Page 83 of The Trouble With Dukes
“You’re scolding me?”How novel, and how heartwarming.
Colin rose, braced his hands on the desk, and leaned forward so his nose was inches from Hamish’s.
“Yes, I am scolding you. All I can think is that you’ve found some other way to be a noble martyr, and I’m sick of it.”
Colin looked like Papa just then. Nobody had done a better rendition of fierce and deadly than Papa.
“I’m not a noble martyr,” Hamish retorted. “Not unless you’re referring to the expenses I’m paying for my sisters. I’m a Scottish upstart cursed with a title, and I’ve got a wee bit above myself where Miss Megan is concerned. I treasure her dearly, and if I’ve abandoned escort duty it’s to ferret out ammunition to use against those who’d trouble the lady.”
Hamish hadn’t meant to reveal that much, but Colin looked relieved. He sat back down and picked up the boot bill.
“Somebody’s making trouble for Miss Megan?”
“Not somebody, Sir Fletcher Pilkington. The lady has refused his suit, and he’s trying to force her to reconsider.” Accurate enough, as far as it went.
Colin brushed the folded invoice across his lips. “So that’s why Sir Fletcher has been spreading all manner of talk against you in the clubs. I thought he was just jealous of your title.”
“You didn’t call him out. I’m proud of you, Colin. Let him say what he will, and eventually I’ll find something to use against him. Give me back that blasted invoice, lest I’m hauled into debtors’ prison because you’ve taken my payable for a bookmark.”
Colin peered at the document in his hand. “This is the bill that makes no sense. I wonder if these people are poor relations of the Earl of Plyne? The family’s huge, which is why so many Pugets bought their colors.”
The back of Hamish’s neck prickled, though the afternoon was mild and sunny. “There’s a problem with that bill, Colin.”
“I didn’t buy any boots from this establishment and neither did you.”
“Two problems, then. Look at the signature.”
Colin had good eyesight, and yet he rose to take the bill over to the window. “This is not your signature. Close, but not yours.”
“Sir Fletcher has forged letters that he claims are from Miss Megan, and now I see a forged bill among those I’m to pay. I realized shortly after lunch why I was reluctant to pay the damned thing, and now the coincidence—forgery creating difficulty for both me and Miss Megan—troubles me exceedingly.”
“Something is rotten in Mayfair,” Colin said, bringing the offending document back to the desk. “There’s a direction on this bill. Now will you let me pay a call?”
Everything in Hamish rebelled against allowing Colin to take risks on his brother’s behalf. “You’ll follow me if I go alone, won’t you?”
Colin gestured toward the door. “I never thanked you for getting captured by the French. Let me thank you now.”
A month ago, Hamish would have fought, argued, blustered, and pulled rank to keep Colin safe at home. Across Spain, into France, and again at Waterloo, Hamish had kept Colin safe, but Colin was no longer a green Highland lad eager to see the world. He’d become a soldier and a brother to be proud of.
Days of solitary reconnaissance had yielded Hamish nothing in the way of leverage against Sir Fletcher, and now this forged invoice had fallen into his hands.
Colin had bested the French when they were intent on murder. Surely he’d be able to handle himself on one innocuous stroll around the neighborhood?
Megan had missed her friends and relations when they’d gone off to war. Worse, she’d missed Sir Fletcher and prayed nightly for his safety.
She should have been praying for her own safety.
And yet, none of that anxious, worried waiting for soldiers to come home compared with how badly she missed Hamish, even knowing he dwelled only a few streets away. He might as well have been on the far slopes of the Pyrenees, for all Megan had seen of him in the past week.
In part to avoid Sir Fletcher, and in part because Megan was weary to death of putting on a show of conviviality every evening, she’d given herself an evening to stay home. Anwen had hugged her and winked, and nobody had looked askance at her decision.
More than a week of Hamish’s ceasefire had gone by, and Megan had heard nothing from him. Hamish would never desert, never waver in the face of enemy fire, but he was a fearfully practical man, and every commander blew retreat at some point.
She took herself up to her bedroom, though sleep lately had eluded her.
A difference was discernible before she’d even closed her bedroom door. The air was fresher, more scented with greenery, possibly because the balcony doors had been opened recently.
More likely because Hamish MacHugh had once again fallen asleep in her bed.
