Page 10 of What a Scot Wants
“Oh, I do. I am.”
An opportunity to get the lass to run shrieking in the other direction.But his mother did not need to know that.
The following morning, a newly determined Ronan went to the Golden Antler. The place would be vacant, but the man he wanted to speak to lived at the club. Shane McClintock had brought the Golden Antler up from a hole-in-the-wall tavern to one of the finest gaming hells in Scotland. It was a gentleman’s club, yes, but it was also rough-and-tumble enough to see at least one brawl an evening. McClintock knew how to give men of good name and wealth a place to settle back and breathe easy, but he also knew Edinburgh and its people—those ofallclasses—down to their roots. If there was gossip to be had about Lady Imogen Kinley, McClintock would deliver.
The club was along Fountainbridge, the entrance an unassuming glossy black door beneath a shingle that portrayed the golden outline of a leaping stag. Ronan brought his hand down upon the wood. When the door opened to reveal McClintock’s burliest floor man squinting at him, Ronan clapped him on the shoulder.
“I’m sorry to rouse ye, Alfie,” he said, stepping inside the foyer. “Is McClintock awake?”
“In his office, Yer Grace,” he said, yanking hard on a bellpull. “I’ve rung ye in.” The big man then retook his porter’s chair, where he’d been sleeping, crossed his arms, and shut his eyes again.
Ronan took the darkened corridors and a stairwell to the office he and his brothers had congregated in a number of times. McClintock was friendly, once you got to know him, though he only warmed to certain members.
Ronan knocked on the door before opening it. McClintock sat behind his desk, his head wreathed in cheroot smoke, the drapes drawn to block out the rising sun.
“Dunrannoch. I should’ve kenned. Ye’re the only duke I’ve met who doesnae sleep until noon.”
Ronan heard the unmistakable sound of a pistol sliding back into a holster and closed the door behind him. McClintock had enemies to be sure, and Alfie could have very well been signaling a foe’s approach. “And when do ye manage to sleep?”
McClintock laughed, but he didn’t attempt to answer. His insomnia was common knowledge, and many joked that it was because he didn’t trust anyone not to slit his throat if he closed his eyes.
“What brings ye here, Yer Grace?”
“I’ve given ye leave to call me Ronan,” he said, taking the leather club chair across from McClintock.
“Well, I havenae given ye leave to call me Shane, so…” He shrugged. “We should be on common ground.”
McClintock, probably well into his fifth decade, hadn’t come this far in life without laying down rules and adhering to them. Business it was, then.
“I’m in Edinburgh to meet my betrothed.”
McClintock sat up a little straighter, his interest piqued. “I dunnae believe it. Ye’ve finally found a lass ye deem worthy.”
Ronan refrained from scowling. “No’ exactly. What do ye ken of Lady Imogen Kinley?”
McClintock cocked his head, his sarcastic grin frozen into place. “She’s yer intended?”
Ronan watched the man closely. “Aye.”
A moment passed as McClintock sucked on his cheroot, his eyes—a pair of near-black traps—assessed Ronan with lethal intensity. “What do ye want to ken that ye cannae ask her yerself?”
For the first time, Ronan hesitated. There was something behind McClintock’s reaction. Ronan couldn’t put his finger on it. Interest? Surprise? Or perhaps he saw an opportunity to capitalize on Society gossip. Whatever it was, it put Ronan instantly on edge.
“She’s nearly thirty but still unwed, even though she has a large dowry and she isnae plain,” Ronan said.
In fact, she was beautiful. If his ears had been lopped off at some point in his life and he’d met Lady Imogen as a deaf man, he might have been entranced by her alluring face and trim figure.
“Ye want to ken what’s wrong with her,” McClintock presumed.
Ronan sat still, resisting the urge to smooth over the question. “Yes.”
“No’ a thing. If she’s agreed to wed ye, then ye’re a lucky man.” McClintock stood from his chair, into the cloud of smoke from his cheroot. “She’s a good lass who does good things. Things her kind would rather turn a blind eye to.”
Ronan frowned, intrigued and not a little bit surprised at the spike of anger in McClintock’s tone. “What things?”
He stubbed out the cheroot. “She helps girls who need it. Ladies who’ve found themselves in bad places, thanks to bad men.”
Ronan sat forward in the club chair. “Helps them how?”
