Page 38 of What a Scot Wants
The Cock and the Crown was a favorite of one of the men at the table, Lady Bradburne’s brother, Graham Findlay, the Earl of Dinsmore. Though he still went by his nickname from his courtesy title, North. He was married to a Russian princess who’d been the subject of some international political coup years before. The other gentleman was the Earl of Langlevit. Shockingly, the hardened ex-spy had wed the younger sister of North’s wife, a hellion by all accounts who had loved him since childhood.
Along with Archer, they were the only Englishmen he did not want to kick in the teeth. Ronan eyed Langlevit, who studied his new hand of cards with casual intensity. Perhaps with his vast network of contacts, he would know more about the man who had approached Imogen. Then again, North and Archer might be of assistance as well.
He cleared his throat. “What do any of ye ken about a man called Silas Calder?”
North scowled. “Silas Calder, eh? I’ve heard he recently returned from a lengthy stay in Italy. If I recall, he’s a man of business, though not here. He was the Marquess of Paxton’s at one point, I think. Why do you ask?”
“I saw him at Bradburne’s ball,” Ronan said. “He seemed to ken Imogen.”
Several loud bangs of champagne popping pierced the conversation, followed by raucous laughter in a nearby alcove. Across the table, Langlevit went frighteningly tense, his face blank, but his mouth flexed in a slight twitch. Ronan recognized Langlevit’s look—it was one many battle-hardened soldiers had—an acute awareness of one’s surroundings, even outside of times of war.
“Langlevit still travels in Italian circles,” North interjected, drawing the man’s attention. “Perhaps he knows more.”
“Calder did a lot of business in Edinburgh,” the earl said, exhaling and relaxing his grip on the glass before taking a large gulp of his drink. “He was Kincaid’s estate steward. At one point, he was engaged to Lady Imogen, but it ended rather quickly. After that he lived in London and then spent the last seven years or so in Italy.”
Ronan frowned. “Is he married?”
“Not that I know of,” Langlevit said. “There was a murmur some years back about an English girl, but it was swept under the rug quickly, and then he left for Rome. As far as I know, this is the first time he’s been back on English soil in years.”
The coincidence of the timing stabbed at Ronan.Whyhad the man returned after so long? Did it have anything to do with Imogen? It didn’t make sense that the two things would be connected. No one had known that Imogen would be accompanying him to London. Evenshehadn’t known. But the way that Calder had looked at her had gotten under Ronan’s skin.
“How did he come to be at yer ball?” he asked Archer.
The duke shrugged. “Briannon does the guest list. I suppose he might have arrived with someone. Do you have reason to dislike the man?”
Ronan deliberated how much to reveal and decided against being too candid. Confiding in these men about his speculations would undermine Imogen and perhaps betray her privacy. In hindsight, he should have spoken to her directly after the ball, but she’d suddenly become very busy, her hours filled with social engagement after engagement as if she did not want to speak about it. If Ronan had to guess, he would say that she was diligently avoiding him.
“It’s no’ dislike,” he said. “But I’ve reason to be concerned.”
Langlevit’s stare speared him as though the man could see right through him. “I’ve never cared for the man myself. He always struck me as shifty.”
“Shifty?”
“He’s an opportunist,” Langlevit said. “Comely, charming, and clever, he makes a living off the unsuspecting. Skims money off the top of his business dealings and plays the Lothario with rich heiresses and widows. He’s a cheat to the core.”
When another round of shouts and laughter rolled across the gaming floor, followed by more banging, it was no surprise that the earl stood without warning, gathered his winnings, and gave a short bow before signaling to the factotum to call for his carriage.
“I will take my leave.”
“He doesn’t do well with noise,” North said after Langlevit left. “From the war. Though he’s gotten better in recent years.”
Ronan nodded. “I understand.”
And he did. It used to take him days to recover after clan feuds, the sound of any loud bang making his heart race and his body tense like a spring. He couldn’t begin to imagine what a man like Langlevit had faced on the Continent.
Bradburne took a quick glance to his timepiece. “I have to leave as well. I’m going to be late. We’re supposed to have supper before the opera this evening.” He shot a glance to North. “Your sister keeps me on a tight leash.”
“Someone has to,” North replied.
As North and Bradburne made their way out to the waiting carriage, Ronan shook his head at the two men. It was clear that they were close. Their easy camaraderie made him miss his brothers. But it wasn’t just that. The way they spoke of their wives, with such fondness and desire and laughter, made him feel something that felt strangely like envy.
The feeling stopped him in his boots.
He didn’twanta wife. He didn’tneedone. In fact, he had an unwanted betrothal that he had yet to get rid of. And Imogen was nothing like those men’s wives. She was an unmanageable, unpredictable spinster who loved one thing—her women’s shelter. And she clearly didn’t need him, either, if her tireless efforts to get rid of him were any signal. At least until Archer’s ball. Ronan frowned. Before he continued their charade, he would find out exactly who Silas Calder was to her.
Once back at his residence, he climbed the stairs and called for a bath. “Where’s Lady Imogen this evening?” he asked his valet. Vickers knew everything that went on in the house.
Vickers didn’t bat an eyelash. “Your fiancée plans on attending the opera, or so that old battle-ax of hers, Hilda, says.” The valet met his eyes in the mirror, an odd sparkle in them. “Do ye prefer to wear the plaid? Or trousers tonight, Yer Grace?”
