“Then quit hiding.” The earl rejected his host’s offer of whisky, sat down beside her, and began playing the song he’d chosen, usurping all the air and space around her with his masculine presence. “You are not even his daughter. You are of age. You are an independent woman. Kidnapping you in Edinburgh is not as easy as it is where he controls the countryside.”
Iona pondered the lovely dream of walking the streets as herself, stopping to visit shops and friends, without a care in the world. Someday. . .
“I don’t believe I could actually shed blood,” she said regretfully. “I’d love to carry a pistol and a sgian dhu, but a hatpin is more my style. Or maybe a walking stick. I was brought up in an English boarding school. I never learned how to protect myself against kidnappers. But I don’t share your confidence that anyone would care a fig if they saw me being thrown into a carriage.”
“You are more comfortable hiding,” Lord Ives said in disgust. “I dare you to walk out with me tomorrow as a lady to attend my meeting with the solicitor. I can and will see that you are safe.”
She found where he was on the music sheet and attempted to catch up with him but failed. She was too out of practice—in many things, apparently. “I hate ruining my few good clothes. Let me dress in my servants’ garb. Then I can more comfortably accompany you to the demolition site. I’ll attract suspicion but maybe the urchins will hesitate to report me unless they hear me addressed.”
“Shall I call you Sally?” the earl asked, reeking of distaste.
For a gentleman who presented an indifferent attitude, he roiled with strong emotions. It was like smelling a spicy pudding cooking.
“I can provide the walking stick,” Zane suggested, grinning. “Do servants carry them?”
“I’ll provide ample hat pins,” Azmin offered. “I occasionally wear a stiletto in my hair, but yours is too short. Phoebe wears a sgian dhu in her boot, but she’s skilled, and you’re not. We should have her teach you a few street tricks.”
Iona hated to disappoint the earl, but she knew her comfort level. Servant, it had to be. “Thank you. Someday, I would be delighted to take lessons from Lady Phoebe, should I survive this. I appreciate everything everyone has done for me. That includes you, Lord Ives,” she added demurely.
She rather enjoyed the complex scent of reactions he emitted. She thought they might just be similar to her own, which meant he was as confused as she was. It was comforting to know an experienced gentleman like the earl could have his moments of uncertainty.
Gerard told himself ten thousand pounds was worth losing a night’s sleep. Maybe the medallion was right and Lady Iona represented a treasure of wealth, if he could lay his hands on that reward. Even half the amount would work wonders on the castle roof.
He stayed up most of the night making lists of demands for her settlement and keeping an eye on the stairs so she didn’t sneak out.
He was probably better off returning to London, but he simply couldn’t let this go. The beekeeper deserved to return to her hives and the life she wished without an ogre breathing down her neck. He couldn’t live with himself if he did nothing.
So he scribbled off notes to his father and his London man of business and various others to let them know he hadn’t been buried at Wystan, then after a brief nap, dressed for a visit to his father’s Edinburgh solicitor. The marquess had his fingers in a lot of pots and had family all over the north country, so a law firm looking after his interests here proved useful.
Lowell made discreet hints about an excellent tailor with good prices nearby. Gerard ignored him.
Lady Iona emerged in the promised servant’s drab. She still took his breath away. Her big eyes sparkled gold from beneath a flat black cap—sporting several decorative hat pins. She’d not bothered with the false hair and had apparently attempted to wash out some of the brown dye. Her pixie curls framed her heart-shaped face, and when she smiled, the sun rose inside the house.
The damned medallion chuckled.
“I’d need to put a bucket over your head to make you unrecognizable,” he grumbled. “I still can’t believe Mortimer didn’t—”
She donned a pair of spectacles that reflected light from the windows, veiling her distinctive eyes. She slumped, curving her shoulders forward and dragging her big straw carryall to her feet. She shuffled toward the door.
“I take it you did well in drama in your boarding school.” With a sigh, he opened the door before Dare’s servants could reach it.
“Highest grade in the class,” she cackled in a raspy voice. “And I’ll have to go out the back and meet the carriage at the end of the alley, like any good servant.”
“If you don’t want to be a countess, you can always be an actress,” he grumbled, but she was already half way down the hall. He slapped his hat on, dashed out to Dare’s waiting carriage, and ordered it around to the alley before she could disappear again.
Spotting an urchin loitering by a lamppost, Gerard leaped from the carriage the instant it halted and chased the brat off with a few threats. He stood guard to be certain no other appeared until Iona had climbed in—without his aid, of course. Gentlemen did not aid servants. With a sigh of exasperation, he joined her.
“He’ll be back,” she said complacently. “If he’s any good, he’ll have notified the rest of his gang, who will be watching this carriage from every street corner. I may
