to gauge the time. When she wearily lifted her gaze, her eyes landed on the back of a man. He was quite tall. He was wearing a cloak that, from even a bit of distance, she could see was made of the finest wool. His snowy-white collar covered the back of his neck, and his hair, as black as his cloak, was bobbed into a queue with a single green ribbon. She had not seen him come in. He had taken a seat near the window, quite alone, and sat with one leg crossed over the other, one arm slung across the back of an empty chair, and gazed through the windowpanes at the goings-on in the street.
Catriona was suddenly nudged with an elbow. “I can’t believe he’s come in,” whispered Miss Wilke-Smythe.
“Pardon?”
The young woman nodded in the direction of the tall man with the green ribbon. “That is the Duke of Montrose,” she whispered excitedly. “Look, there’s the coach from Blackthorn,” she said, nodding toward the window.
Catriona looked at the man’s back again.
“You’ve no doubt heard of him, haven’t you?” asked Miss Wilke-Smythe.
Catriona shook her head. “Should I have?”
“Yes!” Miss Wilke-Smythe said in a near squeal. She clamped her hand down on Catriona’s arm and squeezed with alarming strength. “He’s quite notorious,” she said, her brown eyes glittering.
He didn’t seem so notorious to Catriona. “Why is that, then?”
Miss Wilke-Smythe leaned even closer, so that Catriona could feel her breath on her neck, and whispered, “They say he murdered his wife.”
“What?” Catriona blinked. She turned her head to look at the young woman. “You jest,” she accused her.
“Not in the least! Everyone says so—they say she simply disappeared. One night, she hosted a table set with so much china and silver that armed guards stood before the mansion. And the next day, she vanished, just like that,” she said with a snap of her gloved fingers. “One moment she was here, and the next, vanished. No one has seen her since.”
Catriona looked at the broad back of the man at the window. “That’s impossible.”
“You must hear it from Lord Norwood!” Miss Wilke-Smythe said, referring to Uncle Knox, who happened to be the Earl of Norwood. “He relayed it all to me.”
“All right, then, that’s enough of this,” her uncle suddenly said, and stood up, swaying a bit on his feet. “Time I see my darling niece home, I should think. Where are her trunks? Has someone got her trunks?”
“Well, I haven’t got them,” Lord Furness said, and staggered to his feet, too. In fact, there was a lot of rattling about as they all stood, casting around for discarded cloaks and reticules, hats and bonnets. In the flurry, Catriona tried to get a look at the duke’s face, but his back was very much to the door, and Vasily Orlov chose that moment to sidle up to her with a leering sort of smile. “Norwood was remiss in mentioning the beauty of his niece,” he purred.
Catriona stepped away from him and followed her uncle as he and his party stumbled into bright sunlight.
The Balhaire coach was gone, and in its place, a large barouche coach waited. It sported red plumes at every corner, and the gold seal of Montrose was emblazoned on its doors, much like the sort of coach Catriona had seen at Norwood Park when she was a child.
“By devil, has Montrose shown his face in town?” Uncle Knox said as he linked Catriona’s arm through his.
“He has indeed,” Lord Furness said as they stood together, admiring the coach. “Did you not see the gentleman in the inn? It can be no one but him, not with the garish signet ring he wore.”
“What? In the inn? I did not,” Uncle Knox said. “Jolly well brave of him to come round, I’d say. Come along, Cat darling, you are with me. I’ve a new buggy, a cabriolet. From France,” he said, as if that pleased him.
“What of my trunks?” she asked, looking back over her shoulder for them.
“Someone will bring them.”
“Uncle, I—”
“There now, darling, don’t fret about a thing. All is taken care of. I should not be the least surprised to see your trunks already delivered safely to your suite at Dungotty. The Scotch are surprisingly efficient.”
She wondered if she ought to be offended by his surprise or his generalized view of her fellow countrymen, but her attention was drawn to her uncle’s new carriage. It had two seats, a hood and two horses to pull it.
Uncle Knox helped her up first, but as he was unsteady on his feet from the ale and whisky, it took two attempts for him to haul himself into the seat beside her.
“Do you mean to drive?” she asked, alarmed.
“I had a mind to, yes. Don’t look so frightened of it, darling! Do you not trust your dear old Uncle Knox?”
“No!”
He laughed. “Well, then, if you prefer, you may drive,” he said gallantly.
“I prefer.”
He clucked his tongue at her. “So like Zelda you are. It’s uncanny.” He gladly handed her the reins. “Look here, look here!” he called to his companions. “My niece means to drive! That’s the way of it in Scotland, the women are as hard as brass!”
“Uncle!”
“I mean that in the most complimentary way,” he said as he settled back against the leather squabs. “My own sister is more Scot than English now, can you believe it? To think how she fought against being sent to Scotland to marry your father,” he said, and laughed heartily before pointing. “Take the north road.”
Catriona set the team to such a fierce trot that Uncle Knox had to grab on to the side of the carriage to keep from being tossed to the ground.
He was eager to call out points of interest as they drove, but Catriona scarcely noticed them, she was so tired. But when the road rounded a thicket, she did indeed notice, sitting at the base of a hill, an estate so grand, a house so vast, that she thought it must belong to the king.
The stone was dark gray, the dozens of windows, even from this distance, glistening in the afternoon sun. There were so many chimneys that she couldn’t possibly count them as they rolled by. “What is it?” she asked, awestruck.
“That, my dear girl, is Blackthorn Hall, the seat of the Duke of Montrose.”
The house disappeared behind more thicket. They climbed a hill in the cabriolet, and the road twisted around, at which point they were afforded another view of Blackthorn Hall and the large park behind it. A small lake was in the center, the lawn perfectly manicured. There was a garden so expansive that the colors of the roses looked like ribbons in the distance. The stables were as big as Auchenard, the hunting lodge near Balhaire that belonged to Catriona’s nephew, Lord Chatwick.
“Quite grand, isn’t it?” Uncle Knox remarked.
The road curved away from Blackthorn Hall, and Catriona returned her attention back to the road. “Did he really kill his wife, then?”
“You’ve heard it already! That is indeed what the locals say, but I don’t know that he did. Perhaps he sent her off to a convent. Whatever happened, it seems to be fact that she disappeared one night and no one has seen hide nor hair of her since.”
“And no one has looked for her?” Catriona asked.
“Oh, I suppose they have,” he said. “She was, by all accounts, a ginger-haired beauty, beloved by the tenants. I have heard it said she was a bright spot of light in a dismal man’s shadow. How he must have resented her,” Uncle Knox mused.
“Why?”
Uncle Knox laughed. “Don’t you know, Cat?