dear, my acquaintances stretch round the globe,” he said, and drew a large circle in the air.
Mr. MacLaren burst into loud laughter. “Then you must have a look at my American tobacco, sir, aye? You’ve no’ had as fine as this, on that you may depend.” And with that, he whisked Uncle Knox away to some lair to admire tobacco.
Mrs. MacLaren summoned tea for the two of them. Like her husband, she was jovial, and the small salon felt as gay as its mistress.
“How long will you grace us at Dungotty, then?” she asked Catriona as she poured tea.
“No’ long at all,” Catriona said. “Perhaps a fortnight, but no more. I’ve pressing business at home.”
Mrs. MacLaren did not inquire as to the pressing business as Catriona had hoped—she welcomed any chance to talk about Kishorn. “No’ for the summer? Dungotty is so lovely this time of year, what with all the peonies. The Hays, the former occupants, took great pride in their gardens.”
She had no doubt they did before they were summarily ousted. “They are indeed bonny,” she said. She picked up her teacup. “By the bye, we invited the Duke of Montrose to dine with us Thursday evening.”
Mrs. MacLaren’s surprise was evident in the manner her dark brows rose almost to her powdered hair. “Really,” she said, and put down her teacup, as if she couldn’t hold the delicate china and absorb the news at the same time. “That’s...surprising. He so rarely leaves Blackthorn.”
“Oh?” Catriona asked innocently. “Perhaps, but he’s our neighbor all the same. It would be rude not to have extended the invitation, aye?” She sipped her tea, then said coyly, “I’ve heard what is said of him.”
Mrs. MacLaren looked a wee bit nonplussed. “Aye, he’s been the subject of wretched gossip.” She stirred sugar into her cup and added, “I canna imagine there’s a soul in these hills who’s no’ heard what is said of him.”
“Do you believe it?” Catriona asked.
Mrs. MacLaren frowned. “I donna know what I believe, in truth. Lady Montrose was much beloved in and around Blackthorn.”
“It seems impossible that anyone can simply vanish, much less a duchess, aye?”
Mrs. MacLaren nodded. “Particularly such a bonny young woman. A true beauty, that she was. Och, but she was full of light and love, and younger than the duke. Quite young, really. And him so brooding,” she said with a shiver.
“Is he?” Catriona asked. She had thought him rude. But brooding?
“Rather distant, he is. But I suppose that’s to be expected from a duke.”
Catriona didn’t suppose any such thing, but she kept that opinion to herself. “What did the duchess look like?” Catriona asked.
“Oh, she had beautiful ginger hair and piercing green eyes,” Mrs. MacLaren said, happier to speak of the duchess. “A true beauty, that she was. He must have believed so, too, for he had her portrait made and hung it in the main salon at Blackthorn.”
“Why would anyone assume he’d murdered her, do you suppose?” Catriona asked. It seemed so curious to her that murder should be everyone’s assumption, rather than believing the duke had cast his wife out. A woman who’d been cast out by her husband had turned up at Kishorn Abbey a year or so ago. Did someone somewhere believe that woman had been murdered?
“I can hardly guess the workings of a deviant mind,” Mrs. MacLaren said with a slight sniff. “What I do know is that passion can often be a dangerous thing between two people. But I shall no’ speak ill of the duke,” she said, in spite of having just spoken ill of the duke. “He’s no’ been charged with a crime, has he? To speculate would be to malign his reputation, and no matter what else, he’s done a lot of good for his tenants. But he’s made no friends for himself, that is true. And besides...” Mrs. MacLaren’s voice trailed away.
“And besides?” Catriona gently prodded.
“Well...it was no secret that there was great unhappiness at Blackthorn.”
That was a foregone conclusion. Happy homes did not lose a member here and there. “What sort of unhappiness?”
“I know only it’s been said,” Mrs. MacLaren demurred, and sipped her tea. “Ah, but she was a bonny woman, indeed she was. Devoted to the staff and their families. And he, well...he was rarely seen about. Quite cold, that one. It will be a curious thing to see him in society.”
“I saw him in the common room at the Red Sword and Shield on the day I arrived,” Catriona said.
“Did you? Perhaps he’s changed his ways. God knows he needed to. All right,” Mrs. MacLaren said, putting her teacup down again. “Enough of the duke. Is it true that your uncle has brought Russians to Dungotty?” she asked.
Catriona said it was true, and as Mrs. MacLaren began to speak of a chance meeting with a Russian count several years ago, Catriona thought of the dark-eyed man with the stern countenance and the portrait of his wife—Dead wife? Missing wife?—hanging in his salon.
Catriona hoped he would come to dine. She hadn’t been as diverted by a terrifyingly slanderous tale in ages.
Fortunately for her, they received the duke’s favorable reply on Wednesday.
“YOU’RE CERTAIN OF THIS, are you?” Hamlin asked.
“Aye,” Eula said. She was standing on a chair before him, working on the knot of his neckcloth, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“I was speaking to Mr. Bain,” he said, and touched the tip of his finger to her nose.
“Aye, your grace, that I am,” a voice behind Hamlin said.
Hamlin eyed the reflection of his secretary, Nichol Bain, in the mirror. He was leaning against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, watching Eula’s ministrations. The auburn-haired, green-eyed young man was ambitious in the way of young men. He didn’t care about the rumors swirling around Hamlin, he cared about performing well, about parlaying his service to a duke to a better position. What would that be, then? Service to the king? Hamlin could only guess.
Bain had come to Hamlin through the Duke of Perth, the closest friend of his late father. As Hamlin had been a young man himself when he’d become a duke, Perth had taken him under his wing, and twelve years later, like his father before him, Hamlin considered Perth his closest adviser. Perth had brought Bain to him, had vouched for what Hamlin had thought were rather vague credentials.
Bain’s expression remained impassive as he calmly returned Hamlin’s gaze in the mirror. The man was impossible to discern. Whatever he thought about any given situation, he kept quite to himself unless asked. But he’d made up his mind about tonight’s dinner at once when Hamlin had asked. Frankly, he’d hardly thought on it at all. He’d said simply, “Aye, you must attend.”
Hamlin looked at himself in the mirror, eyeing his dress. He’d not seen
