“Why?”
“Got himself killed. He was a hotheaded sort and got into a quarrel with an Englishman and they ended up dueling over it. Shot Ramsay through the heart.” Duncan shrugged. “There was a trial and the man was acquitted.”
Drew drank in silence. A banker’s widow. “When was that?”
Duncan thought for a moment. “A year ago, more or less.” He peered over his beer. “Why?”
There was no reason not to tell Duncan that he’d been struck by her in the oyster cellar, nor that he’d seen her at MacGill’s office. Instead Drew said, “She’s friendly with my sister and invited her to stay during my visit to Edinburgh. My mother thought I would stay with the family, and there’s not an empty bed.”
Duncan shuddered. “Live with one’s family! Nay, not for all the royal jewels of England.” He paused, then asked casually, “Which sister?”
“Agnes. I think my mother doesn’t like it, but she’s allowed Agnes to go.”
A faint smile crossed his friend’s face. “Nay, I imagine not.”
“Why not?”
“You know why,” said his friend. “Probably the same reason you couldn’t take your eyes off her that night at the oyster cellar.”
Drew choked on his beer. “Oh?” he croaked. “Is that she?”
“Aye.” Duncan was smirking. “Thought certain you’d’ve found that out by now, the way you were staring . . . So this was all brotherly concern?”
“Of course. What else?” He raised one hand at the publican for more beer, to avoid that smirk.
Now his friend laughed at him. “Mrs. Ramsay’s above your touch—one of these modern Scottish lasses, she is, independent and rich enough not to need a husband. Although . . .” His blue eyes glinted with mischief. “It must be said, no other lad in Edinburgh has a dukedom to dangle in front of the woman.”
Drew replied with a good-natured curse; Duncan replied in kind, and they fell into a mutually amused silence.
A modern lass, Duncan called her. By that he meant a vivacious, spirited woman of wit and intelligence—precisely what Drew had seen the other night. No wonder Agnes liked her.
And it only intrigued him more.
Ilsa heard the door but was still startled when Agnes burst into the drawing room. “Would you like to come to tea?” asked her friend breathlessly. “With my family.”
Slowly Ilsa closed her book. She had just reached the portion about Christopher Columbus, who found the ports of the Mediterranean “too narrow for his active mind,” with which she sympathized. Not that she wouldn’t welcome a chance to explore even the Mediterranean, it being far wider than the bounds of Edinburgh. “Now?”
Agnes nodded.
She had been to tea once before, and it hadn’t gone beautifully. Ilsa was sure, in hindsight, that she’d shocked Mrs. St. James, and not in a good way. She wasn’t sure which had been the worst sin: leaving off mourning for Malcolm after six months, or missing church to go golfing. She had never been invited back, and frankly had thought she never would be.
But that restless feeling hadn’t gone away, and even Robert had deserted her on their morning ramble today. She closed her book and rose. “That sounds lovely. How kind of your mother to think of me.”
Agnes grinned. “Let’s go!”
Not until they were almost to the St. James house did Agnes reveal why she was so keen for Ilsa to come along. “My brother will be there. He told Winnie and Bella he brought gifts, and they pestered him to bring them today.”
Ilsa glanced at Agnes. So that was it; she was to be a buffer. From what Agnes had said after dinner the other night, Saint Andrew had been stern and depressing. “How likely is this brother of yours to have chosen good gifts?” she asked lightly. “One does so hate to get excited for a length of beautiful silk or a romantic new novel, only to be presented with a butter churn.”
Agnes snickered. “Oh, he’s probably done well. I just don’t look forward to what they mean.”
Her brow went up. “What they mean? Surely he doesn’t expect something in return for a gift. That would make it no gift at all.”
Her companion was quiet. “He does expect something,” she said at last, very quietly. “And he means well, but . . . I am not eager to do it.”
There was no time to ask what Agnes meant. It was only a few minutes’ walk, and they had arrived already. Agnes hurried up the steps to open the door.
The St. James home was smaller than Ilsa’s, narrow but neat. A babble of conversation was clearly audible from the sitting room upstairs. Agnes hung up their hats and led the way.
Ilsa followed slowly, uncertain of her reception. She had a growing suspicion Mrs. St. James had no idea she was coming and wanted a chance to judge the room before she was judged in turn.
Winifred and Isabella St. James she knew; sometimes, one or both of them would join her and Agnes for a walk on the hill. Once they had all played a spirited game of golf, with much hilarity on everyone’s part. Winnie was the beauty of the family, with her mother’s red-gold hair and blue eyes. Bella was dark like Agnes, with a sly wit and keen eye for the ridiculous. All of them were irreverent and amusing, and excellent company.
Mrs. St. James sat smiling on the sofa, her fair hair pinned up under a proper lace cap of the sort Aunt Jean kept urging on Ilsa. She was a handsome woman in her fifties, but more reserved and dignified than any of her daughters. Ilsa was a bit cowed by her.
It was the man in the room, though, who caught her eye. Even down on his knees in front of a trunk, he was tall. Wavy dark hair fell over his brow before he flicked it back impatiently with one large hand. He was dressed as any Scot would be, a brown philibeg with a white shirt and gray coat—much as he had been the night they’d danced in the oyster cellar.
But not, she realized as he looked right at her with brilliant hazel eyes, the way he’d been dressed in Mr. MacGill’s office. Only now that she had a chance to look directly at him did she realize why she’d thought that fellow was vaguely familiar. He was the man for whom MacGill had dismissed her.
Alas. Saint Andrew was both more interesting and more disappointing than expected.
She assumed a gracious smile as Agnes tugged her into the room. “I’ve invited Mrs. Ramsay to tea with us today,” said the other girl brightly. “Winnie, make room.”
“Ilsa!” cried Bella, coming to squeeze her hand. “How splendid to see you again. How is darling Robert?”
She laughed. “Very well. He misses you, and the way you spoil him.” Before she could be distracted, she curtsied to Mrs. St. James. “Good day, ma’am. Thank you for inviting me.”
There was nothing in the woman’s manner to indicate surprise or displeasure. “Come in. May I present my son, Captain St. James, to you? Andrew, here is Agnes’s friend, Mrs. Ramsay.”
He got to his feet, looming over her as he’d done in the cellar, when he shielded her from the crowd surging up the stairs. “A pleasure, Mrs. Ramsay,” he said politely.
She curtsied and smiled. Did he recognize her? She couldn’t tell.
Deliberately she took the seat furthest from him and sat back to watch as he emptied the trunk.