Page 65 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess
That evening, as Catriona tried to sleep in her lonely bed, the wind howled wildly outside the estate walls. She swore the rattling of windowpanes was thePhoukacoming for her.
She got up from her bed and walked over to the hearth, the flickering flames of the fireplace a welcome distraction for her tired eyes and warmth for her weary bones. She grabbed the poker and began stoking. Richard’s absence felt heavy in her chest. She closed her eyes and reluctantly pictured his handsome face, broad shoulders, and strong arms.
I miss his sharp wit, aye, the unexpected moments that flickered between us. Aye, even the infuriatin’ arrogance. Yet this business about Lord Mortridge haunts me. I cannae ignore the pricklin’ sense that somethin’ is wrong.
She set down the poker and walked to the window, looking out into the cool, dark night. A storm was on the dark horizon as shewatched lightning strike the sky, bright light illuminating the midnight black.
Lydia’s fear, Sampson at the fair, Richard’s departure… the pieces just dinnae fit as they should. It’s all too much to be a coincidence. Somethin’ insidious is at work, I ken it.
She closed her eyes tightly, holding onto the windowsill to steady herself, as a memory came flooding back to her.
Sampson’s eyes as he spoke to Lydia at the fair. A glint of somethin’ that wasnae right. Somethin’ cold, calculatin’. Aye, somethin’ evil.
A shiver ran down her spine, despite the warmth of the now roaring fire.
Perhaps Richard’s dismissal of her instincts had been a mistake. Perhaps there was more to Lord Mortridge than met the eye.
And perhaps, just perhaps, her own foolish heart had been too easily distracted, at least at first, to see the danger lurking in plain sight.
She looked down at her father’s pistol, tucked away in her dressing case. Its presence was a cold comfort in the growing darkness of the night.
For Lydia’s sake, she needed to be vigilant.
Chapter Twenty-Four
“As an teine don ghriasaich.” Out of the fire, into the embers.
I need answers. A lead. Anything,Richard thought to himself.
He was miles away from Wilthorne in the smoky, dimly lit confines of a notorious London gaming hell. The air was thick with the cloying scent of stale wine, cheap perfume, and the nervous sweat of men wasting money in high-stakes gambling.
Richard blended in well enough as he drowned his sorrows in drink, giving in to his darker side. The clatter of dice against wood, the rustle of cards, and the hushed whispers of clandestine deals formed a discordant symphony of vice.
He moved through the crowd, his eyes scanning the faces illuminated by flickering candlelight. Tonight, he was desperately searching for another man who might have ties to the shadowy network of the Bow Street Runners.
“Well, now, ain’t ya a handsome devil?” A heavily rouged lady of the night called to him from behind a colorful feathered fan. Her eyes glittered with a practiced allure as she approached him. “Lookin’ a bit lost, luv. Perhaps I could offer you some private entertainment upstairs?”
She had fiery red hair piled on top of her head, and while she was plump, her best assets were on full display. Another woman was with her, a cascade of blonde curls running down her back. She had a more svelte figure, with a high-cut chemise.
The other woman leaned close to him now, her voice a husky purr. “For you, we can do a two-for-one special. Whaddaya say, sire? Time to give in to your darker desires, I’d wager. You look like you could use a good row in the sheets, eh?”
“A bit of company might take your mind off your troubles, wouldn’t you agree, darling?” The other echoed.
Richard barely registered their presence, not appreciating the outnumbered approach. He kept his hands in his pockets, wary of petty theft in such a situation.
In fact, all he could think of was Catriona when considering their garish appearance. Their painted smiles and suggestions felt repulsive in comparison to Catriona in all her natural beauty.
The memory of their stolen kiss, now poisoned with regret and a sharp pang of loss, was a stark contrast to the tawdry allure of these women. Or perhaps their intended allure. Richard found them repulsive.
“I have no need of your services,” he said, dismissing them with a single wave. “Leave me be.”
Ashworth, he said to himself, almost as meditation.Focus.
His prayers were answered when he found his quarry a few moments later in the corner gaming area. He was holding court at a large, round table, surrounded by a gaggle of nervous players.
Without a word, Richard pulled out a chair and sat down. His presence immediately unsettled the atmosphere, much to Ashworth’s chagrin. The other players exchanged uneasy glances. Whether they recognized the Duke of Wilthorne or were just intimidated by his appearance, he could not be sure. Either way, it was working.
“Good evening, Ashworth,” Richard’s voice was low and dangerous as he greeted him, cutting through the polite murmur of the players sizing him up.
