Page 13 of The Scot Who Loved Her

Having memorized the document, an ability he had to recall in exact detail as if the items had been painted in his mind, Malcolm repeated it line for line.

“Damn,” W muttered under his breath, pushing away from his desk to pace the room. “It all makes sense now. Whoever stole the manifesto stole the ship.”

“What?” It felt like all the blood drained from Malcolm’s head.

“Not long after your first express, we got one from Edinburgh. Mentioned the Raven’s prey had been pilfered. That’s your ship.”

Malcolm clenched his fists and ground his teeth. This was his fault. How could a woman have taken him down? His entire operation was in jeopardy all because of a simple female! “I’ll make this right, Your Grace.”

W grimaced. “Find out who’s behind it. Who stole the ship. We need to recover the items before they’re sold to the French if they’ve not already been pawned off.”

“What we know so far is the perpetrators are English. The lad from the Port of Leith and the lass—she sounded English.”

“I was afraid of that.” The duke paced the room, then finally whirled on his heel. “You’ll have to join in society, Raven. There is no other way. A traitor is in our midst. Only a man of deep pockets could afford to steal that ship. Likely this Miss Olivia who shot you, she was doing it to keep you from getting the manifesto to me, giving someone enough time to take the ship.”

Joining society would be painful inwardly but not overly difficult outwardly. The fact that he was a titled nobleman in both Scotland and England would make blending in that much easier in both settings. If only he had his good friends and cousin to help him in London. But they all called Edinburgh home.

Malcolm loathed having to grovel and make small talk with society types. Even worse still—he’d have to face his mother.

The woman who’d birthed him and abandoned him in the first decade of his life.

He’d not seen her since. Refused to have anything to with her. Instead of inviting her to Scotland to attend his father’s funeral, he’d sent her a clipped message a week later, ignoring her subsequent letters. Though he made certain that Lady Dunlyon—his mother—and Malcolm’s wee sister, Lady Caroline, never wanted for coin.

Clearing his throat and pushing the ghastly notion of a face-to-face meeting from his mind, Malcolm asked, “And Lord Helvellyn? Have ye heard of the man?”

“Nothing more than rumors in the society pages about his daughters. Hellions, they are. One of them went mad. After the younger daughter’s latest mishap, he took a brief sojourn to Scotland. If the papers are to be trusted, he’s due back in London next week.”

Malcolm grunted. “The lad who drove the wagon said he worked for Helvellyn, and that the lady had asked for his help in mending my wound.”

W paced behind his desk to the grand window looking over Whitehall. “Viscount Helvellyn doesn’t strike me as a mastermind. While he has considerable assets, it is unlikely that he would have had enough to fund this entire scam of an operation. It’s either a grand coincidence, or he’s working with someone else—possibly more than one person.”

“Where is the ship now?” Malcolm asked.

“We have no way of knowing yet. I dispatched a half-dozen galleys to search the Channel for them. We hope to intercept them before they reach France if that is their intended destination.”

With a determined set of his jaw, Malcolm said, “I will find out who is behind this.”

“I know. Take a day. Rest. Get cleaned up. You look like hell, and you smell worse.”

“I fear if I take time to rest, I will miss any vital information. Right now is likely when those in the rookeries will be talking of it. Any lords involved will be walking a sword’s blade. I need to start now.”

“At least clean up first, so you don’t look like a beggar.”

“A beggar is a good idea. Men talk more when they do not think anyone of worth is listening.”

W chuckled. “If anyone can get men to talk without realizing it, it’s you. I have full confidence in you, Raven. What do you need?”

Malcolm glanced down at the shirt and once-tan breeches that were now stained with a dark brown. “I’ll need an invitation to something for a start. I’ll open my townhouse, but I’ll need servants who are loyal to the War Office—a fully staffed house. Showing my face about the ton ought to be a good start for gaining people’s trust and esteem.”

“A start. How will you hold off suspicions by those we’re after since you’ve suddenly taken an interest in society affairs?”

“I’ll tell anyone who asks that I am looking to take a wife. I’m an eligible bachelor, and a wealthy one at that. I am an earl and a viscount in my own right. Ladies will swarm to me and with them, their parents—all hoping to make a worthy impression. I will have access to homes, clubs and many other places I wouldna under other circumstances.”

W smiled. “If you would, tone down your Scottish brogue. The nobles will be more apt to trust you if they see you’re working to meld into their ways.”

Malcolm grunted. English bastards. “How has that worked out for ye?”

W frowned. “Being born in a stable does not make one a horse.” The duke often rejected the idea that he was Irish when he was full of British blood. Having been born and raised in Dublin, it had been the greatest stigma he’d worked to erase.

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