her to grant one of us a letter patent.”
“What good will a useless title do?” Isobel asked bitterly. “We can’t go to London and vote that Mortimer be hanged.”
“Aye right, the country has gone to the verra dogs since the Brits took over,” Iona said in amusement. “All good Scotsmen should be allowed to hang thieves.”
“Yes, quite. So I repeat, what will we accomplish?”
Iona took a deep breath. “If I can find someone to negotiate for us, I could marry the American swine and take a large settlement in return for his calling himself Lord Arthur. We could use the money to return to Craigmore. We’d put new locks on the doors and hire guards to heave Mortimer out. Or we could go to Canada. You could dress in silks and pearls and find a real husband. With money, we have choices.”
“I’d rather muck pigs than wear silk,” Isobel said. “You’re the eldest. I suppose it’s only proper for you to take the title. But oh, Iona—it would be such a lonely life! Can you lock out a husband as well?”
“That would be part of the settlement,” Iona said grimly. “He could take his title and return to the Americas. Or parade about London, I don’t care, as long as he stays away from us. We wouldn’t be part of the agreement. I know you would make a better countess. You’ve always wanted to return Craigmore to our grandfather’s glory, but you want a husband and children as well. I’d rather see the world. I don’t think I’d mind living in sin should I ever find a man worth having.”
Isobel grimaced. “Let’s go back to that point about negotiating a settlement. How in all the world would we do that?”
“Therein lies the difficulty—we must choose whom to trust with our identities. At the moment, the only people who know both of us are the Librarians. The Earl of Ives and Wystan knows only mine.”
As the trainpulled into the Edinburgh station, Gerard set aside his newspaper and gathered up his hat and coat. Lowell had already gone in search of the baggage, proving his usefulness again. At least a valet didn’t cost as much as a new roof.
“The Royal, sir?” Lowell asked, juggling both their valises.
“It’s a place a wealthy American might stay if he wished to hobnob with princes, isn’t it?” Gerard said in resignation. It would also put a pretty hole in his pocket.
“Indeed, sir, if they are not actually staying with princes,” Lowell said in the dry manner Gerard was learning to appreciate.
In comparison to London’s older, more grandiose hotels, this pragmatic Scots one lacked opulence, but the staff responded to aristocratic titles with the same alacrity. Gerard asked if Rainford happened to be staying there and was assured the clerk would let the marquess know of his arrival. He asked for a copy of DeBrett’s to be sent up with his tea.
A plan ground in the back of his brain, but he needed to find the damned countess for her approval. The Roman soldier in his head grunted. Was the spirit psychic or simply disagreeable?
After he reached the suite he’d been assigned, Gerard sent off several notes to family and acquaintances. The DeBrett’s list of the aristocracy merely confirmed what he already knew. He didn’t want to reveal anything that wasn’t available to all.
He paced the chamber impatiently until a servant knocked with a reply from Rainford. Lowell made an attempt to protest that he hadn’t dusted off his travel dirt, but Gerard didn’t have time for niceties. He had to find Iona, and he needed to set his half-baked plan in motion before he set out.
Dressed in impeccable gray evening attire, Rainford raised a quizzical brow at Gerard’s travel clothes but unquestioningly followed him to the hotel’s spacious tavern. Dark-panels, dim lights, linen tablecloths all spoke of a sophistication not to be found in a normal pub. It looked like just the place to find a wealthy American and bad food.
