Page 5 of The Scot Who Loved Her

Olivia let out a sorrowful sigh. “I’m glad.”

“Andrea continues to check on her daily. Makes sure she’s eating. And that no one bothers her.”

Olivia stiffened. “Bothers her?” She imagined all sorts of unjust things. People stealing her meager meals, her treasures, poking and prodding. Belittling.

Elaine shifted her gaze away as though she wanted Olivia to pretend that she’d not said it.

But she couldn’t pretend. “Tell me.”

“Some of the patients at the asylum are...bothered by those who work there or by other patients.”

Olivia steeled herself. “But my sister, she should have private rooms.”

Elaine nodded, turning to tug ribbons from Olivia’s dressing table. “She does. The bothering normally happens during mealtimes or recreation. But never you worry, my lady. Andrea keeps a good watch.”

Olivia nodded, fearful of what her sister might be enduring. Not once in their childhood had Marian ever appeared to have lost her mind. Perhaps there were telling signs of madness, but as a child, how was Olivia to have known for certain what they could have been? And while the physicians said it was most unusual, all three that her mother had hired still said the same thing: Marian was sick. Well and truly afflicted. Though it had set in later, there were cases in their family to prove it ran in the blood.

“I hate to go to Scotland and lose touch.” Olivia moved to the window, staring out at the street and trying to catch sight of the man with the gray suit and red handkerchief. “If she’s getting better, then maybe she’ll be able to come home.”

Elaine pinched her lips together, and Olivia could almost read her thoughts on the many reasons Marian would not be able to come back. “I will write to Andrea and ask her to send any updates to Huntford Manor. Thank you.”

After telling Elaine which books to pack for her, Olivia went out to the garden. The sky was overcast, and even behind the house, she could hear the bustling of carriages and foot traffic out front on Upper Seymour Street. She wandered through the rows of flowers and trees, breathing in the sweet scents that masked the overly heavy odor of London. At the rear of the garden, the gate leading into the back alley, where the staff came and went, stood ajar. A servant had likely forgotten to close it, but the sight of it still made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

Olivia whirled around, sensing someone standing behind her. But there was no one there. Just the flowers and rows of trimmed bushes.

Heaven help her, was shefeelingthings she shouldn’t...like her sister? Olivia shuddered, still sensing that she was being watched. Was this what had happened to Marian before she sank into the madness that claimed her?

Not caring who saw, Olivia picked up her skirts and ran back toward the center of the garden. Then she heard the clinking of the gate open and close, followed by the sound of boot heels thudding quickly away down the back alley.

Perhaps the timing of her departure was a blessing. She could only hope the Scottish air would do her some good. And that whoever had been slinking around the garden didn’t follow her north.

2

Port of Leith

Edinburgh, Scotland

Autumn, 1817

Somebody was going to die today, but it wasn’t going to be Captain the Earl of Dunlyon, Viscount Wyndridge, Malcolm Alexander Gordon, high-level intelligence officer in His Majesty’s Secret Scots.

Holding his sword at arm’s length toward the scalawag’s neck, Malcolm said slowly, evenly, “Give me the ship’s manifesto, Mr. Irving. ’Tis Mr. Irving, is it no’?”

They stood in the center of the rundown office of Jacob Irving Shipping Company, where Malcolm had it on good authority he’d locate the information he sought in connection with a traitor. And what an inconspicuous place to find such intelligence. The office was nothing like the Andrewson Shipping Company, owned by his cousin Sutherland’s wife, Jamie. It was actually from Jamie that he’d got the tipoff that all was not right with Jacob Irving.

The floor was wood-planked and unpolished. The walls were much the same. Papers littered the top of two battered desks, and the chairs looked as though they’d been put together with ship scraps. Beyond the fishy sea-salt scent of the docks was the rampant, sweaty scent of lollygaggers that somehow managed to permeate the room. Well, the finest spies knew that the best intelligence came in such humdrum places.

“I have no manifesto,” Irving said.

Malcolm sighed with irritation and pressed the sword a little harder against the goat’s neck. “If ye do no’ mind, sir, I’m in a bit of a hurry, and I’d rather no’ ruin my shirt if at all possible.”

“How would ye be ruinin’ your shirt?”

Mr. Irving looked confused, and Malcolm found his patience growing infinitely smaller. “Are ye aware of my sword at your neck?”

Understanding dawned in the man’s eyes. And yet, he dithered another idiotic response. “I know no’ what manifesto ye could be referring to. I’ve nothing of importance.”

“And yet, ye keep looking at the safe box behind ye. I’d gather the manifesto is locked up nice and neat.”

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