.

his right was the Wilke-Smythe miss, and on his left, Mrs. MacLaren. He was not entirely sure who sat across from him, given the flowers. Norwood was seated at the head of the table, naturally, and anchoring the other end was Miss Mackenzie. She had the undivided attention of Mr. Orlov to her right, and Lord Furness to her left.

      The dinner began with carrot soup, progressed to beef, potatoes and boiled apples, and was, Hamlin would be the first to admit, quite well-done. The earl had not exaggerated his cook’s abilities.

      In the course of the meal, Mrs. MacLaren asked after Hamlin’s crops. Yes, he said, his oats were faring well in spite of the drought this summer. Yes, his sheep were grazing very well indeed.

      When he turned his attention to his right, Miss Wilke-Smythe was eager to speak of the fine weather, and how she longed for a ball to be held this summer at Dungotty. “I miss England so,” she said with a sigh. “I’m invited to all the summer balls in England. On some nights, I keep a coach waiting so that I might go from one to the next.”

      She made it sound as if there were scores of summer balls, dozens to be attended each week. Perhaps there were. He’d not been to England in years.

      “Alas, there are none planned for Dungotty,” she said, pouting prettily, and Hamlin supposed that he was supposed to lament this sad fact, and on her behalf, either make a plea to her host to host one or offer to arrange one himself. But Hamlin couldn’t possibly care less if there were a hundred balls planned for Dungotty this summer, or none at all.

      His lack of a response seemed to displease Miss Wilke-Smythe, for she suddenly leaned forward to see around him. “My Lord Norwood, why are there no balls to be held at Dungotty this summer?”

      “Pardon?” the earl asked, startled out of his conversation with Countess Orlov. “A ball? My dear, there are not enough people in all the Trossachs to make a proper ball.”

      This answer displeased Miss Wilke-Smythe even more, and she sat back with a slight huff. But then she turned her attention to Norwood’s niece. “Do you not agree, Miss Mackenzie, that we are in need of proper diversion this summer?”

      Miss Mackenzie was engaged in a lively conversation with Mr. Orlov and looked up, her eyes dancing around the table as if she was uncertain what she might have missed. Her cheeks were stained a delightful shade of pink from laughing, and her eyes, even at this distance, sparked. “I beg your pardon?”

      “I was just saying that Dungotty is so very lovely,” Miss Wilke-Smythe explained, “but there are very few diversions. How shall we ever survive the summer without a ball?”

      “Oh, I should think verra well,” Miss Mackenzie said. “We survive them without balls all the time, do we no’, Mrs. MacLaren? I intend to survive the summer by returning home,” she said. “You must all take my word that the journey to Balhaire is diverting enough for a dozen summers.”

      Her announcement caused Miss Wilke-Smythe more distress. “What?” she cried, sitting up, her fingers grasping the edge of the table. “You mean to leave us? But...but when? How long will we have your company at Dungotty?”

      This outburst had gained the attention of everyone at the table, and they all turned to Miss Mackenzie, awaiting her answer.

      “A fortnight,” she said. She smiled and turned her attention back to the Russian, apparently intent on continuing her conversation, but Miss Wilke-Smythe pressed on.

      “But why must you go?”

      “Yes, why indeed?” Mr. Orlov seconded as his hand strayed near Miss Mackenzie’s, his fingers touching her thumb. “You do not mean to deprive us of your lovely company, surely. You must stay the summer, Miss Mackenzie, for I shall be highly offended if you do not.”

      Miss Mackenzie laughed. “You might be offended for all of an afternoon, sir, but I’ve no doubt you’d find suitable company, aye?”

      “Oh, she means to stay,” Norwood said dismissively. “She’s been too long in the Highlands.”

      “Too long in the Highlands, as if that were possible!” Miss Mackenzie playfully protested. “You know verra well that I’ve an abbey to attend to, you do, Uncle Knox. I intend to leave in a fortnight.”

      “An abbey!” Mrs. Templeton said, and snorted. “I would not have guessed you a nun.”

      Miss Mackenzie did not take offense to that purposeful slight. She laughed again, delighted by the remark. “On my word, I’ve no’ been accused of being a nun, Mrs. Templeton. But I’ve wards that need looking after, aye?”

      “You’re far too young for wards, Miss Mackenzie,” Mrs. Wilke-Smythe said graciously.

      “She is indeed, but she speaks true,” Norwood says. “My niece and her dearly departed lady aunt have provided shelter for women and children for a few years now.”

      Shelter for women and children? Wards? Hamlin looked curiously at Miss Mackenzie. He himself had a ward. That she had a ward—several of them, by the sound of it—aroused his curiosity.

      She looked around the table at everyone’s sudden attention to her. Her laugh was suddenly self-conscious. “Why do you all look at me this way, then? Have you never done a charitable thing, any of you?”

      “’Tis more than charity, my darling,” Norwood said.

      “What women?” Mrs. Templeton demanded. “What children?”

      “Women who’ve no other place to go, aye?” Miss Mackenzie explained. “They’ve taken up rooms at an abandoned abbey on property my family owns, that they have.”

      “Why have they no place to go?” Miss Wilke-Smythe asked with all the naivete of her age.

      “That’s...that’s no’ an easy answer, no,” Miss Mackenzie said, and shifted uncomfortably. For the first time since Hamlin had made her acquaintance, she seemed at a loss for words and looked to her uncle for help. “It’s that they are no’ welcome in society or with families for...for various reasons.”

      “Good Lord,” Furness said. “Do you mean—”

      “Aye, I mean precisely that, milord,” she said quickly before he could say aloud who these women were. “Women who have been cast out, along with their children.”

      That was met with utter silence for a long moment. Mrs. Wilke-Smythe looked at her husband, but he was staring at Miss Mackenzie.

      Privately, Hamlin marveled at her revelation. The sort of charitable work she was suggesting she did was the kind generally reserved for Samaritans and leaders of the kirk. Ladies of Miss Mackenzie’s social standing might embroider a pillow or collect alms, but they did not generally participate in a manner that would put them into direct contact with such outcasts. Or at least, they would not house them. It appeared that Miss Mackenzie was more than a pampered woman of privilege.

      “What do you make of it, Montrose?” MacLaren abruptly asked him. “Seems the sort of thing you’d run across now and again in the Lords, does it no’? Social injuries, poor morals and the like?”

      “They donna have poor morals,” Miss Mackenzie said, her voice noticeably cooler. “Or if they have poor morals, it is because the poor morals were forced onto them.”

      MacLaren ignored her, his gaze on Hamlin. “Well? What would you say to someone with Miss Mackenzie’s passion for the depraved?”

      “They are no’ depraved!” she said, her voice rising.

      “Yes, your grace, what do you say to it?” the countess asked him.

      One reason Hamlin was intent on gaining a seat in the House of Lords was to address social injustice, to move Scotland forward, away from the rebellions of the past. Change was needed. Many people had been displaced by the rebellion, he knew, but even he was taken aback by this. Women and children living in a run-down abbey? He glanced at Miss Mackenzie, who