Page 25 of The Scot's Perfect Match
“Should I no’?” Lachlan took a casual sip of his drink. “Good company, good champagne… one can hardly complain.”
“Ye make a habit of finding yourself in good company, dinna ye?” Gavan’s voice was steady, deceptively mild.
Lachlan chuckled, but there was the faintest tightening around his eyes. “Is that an observation or an accusation?”
“Just an observation.” Gavan let the words settle, then added, “I look after my cousin. And I dinna take kindly to men who waste her time.”
The pause that followed was almost imperceptible, but Gavan didn’t miss it. Ferguson’s grin widened, all teeth now. “Then ye’ve nothing to worry about. I dinna waste time.”
“Good.” Gavan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Because I’ll be watching.”
It wasn’t a threat, not exactly. But Ferguson’s eyes flickered, a shadow passing through them before the charm returned in full force.
“I would no’ expect anything less,” he said smoothly. “Ye seem the protective sort.”
“I am,” Gavan replied flatly, then left him standing there, still smiling but with his fingers drumming against his glass.
By the time he returned to the edge of the lawn, his plan had fully formed. And he was proud of himself for not knocking the sense into the man.
He needed more than instincts. He needed information, and for that, he knew exactly who to call on.
Malcolm Gordon.
An old friend and one of the Crown’s most efficient investigators, Malcolm had a knack for uncovering the things people wanted buried, debts, affairs, past misdeeds. If there were skeletons in Ferguson’s closet, Malcolm would find them.
Gavan would send a letter tonight. Discreet, direct. And when Malcolm replied, Gavan would finally have the proof he needed.
The kind of proof Ava couldn’t laugh off.
The kind Moira couldn’t ignore.
He adjusted his cuffs, watching Ferguson slip back into conversation as though their exchange had never happened.
Let him enjoy himself, Gavan thought grimly. It wouldn’t last.
By the time Gavan returned home, the twilight had deepened into a velvet darkness, the first stars blinking faintly over the hills. But there was no peace in the night, not for him.
He went straight to his study. The fire there had been banked, throwing more shadow than light, but he didn’t bother calling for more candles. The dimness suited his mood.
His desk, however, was lit by a single lamp, enough to illuminate the stacks of correspondence, the ledger of the slowly reducing croft accounts, and the blank sheet of parchment that awaited his hand.
He sat heavily, leaning back in the chair for a long moment before raking a hand through his hair. His reflection ghosted in the window opposite him: tired eyes, set jaw, the weight of too many burdens sitting squarely on his shoulders.
Moira. The estate. And now Ava.
Always Ava.
He dragged his thoughts back to the task at hand, reaching for his pen to write his old friend Malcolm. If there was anyone who could strip away the glossy veneer of a man like Lachlan Ferguson, it was Malcolm. Gavan had known him for years, a mate made at university, now one of the Crown’s most capable investigators. Malcolm had a mind like a steel trap, sharp and relentless, and a network of informants that reached from London clubs to the humblest taverns in the Highlands.
Gavan dipped his pen and began to write, his hand steady even as the words came faster than he expected.
Dear Malcolm,
I find myself in need of your particular expertise. There is a gentleman named Lachlan Ferguson, the heir to Viscount Glenbrae, who has recently returned from London and is currently staying with his uncle in the Highlands. I have reason to believe his reputation is not what it appears to be. Discreetly, I need everything you can find—debts, associations, any broken contracts or engagements of note. The sooner, the better.
This is of a personal nature. My cousin has caught his interest, and I will not see her hurt by a man who treats affection like a game. I trust you’ll treat this with the urgency and confidentiality it deserves.
Yours,
