Page 10 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
With concern, he asked, “Why? Tell me what’s happened. Surely, it’s not the girl? I heard what had happened at Hyde Park today from Everett.”
Richard gave a slow shake of his head. “Lydia is fine. I’m fine. We’re all just splendid,” he said dryly, his voice flat. “Only the minor inconvenience of uncovering who murdered my brother and his wife remains.”
“Oh yes, just that,” came the reply, an eyebrow arching pointedly.
Apparently, Hargrave was unwilling to let Richard’s grim detachment go unanswered.
“Don’t play with me today, Hargrave,” he sighed, motioning for yet another drink.
“My good fellow,” Michael said, his voice gaining its typical melodic cheer. “You’re not going to win friends in the ton when you’re scaring them half to death. I’m sure Arlington gave you all the dirt he had. Men like him are not used to being pressured like that or by men like you in dark corners. You need to be subtler. More soft-spoken. You need to earn their trust.”
“I care only about the truth. I’m not in the habit of placating some dandy,” Richard retorted. “I don’t have the luxury ofcatering to niceties,” he chided, his voice laced with disdain for the trappings of polite society.
He abhorred the machinations that came with it and the social dealings of the elite. Business and power, those were the gods he revered.
“And you’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, my friend,” Michael said as if explaining a basic concept to an unwilling child. “If the thought of being polite makes your blood boil, think of it as being pragmatic. A true strategist!”
Richard listened to his friend’s words, beginning to consider that he, though annoying as it was to admit, might be right. His other tactics had not been fruitful, so perhaps it was time to change course.
“How about this? I am hosting a ball next week,” Michael shared. “Several lords with the connections you seek will be there. It’s the perfect opportunity to gather information.”
Richard scoffed, motioning for yet another refill on his drink.
“A ball? Surely, you’re joking. I have no time for such frivolities.”
“You have time foranswers,” Michael countered, placing his hands on the table in resignation. “And this is the only way you’ll get them. Think of how they’ll be softened up with a flute or two of champagne—and the sight of some beautiful ladies! You know that I can throw quite a soiree. Surely, even you cannot disputethe merits of that. Why, it must be better than this interrogation table! I daresay, if left to your own devices, you’d have the poor man blinking into candlelight, confessing sins he hadn’t yet committed!”
“I suppose you’re right,” Richard groaned, as he could not dispute the truth of his friend’s words.
“You’re beginning to get the picture,” Michael said with a wicked grin, clapping Richard on the shoulder. “It’ll be a grand affair—and who knows? You might even make a romantic connection. Or at the very least, wake up with a mysterious glove in your pocket and no memory of how it got there!”
Richard rolled his eyes. “I would not go that far,” he said as Michael excused himself to use the restroom.
A little fun?The thought almost made him chuckle, though he couldn’t recall the last time he’d truly laughed. His father had seen to that.
Could he even remember what it felt like to simply be… without the weight of it all?
John had always had a knack for gliding through life, pretending worries didn’t exist. And what had that gotten him?
This ball… what was he even walking into? Did he still know how to talk to people without the usual masks and pretenses?
It was a strange thing, the way people interacted. Almost as though they wore their own armor, always poised and careful, hiding whatever lay beneath.
But not that raven-haired Scot who had defended Lydia. She didn’t trouble herself with armor, just bristles and claws like a true Scottish wildcat.
Imagine seeing her at Michael’s ball! She’d have the ton on its ear with a few careless words.
And part of him wanted to see it.
Chapter Five
Tús maith leath na h-obrach.” A good start is half the work.
“Good afternoon. Could I please have a meeeela-foyyaa?” Catriona asked politely, pointing to the mille-feuille listed on the menu.
She struggled with the placement of her tongue as her brogue tried to enunciate the Parisian words.
She was sitting in a plush tea shop, her patience now wearing as thin as a doily.
