Page 80 of The Trouble With Dukes
“To peace,” Hamish said, “but not for Sir Fletcher. You’ll keep an armed guard on Meggie?”
“We always do. I’ll put her cousins on alert, though, while you do exactly what?”
Strategy mattered. Whatever else was true, Hamish must not underestimate Sir Fletcher again. He was desperate and cunning, and as Megan had said, would not play by any honorable rules. Another reason not to challenge him, or accept a challenge from him.
“Megan tried to tell me to walk away.”
“And yet, here you are, moving your infantry into place, disobeying orders, for which you’re also apparently notorious.”
Hamish took the second armchair, a comfy place to ponder the rest of his life. “I didn’t disobey orders any more than anybody else did. My men mattered to me, and for a time my commanding officer was some marquess’s spare who cared more for gathering intelligence beneath the laundress’s skirts than for invading France.”
“I suspected as much.”
An oddly comfortable silence blossomed, such as soldiers frequently shared around a campfire. Somebody might recite a poem, somebody else sing an old song, the flask would make the rounds, until each man drifted away to dream of home, childhood, or a new pair of boots.
“I could fight Sir Fletcher,” Hamish said softly. “I realize that now. I’m ready, willing, andable. I hadn’t been certain before.” How awful to know that he was battle-worthy again, and what a relief too. A relief he owed to Megan.
“Pilkington would kill you, bat his handsome blue eyes, and claim he meant to delope,” Keswick said. “His titled English seconds would support that fairy tale, regardless of what I claimed to the contrary. Don’t turn your back on Pilkington. While he’s been spreading gossip about you, I’ve been collecting intelligence on him. He’s spoiled, mean, had a vile temper toward his own men, and flourishes his charm like a silk handkerchief before the debutantes and their mamas.”
This entirely unnecessary warning warmed that part of Hamish that Megan’s attempted dismissal had left chilled and furious.
“I’ll not turn my back on him—not again.” Hamish wouldn’t let the bastard take Megan to wife either. If scandal erupted, Megan’s family might deny Hamish his lady’s hand—until he could spirit her away to Scotland—but scandal was preferable to knowing Megan had been coerced into a marriage she loathed.
“You don’t turn your back on anybody,” Keswick said. “I’m not complimenting your manners, Murdoch. This damned flask has somehow become empty.”
Only Megan complimented his manners. “You need a bigger flask, and I need time.”
Hamish passed over his own flask. Keswick had spent years soldiering. He’d be no stranger to the water of life.
“Time to what? I can have a pigeon sent to Megan’s parents, if that would help.”
A pigeon had brought England the first news of Wellington’s victory at Waterloo. “No pigeons, Keswick. Megan can summon her parents if she pleases to, but I need time, and waiting for Lord Anthony and his lady to return will mean Pilkington’s options are limited for the present.”
Keswick took a respectable draught from the flask and passed it back. “I think I’ll return to the card room and find myself a hand or two of whist. If luck is with me, I’ll lighten Sir Fletcher’s pockets, which ought to keep him from partnering Megan on the dance floor for the next while. You still haven’t formed a plan, have you?”
“I have much to consider when coming up with my strategy. Just as soon as you leave me in peace, I’ll be about it.”
Keswick snorted, rose, and squeezed Hamish on the shoulder. “Lock the door after me, lest you be scandalized by a parade of couples seeking privacy. If Sir Fletcher is determined to cause talk, the sooner you devise a way to thwart him, the better. Talk travels like a scent on the breeze, and this time of year, Mayfair is a veritable windstorm.”
Hamish remained seated, though he wanted to find Megan and hie her away to Scotland. “Go lose your pin money just so your countess can console you on your losses. I’m apparently not without allies, for which any soldier knows to be grateful.”
The double negative was a useful fig leaf when a man’s dignity was imperiled.
“You’renot withoutallies, family, resources, and a good dose of soldierly cunning. My countess has declared that should you find favor with Megan, you’d do. On that warning, I’ll bid you good night.”
Hamish rose to lock the door behind Keswick, for he did have much to ponder. He’d failed Megan—stealing the letters hadn’t been enough—and for that failure, he might lose the chance to marry her.
He’d not fail her again.
“How can a man knighted for bravery, the son of an earl, and one in possession of damning—if forged—evidence be brought to heel without risking scandal to my Meggie?”
The darkened parlor had no answers, but Hamish did have one additional question, a query that had plagued him since Megan had told him of Sir Fletcher’s copies.
Copying thirty-one letters, meticulously, in the author’s own hand, right down to perfecting a version of her signature, took a significant amount of time. A man of Sir Fletcher’s fundamentally indolent, self-important character would not normally make such an effort. A certain artistic ability was required to replicate a signature convincingly thirty-one times, and Sir Fletcher was no artist.
So how and by whom had the letters been copied?
Chapter Eighteen
