Page 32 of The Trouble With Dukes
Megan had purposely brought Murdoch to greet her titled cousins, for the more polite society saw the duke accepted by his peers, the less anybody would dare speak ill of him.
“I like to be near greenery,” His Grace said. “Camouflage, to use the French term.”
“Or the pleasure of natural surroundings,” Megan replied, leading the way to a table situated among enormous ferns.
The minstrel’s gallery ought to have been the warmest location on the premises, but Her Grace ordered the highest windowpanes opened before a ball even began. The result was warm air with a hint of movement in the most private of possible locations. Card rooms opened off the gallery as well, so foot traffic typically came and went in the direction of the stairs. The crowd in line for the buffet meant for the present, Megan could enjoy relative seclusion with her escort.
“Do you like all this folderol?” His Grace asked. “I’d honestly rather be home in my library reading Wordsworth or Burns.”
“At this hour, my head usually aches too much to read anything,” Megan said. “My spectacles help me see, though wearing them all day takes a toll.”
Megan arranged herself side by side with Murdoch at a small table, both of them facing out across the gallery. The effect was like being behind a hedge, with a view of the fields and gardens beyond.
“Can you see the portraits across the ballroom?” Murdoch asked.
What ensued was a quiz of sorts, the result of which was to reveal that Megan could see clearly without her glasses at only a specific, middle distance, something she hadn’t realized before.
“For the most part, I make guesses,” she said, offering the duke a bite of pineapple.
Aunt Esther was permitted one truly extravagant entertainment at the height of each season, complete with ice sculptures, pineapple, and hothouse flowers. In a few weeks’ time, her second, less formal gathering would mark the beginning of the season’s end, after which the summer exodus from the capital would ensue.
How many letters would the budget for this ball have ransomed if Murdoch couldn’t steal them back in the next few days?
“You guess at faces?” Murdoch asked, taking the pineapple from her fingers.
“I guess at everything. Faces, expressions, moods, innuendo. If I know a person, then seeing his face clearly isn’t as important. For strangers, I’m quite at sea unless I peer at them closely, or they speak with particular emphasis.”
The pineapple met its fate, though His Grace had delicate manners. “Sir Fletcher likely slipped past your guard, in part because you weren’t wearing your specs and didn’t know him well. Took me a while to realize English ways are different from Scottish ways, not only English speech, but English mannerisms. Got me in some trouble when I first bought my colors.”
Nothing about this conversation was particularly remarkable—Megan’s eyesight had never been good, Sir Fletcherhadslipped past her guard—and yet, Megan could only have had these exchanges with a friend.
A true friend, who sawherclearly, who was willing to be seenby herjust as clearly.
“What was different about the English officers?” she asked.
“Not only the officers, the whole bloo—blessed lot of them. Their humor is different, meaner, more sly, not as plainly funny to a Scotsman, while I suppose they think our jests childish. Englishmen consider it more dignified to ignore minor insults, though to a Scotsman, no insult is minor. If I know I’ve been insulted, then my brothers expect me todosomething about it, not merely utter a few equally nasty words in response, and go prancing on my way.”
“Is this why the Scottish typically fought in their own regiments, the English in theirs?”
Murdoch sat back. “And the Irish in theirs? I suppose it is. Best to go into battle alongside fellows you understand, but it’s also true you fight hardest for your own.” Then more softly, “You’ll fight to the death for your own. The generals know that.”
Megan squeezed his hand, and because they were dining, her gesture was bare fingers to bare fingers. Murdoch’s grasp was warm and firm, in contrast to some others she could name.
“Sir Fletcher would fight hardest to preserve himself,” Megan said, considering a forced strawberry. “Though I suspect he found a way to avoid the worst of any battle. How will we steal back my letters?”
She asked in part because Murdoch’s gaze had gone so bleak at the mention offighting for his own, suggesting he’d lost men in battle—every officer did—or something even worse.
“Iretrieve the letters by gaining access to Sir Fletcher’s library in the dark of night and reaving them from his desk drawer.Youassist by providing the intelligence for this undertaking and drawing me a map of his house, right down to the positioning of the furniture in his library and the location of each window.”
“I can’t draw you anything at the moment,” Megan said. “I haven’t my glasses.”
Murdoch helped himself to a strawberry from her plate. “Then talk to me, Meggie. Tell me what you recall of Sir Fletcher’s home, and draw me a map tomorrow when you have broad daylight, a fresh mind, and your spectacles. I’ll take you driving if the weather’s fair, and you can pass along your sketch, then. A week from now, you can burn those letters one by one, and sleep secure in victory over a wily foe.”
Which delightful notion, Megan could not have contemplated a single minuet ago.
She described not only the floor plan of Sir Fletcher’s family home, but also the placement of the furniture as best she recalled it.
“What will you do if the desk is locked?” she asked.
