When a Scot Loves a Lady

her.

“Perhaps a bit too bluntly put, Con,” Mr. Yale murmured, his gaze steady on her.

“Oh, I don’t imagine so. Leam would not admire her so much if she weren’t capable of a great deal of subtle understanding.”

Kitty was obliged to swallow across the dryness of her tongue. “Involved in the piracy exactly how?”

Lady Constance’s cerulean eyes sparkled. Mr. Yale grinned.

Constance said softly, “You must tell Lord Chamberlayne that Leam knows where the cargo is located and is working with a confederate to see it delivered to Highland rebels intent on separation from England.”

A shiver climbed up Kitty’s spine. She looked from one to the other. “Does he?”

“Not that we know,” Mr. Yale replied. “But if Chamberlayne is involved with the rebels, he won’t want the cargo’s location or its new owners bandied about, will he?”

“What would he do to someone who knew?”

The gentleman’s gaze remained steady. “Plotting rebellion, my lady, makes men anxious to remove obstacles.”

“You believe Lord Chamberlayne is truly consorting with rebels?” She could barely utter the words.

“Frankly we haven’t any idea. But informants suggest he is.”

“Then why does—Why doesn’t he? He told me he doesn’t believe any of it.”

Constance’s eyes shaded. Mr. Yale folded his hands behind his back.

Kitty’s heart raced. “He doesn’t care about it one way or the other, does he?”

“Not in the least.”

“Then why doesn’t he just go home? Isn’t that where he wishes to be anyway?”

Mr. Yale inclined his head, but did not speak. Constance’s soft gaze grew very direct. Kitty could not quite breathe.

He could not be doing it all for her. But they seemed to be saying exactly that. And Lord Gray.

Even Leam had admitted it, to a point. Somehow her safety had something to do with this.

“Does he know you wish me to do this?”

“Oh, no. In fact he mustn’t just yet or he will spoil it all. He won’t like to have you involved.”

“Not remotely,” Mr. Yale murmured.

“Will it put him in danger?”

“Ultimately, if we are right, it will remove him from danger entirely, and you as well.”

Her heart pounded. “How do I know to trust you?”

“Because we care for him. Quite a lot.” Constance smiled with such genuine warmth it could not be a lie. Mr. Yale lifted a brow and grinned from the side of his mouth, looking uncannily boyish.

Kitty took a deep breath, her heart racing. “Yes.”

Her mother could not accuse her of not behaving as herself on the carriage ride, even after they dropped Emily and Madame Roche home. Kitty chatted as though she hadn’t a care in the world.

She’d never had more. The following night at a ball she was to put the plan in motion. Her nerves jittered and tangled.

“Mama,” she said as they entered the foyer, “I am going for a ride.” She could not sit still, not to embroider or read or write letters or even to accept callers.

“I won’t join you, dear. I must finish my correspondence, and Lord Chamberlayne is to take tea here later.” The dowager removed her gloves and set them on the foyer table. “Here is a package for you. Perhaps another token of affection from one of your disinterested suitors.”

Kitty shot the footman a glance. John flashed a grin, then pokered up.

She took up the large envelope and went to the stairs. She did not recognize the hand, but it was firm and bold. Her fingers shook a bit as she tore an opening in the top. This spy business was making her edgy. Gathering information to ruin Lambert had been more hobby than anything else, albeit a wretched one. Last summer when she had turned over that information to the authorities, she had done so in panic and only as a last-minute effort to help Alex. Now she had no such excuse except the conviction in her heart, and she was working with real spies. It made her … fidgety.

Good heavens. Next she would be admitting to pride and disobedience. Then her mother and Leam could have a congratulatory toast over how well they knew her character flaws.

She drew out the contents of the envelope. Halfway up the stair, she paused to grip the rail to steady herself.

It was a crisp, newly printed booklet of sheet music: Racine’s play Phaedra in the original French, set to music. A calling card was tucked into one of the pages. She opened to it, and the Earl of Blackwood’s embossed card dropped into her palm.

Beneath the bars of graceful notes at the top of the page were the lyrics, the playwright’s poetry. It was the prince Hippolyte’s speech to a friend. In it he spoke of the woman he secretly loved although he knew he should not.

Kitty’s hands trembled as she read the line of verse. Si je la haissais, je ne la fuirais pas. “If I hated her,” she read in a shaky whisper, “I should not fly.”

“How shall we celebrate your birthday tomorrow, Kitty?” Her mother’s voice came close behind her.

Kitty slipped Leam’s card into her sleeve and continued up the stairs, tucking the music under her arm as though it were nothing. As though it weren’t everything.

Well, not precisely everything. Phaedra was still a tragedy no matter what sort of music one put it to. Kitty recalled bodies strewn about the stage at the end of the last act. But she refused to live a tragedy. Tragedies were for foolish girls. Not for her. Not any longer.

“However you wish, Mama.” She willed her voice steady, but her step was light, her breaths short now from something more than nerves, much more than anxiety. She went into the drawing room, set the music on the pianoforte’s stand and folded back the instrument’s cover. Her hands quivered as she slipped onto the bench and put them to the keys.

She still played regularly, and now the notes came easily, rich and sorrowful beneath her fingertips. But under the bars of music the lyrics were beautiful, full of longing and betrayal, hope and the heartbreak of impossible love, and she could not remain silent. She sang, knowing he meant for her to sing, and she sounded awful. Her throat was unaccustomed to it and in any case clogged with emotion. It made her laugh, but she allowed herself the sweet release. She allowed herself to feel.

It was very frightening, and her fingers tripped on the keys.

“Kitty, whatever are you singing? It sounds perfectly dreadful.” Her mother stood at the door.

“Oh, it isn’t the music.” Her hands moved across the ivory and ebony bars. “It is rather me. But I shall get it right eventually. I need practice.” Practice allowing life to live inside her again. Practice leaving behind the past.

“I thought you were going riding.”

“Perhaps later.” She hummed the melancholy melody, her lips irrepressibly curved upward. He was a peculiar man, an impossible man, and she loved him.

Chapter 21

Leam scanned the crowded ballroom, nothing in his hooded gaze to reveal his particular interest in anyone or anything. This time, his facade was more a lie than ever.

He’d found little at the War Office on Cox, only a name in a register and a record of payments, but no address or county of origin. Cox had not lied about sharing James’s regiment. Still, he seemed a ghost. A ghost with a pistol pointed at Kitty Savege and who had not yet shown himself to collect his property. Who, it seemed, was now the one playing games.

“I cannot believe I am standing beside you looking like that,” Constance murmured, taking a glass of ratafia from a passing footman’s tray.

“You’ve done so plenty of times before, my dear, and you needn’t stand beside me a’tall. I am sure there