When a Scot Loves a Lady

this, but when I know I will tell you.

It would be wonderful if I discovered them to be a society of bird-watchers. I might even join them if I could spare the time. But I doubt I will find that. Bird watchers are quiet folk, but not to my knowledge particularly secretive.

—Lady Justice Sir, Please note the enclosed leaflet. Do you wish me to take any action at this time?

Eagle has returned to town and requested that Mr. Grimm be assigned to watch a house for the safety of its resident. I have allowed it, under the condition that Eagle assent to the other matter on which you are eager for his assistance.

The resident is a party well known to you due to her involvement in the affair concerning L.P. in June. Eagle believes she may be in danger. We have not pinpointed a source, but naturally we shall in short order. In the meantime, Sea Hawk has sent word that the resident may be able to help us in the project he currently pursues. Eagle refuses to divulge more, but I cannot believe this is a coincidence. Do I have your permission to pursue the matter as I see fit?

Peregrine

Chapter 17

She was the only unwed lady present at the political luncheon. She should not be present at all. She never should have. But her mother had always indulged her, pretending not to notice whispered disapproval even at such events where an informed mind counted for more than a lady’s stained reputation or unwed status. The Dowager Lady Savege commanded far too much stature to care about what the gossips said, and she was always there to chaperone after all.

But the gossips would talk and Kitty could not avoid hearing some of it. She had never felt the censure quite as acutely as she did now. Perhaps it was because she no longer had a purpose for being in society so constantly. Or perhaps she simply did not care for politics any longer now that she had no desire to expose a rotten politician. Emily should be castigating her for shallowness rather than poor Mr. Yale.

“You did not touch the aubergine souffle, Kitty,” her hostess, the Countess of March, said. “I had my chef make it expressly for you.”

“Did you? You are too kind, ma’am.”

She was predictable. Friends knew what she liked to eat at a party. She could be guaranteed to attend because she hadn’t anything else to do. She might as well be eighty, stockings crumpled at her ankles, and telling outrageous stories to anyone who would listen.

But thinking about crumpled stockings made her think of Leam Blackwood. Nearly everything made her think of him. And she did not want to, because every time she did her cheeks burned with shame.

Save me from this need.

Oh, God. It made her want to sink into the floor and die to recall it. Could she have been more thoroughly ridiculous? She had begged him to make love to her. Begged.

Worse even than the shame, however, was the misery inside her that would not abate. She’d thought returning to town would alleviate that. When Mr. Worthmore, then within the hour Mr. Yale departed Willows Hall and Emily was once again her earnest, distracted self, Kitty had felt free to go home—to leave the place in which he’d made love to her, then abandoned her.

But it had not changed a thing. She still felt like a fool, and miserable.

“You are not yourself since you returned from the countryside, Kitty,” Lady March said, shifting closer on the couch. The countess had a quick mind and an air of quiet fashion that Kitty liked. Her crinkled gaze, however, was too knowing.

“Oh, I am as happy as a clam,” she replied perhaps too blithely.

The countess lifted a brow. “A clam?”

“Or what have you.” Kitty waved her hand about.

Murmured conversation mounted to a cascade of laughter across the drawing room for a moment, then quieted again.

“Tell me, what did you do while in Shropshire?”

She developed a bewilderingly desperate tendre for an inappropriate and untrustworthy man.

“I completed a lovely piece of embroidery. My mother has sent it to the cabinetmakers already.

You know the one on Cheapside. He will set it into a stool. Roses and cherries on a blush backing, with mahogany stain. I simply adore red.”

“Kitty Savege, you sound like a perfect nincompoop.”

Kitty’s eyes widened.

“What happened to the young lady everyone admired who could converse on politics, books, theater, and the like?” The countess’s lips pinched. “Does Chamberlayne’s courtship disturb you?”

“Oh, no. I quite like him.” Her mother’s beau was unfailingly kind to her. He had not entirely fulfilled Kitty’s hopes over the holiday, but she had cause to believe an offer forthcoming. She had returned to find her mother in possession of the loveliest necklace of silver and lapis lazuli, a gift from the gentleman. Kitty had clasped the piece about her mother’s neck earlier, praising its delicate beauty, and the dowager’s cheeks glowed. Kitty’s father had never given his wife baubles, reserving them instead for his mistress.

Now Ellen Savege stood beside Lord Chamberlayne across the drawing room, a spark animating her eyes.

“Then what on earth is the matter with you?” Lady March demanded.

“I am no doubt simply bored.” Or perhaps something more profound.

Certainly more profound.

“Bored? ”

“With the season still weeks away, entertainments are so thin and not particularly inspiring.” She sounded wretchedly wan. Really not herself at all.

The countess frowned. “Kitty Savege, you have never been rude a day in your life.”

“Oh, certainly not.” She had been horridly rude to Lord Blackwood. Then she had done to him exactly what he had been doing to her to justify her rudeness: she had held him for too long.

“You have insulted me and you do not even realize it,” the countess said without rancor. “I am concerned for your head, my dear.”

“What could possibly concern you about such a pretty head, my lady?” Lord Chamberlayne’s voice was warm as he stopped before them, her mother on his arm. There wasn’t a hint of false flattery about him. Kitty liked that. He seemed so honest, unlike a certain Scot who hid secrets and occasionally spoke to a lady in a rich resonant voice she wanted to eat with a spoon.

“I do feel a bit unstable these days,” she admitted.

Lady March peered at her. Lord Chamberlayne furrowed his brow and looked to her mother, who met her gaze evenly, as always.

“Perhaps a quiet evening of play will put you to rights again,” her mother suggested.

“Mama.” She stood. “I don’t wish to play. Cards no longer satisfy me.” They never would again after the game she had played Christmas Eve.

“Well, this is sudden, daughter.”

Kitty turned from her mother. “My lord, will you sit in for me at tonight’s card party?”

“I will be delighted.” He turned smiling eyes upon her mother, and her face lightened beneath his appreciative regard. They really were well suited, two people’s tastes never more similar. Why hadn’t he yet offered for her? Had Kitty thrown herself into a snowstorm and subsequently into the arms of a Scottish rogue all for nothing?

She turned to her hostess, despondency the size of a fist balled up in her stomach.