Page 62 of Romancing the Scot
Volumes of books beckoned to be read, but once again she found herself drawn to the scrapbooks. Less than a week had passed since she’d perused these volumes, but so much had happened since. She’d learned and come to understand much more about the man that so many of the articles focused on.
Quiet voices of the household staff reached her from the halls. The sounds of those working in the gardens drifted in from the windows. Grace found a sun-drenched corner and settled down with a volume in her lap and her feet up on a cushioned footstool.
The album she’d selected consisted mostly of blank pages. Entire pages of newspapers from recent weeks and months had been neatly folded and stored inside the cover for Lady Aytoun. Amongst them, she found an article from an Edinburgh newspaper,The Scotsman.Last week, while perusing other journals, she’d read an editorial excoriating this new publication for its “radical and dangerously independent” views. Out of curiosity Grace had mentioned it, and Jo told her that the founders of the newspaper had declared themselves “avowed enemies of privilege and corruption, determined to upset Edinburgh’s establishment.” Jo had laughed, saying that they were so successful that copies were supposedly being smuggled to readers who dared not be seen buying it.
Seeing a page of the newspaper among the others, Grace smiled to find the “radical” paper had published a glowing article on the “Right Honorable, the Lord Viscount Greysteil.” Poring over every line, she decided she could easily become a supporter of this William Ritchie, the editor.
“Well, that’s a sight to behold.”
Grace looked up, startled and happy to find Hugh standing in the doorway. So few hours had passed since she’d seen him last, but that made no difference to the wild thump of her heart and the heat rising into her face. She pushed the volume onto a table beside her, starting to put her feet down and stand.
“Please don’t,” he instructed, coming into the room. “Give your ankle a rest.”
Grace didn’t know if she’d ever be getting used to the way his presence affected her. Each time she saw him, she was taken aback by her response to his darkly handsome face, his great height, his confidence. He’d changed his clothes. Her gaze took in the long muscular legs sheathed in the tight buff trousers, the embroidered gray silk waistcoat, and the double-breasted blue coat. Above his broad chest and hidden beneath his neck cloth lay the strong neck she’d tasted this morning.
Realizing she’d sighed audibly, she hazarded a look into his face. And he was watching her again. She bit her lip as he glanced at the open library door before looking back to her.
A smile tugged at his lip. He crossed the room to the window and took in a deep draught of the warm breeze.
“I was told you were sleeping.”
“How did you know that I wasn’t?”
“Spies. Paid informants. Faithful servants.” He came to her side and opened the volume she’d been reading. “More inquiry into my legal failings.”
“More glowing reports on your achievements, even fromThe Scotsman.”
“That’s only because William Ritchie was a solicitor before descending into the abyss of journalism. And he’s still a friend of mine.”
She already knew it was so like him to deflect a compliment.
“Have you heard anything about Mr. Darby’s condition?” she asked.
“Truscott returned an hour ago with good news. The doctor stitched him up and says he’ll mend nicely. He wants to keep him at his infirmary tonight, however. Tomorrow, he’ll bring Darby back out in his carriage.”
She was tremendously relieved. She never could have stopped or survived that attack if it weren’t for Darby’s heroism.
“You might also like to know that we’ve begun a search to find the three men.”
“I thought you would.”
For years Grace had been the arranger of everything in the lives of her father and herself. Perhaps it was her nature, or perhaps it was her upbringing as the daughter of a military man, but she’d always planned and organized every move. Listening to Hugh, she could see they shared that trait.
“I’m sorry that you had to receive Mrs. Douglas along with everything else today,” Grace told him as he walked to the fireplace. He took a toy block from the mantel and turned it around in his hand before putting it back.
“The perfect host did not greet her when she called. Her late husband’s position in the government might buy her a great deal of status, but she found it meant nothing here. She faced the judge in me, and she stood accused.”
“Did she explain her reason for the sudden visit?”
“To make certain that she was absolved of any guilt or responsibility,” he told her. “Or to glean more information than she learned in the village. As you thought, she was walking in Melrose at the time of the attack. She also admitted everything about her letter that I already knew from you.”
“Your verdict, my lord justice?” she asked. “Guilty or innocent?”
“I’m withholding judgment for now. Mrs. Douglas’s performance was strong enough to allow for another hearing.”
When he spoke as a justice, Hugh assumed a severe and commanding presence that Grace imagined few men or women would not cower before. She was not disconcerted by it; she’d grown up in the company of generals and kings. But this side of him, this confidence in his ability to act decisively, only added to her growing feelings. It only made her want him more.
He walked back to where she sat and picked up her cane, flexing it to test its sturdiness.
