Page 84 of The Trouble With Dukes
Megan undressed in silence, locked both the sitting room door and the bedroom door, then climbed into bed beside her beloved.
“You’d make an excellent intelligence officer,” Hamish said, his arm coming around her shoulders. “Slipping about, stealthy as a cat. I didn’t intend to do this again.”
Megan didn’t intend to let him out of the bed. “I’m glad you’re here, and I’ve missed you awfully.”
Lest he mistake that sentiment for a platitude, Megan rose up on her elbow and kissed him.
Already, their kisses had become a form of communication. Hamish had something to tell her, and yet, he’d missed her too. His kiss said all of that. His sigh said the news wasn’t good.
“Tell me,” Megan said, settling along his side, pillowing her head on his shoulder. “As long as Sir Fletcher hasn’t started crying the banns, I’ll bear it.”
As long as Hamish kept stealing into her room and taking her in his arms.
“Sir Fletcher claims to have forged copies of your letters, though copying every letter word for word would have been a tedious and demanding task, if they’re forgeries rather than copies.”
Lying beside Hamish, Megan could apply her mind to her situation, not merely worry and fume.
“Sir Fletcher claims he’s matched my signature exactly. I took that to mean he matched my penmanship as well.”
“How?” Hamish asked, turning on his side to face Megan. “Forgery is an art, though a felonious one. I’ve asked myself that question over and over. An earl’s son isn’t likely to have dealings with felons, but then I received a bill from a bootmaker, Puget and Sons, and my signature had been forged on the documentation supporting it.”
“The Earl of Plyne’s family name is Puget,” Megan said. “I’ve seen Garner Puget in company with Sir Fletcher on many occasions. Never looking very happy, but then, what impoverished—”
Hamish was absolutely correct. Forgery was anart. “Garner Puget is a talented artist,” Megan went on. “He’s done portraits of his parents that are worthy of the Royal Academy. He’s not considered a fortune hunter, but neither is he highly eligible. Her Grace says the oldest Pilkington sister pines for him.”
Hamish kissed Megan, lingering at the corners of her mouth. “I knew we needed to compare maps. Of course, you’d be familiar with the circumstances of every bachelor in every ballroom in Mayfair. You confirm what I’ve learned about the not-so-honorable Garner Puget.”
Megan had to kiss Hamish back, though she also wanted to know what he’d learned. Several passionate minutes later, Hamish—who’d shifted over her and lost his shirt somehow—pulled back.
“I’ll forget my name if we keep this up, Meggie, my dear, and I didn’t come here to further risk your reputation.”
Megan locked her ankles at the small of his back. Hamish was aroused, though he still wore his kilt.
“Tell me the rest of it, and then I’m taking you captive, Hamish MacHugh. I’ve missed you more than I can bear. Every time I walk into a ballroom and you’re not there, I’m worried that Sir Fletcher will trap me with a public proposal. He’d love that, forcing my hand while all of polite society smiles and nods at his good fortune.”
“Puget might well have forged your letters,” Hamish said. “I received a fraudulent invoice payable to the address of Puget’s landlady, right around the corner from the rooms he keeps in Knightsbridge. I sent a bank draft as payment, and when Puget picks it up, I’ll have grounds to lay information against him. As I see it, that gives us options.”
Usandoptionswent very nicely in the same sentence. “Get your kilt off, Hamish, please.”
He sat back and got busy unpinning his kilt. “One option is to wrest a confession from Puget, but Sir Fletcher will claim innocent dismay. There’s another problem with pursuing a confession.”
“I’m listening.” Megan was also glorying in the firelit beauty of Hamish’s bare chest, his arms, the join of his neck and shoulders. She could not see details, but she could make out contours, she could feel the warmth and shape of him, and she could watch his kilt go sailing to the floor in a flutter of fine wool.
“You’re driving me daft,” Hamish said, bracing himself on all fours over her. “God, ye smell good, lass. I’ll be the first man in Perthshire to have his own lemon trees.”
Hamish smelled better, all clean and heathery.
“Is Puget planning to elope with Sir Fletcher’s sister?” Megan asked. “Maybe that’s why he tried to steal from you. In his shoes, I’d do nearly anything to get away from Sir Fletcher.”
Hamish settled closer, resting his cheek against Megan’s. “You count Puget as another of Sir Fletcher’s victims, rather than a willing accomplice. Why?”
Fairly soon, Megan would not be able to count to three. “Because that’s what Sir Fletcher does. He backs good people into bad situations, like your soldier boy who was nearly starving.Like me. I was inexperienced, infatuated, and heedless, but no worse than any other young lady unwise about the greater world.”
Megan could see that, now that Hamish was willing to hold Sir Fletcher accountable. Her crime had been innocence, nothing more. Unless Hamish could find Puget and wring a confession from him—a confession implicating Sir Fletcher—she might pay for her folly with the rest of her life.
“You were too innocent for your own good,” Hamish said. “More English foolishness, to bring up a young lady in ignorance. If I can find Puget, I’ll make sure he implicates Sir Fletcher thoroughly. If Sir Fletcher was willing to use a forger to trap you, and bilk funds from me, then he’s likely been using Puget in other capacities as well.”
Megan arched up into Hamish’s warmth, because she craved as much closeness with him as she could beg, borrow, or reave.
