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The extended family was a close-knit one, with little Derrien becoming as doted upon by her childless relatives as by her natural mother. When a bout of influenza carried away her own parent two years later, there was no question as to who would care for the young child.

As Philp watched the gamut of emotions that washed over Derrien's expressive features, he couldn't help but wonder if he had done the right thing in broaching the matter.

Though he owed a good measure of loyalty to his generous friend and patron, his deep feelings for the young lady far overbalanced any sense of debt to Lord Bowmont.

"Nay, it's me who should apologize. I can see that I was wrong to bring it up," he said "The trouble is, I can fit the fellow with a decent set of clubs and show him a thing or two about the basic swing.

But for what he needs to learn in the space of a few weeks, he must be out on the course every day, with someone to offer both advice and instruction.

I have lately received a number of important commissions and cannot spare the time without doing irreparable harm to my business, something I simply can't afford, no matter how much I value Bowmont's friendship. "

He drew in a long breath. "Willie might have been able to do a credible job, but he's broken his leg helping his father gather mussels in Eden Estuary.

Fergus has the right sort of knowledge, but he's prone to tossing back more than his share of our local whisky. Why, he would be as likely to show up in a tavern in Dundee as on the first hole.” A pause. “Perhaps Tommy?—"

Derrien bit her lip. "I'll do it, Hugh."

Philp answered with a heavy sigh." No, no, there must be someone else but strike me down with a long spoon if I can think of who."

He began to fiddle with his silver-rimmed spectacles.

"It must be a fellow who knows the course and all its nuances as well as the basics of technique.

Even more importantly, it must be someone with a good head on his shoulders, for this English lord is going to need a clever caddie if he is to have any hope of besting an opponent of greater skill and experience. "

There was a short pause, then his face brightened considerably. "Ahh! What about Charlie Kidd?"

She shook her head. "That won't fadge at all.

Though Charlie takes great pains to appear a fine fellow, I've seen enough of him to know his loyalty can be bought by the highest bidder.

When he caddies for Mr. Heatherington, he will use his boot to improve the ball's lie if passed an extra penny.

" Her lips twisted in a grimace. "I wouldn't trust him farther than I can kick a feathery on the strand. "

"Hmmm. Well, I suppose that rules him out..."

"I said I'll do it, Hugh."

Philp held up his hand. "Er, now that I think of it, there's one other thing I hadn't properly considered. There's too great a risk that our little secret may be discovered."

Derrien dismissed the objection with a derisive snort. "Oh, come now. None of the locals has the foggiest notion that I'm not a lad, and they see me all the time. No English lord is going to suss it out in the course of a few weeks.”

She made a face. “No doubt he's so puffed up with a sense of his own consequence that he'll waste no time looking at the likes of me. Besides, I take great care to wear a floppy hat, and have enough smudges obscuring my face that I'm known as 'Dirty Derry'"

Her friend looked torn. "People here don't notice because they have grown so used to seeing you hang around the shop since you were a wee thing, not much different than a lad?—"

"People see what they wish to see." Her voice had a raw edge to it as she slowly wound the thin cord around her thumb. "Let us cease to argue about it. I'm the best one for the job and you know it. That's why you asked me in the first place."

"You are, Derry," he admitted. "And I would dearly like for us to triumph in this match, but are you sure that I’m not asking too much of you? I can always write to Peter McEwan in Edinburgh to see if he might be able to suggest a good lad from up there?—"

" No !" Her voice came out in sharp cry. "If it must be done, I'd rather it was me working with you."

After a moment, a certain curiosity gave rise to a question. "Why is a victory so important, Hugh? I know you well enough to sense that something more than a cordial acquaintance with Lord Bowmont has stirred your competitive fires."

He gave a ghost of a smile. "Like I said, you are too sharp by half, lassie. The fact is, it matters to me because the opponent is Lord Hertford."

The color leached from Derrien’s face. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" she demanded in a near whisper. "To thwart that dastard I would be willing to caddie for Lucifer himself."

"I wished to know first if you could truly endure the idea of working with an English lord. If not, I would have found some other alternative. But I admit, I would rather have you on our team."

"Then the matter is settled." She pulled the twine tighter. "When does this gentleman arrive?"

"Any day now."

"Has he any aptitude for sport? Or is he some preening peacock, with need to resort to padding in his stockings?

" She gave a grimace. "Perhaps he is someone whose most pressing concern is the cut of his coat or the color of his waistcoat.

If so, then our task may prove hopeless, despite our best efforts. "

"Bowmont's note states he’s not some mincing dandy, but rather a tall, handsome fellow, who rides, shoots and boxes with great skill. And apparently he also wields a fierce bat in cricket and a skillful racket on the tennis court, so things do not look entirely bleak."

Handsome as sin, a man of leisure and—given the reason for his journey to St. Andrews—a reckless gamester. Derrien hated him already.

However, she gave a curt nod. "Good. Then between us, we should be able to whip him into adequate shape."

Her eyes strayed to the battered clock that rested atop one of the long workbenches.

"I had best get home before Aunt Claire thinks I've been swallowed by a sand trap.

" She reached for her cap and began to tuck her unruly curls back under its cover.

"Don't worry, Hugh," she added with a grim smile, on catching sight of his furrowed brow.

"You've done the right thing. We'll manage to pull this off. "

As Philp watched her stride toward the door, the gently rounded outline of her slim hips mercifully hidden by her baggy pair of breeches, he wished he could feel quite as sanguine.

The rain was falling harder, but Derrien was almost grateful for the chill drops, in such marked contrast to the heat of the emotions still flaming inside her.

There had never really been any question as to whether she would help.

Hugh Philp, her uncle Alistair's good friend and mentor on the links, had become nearly as much a father to her as the professor, encouraging her natural physical talent for the game of golf as well as the agility of her inquisitive mind, no matter that most of Society though both traits unacceptable for a female.

When it became clear that her interest—and skill—in swinging a club had far exceeded the confines of the family garden, it was Philp who had come up with the idea of disguising her as a lad so she would have a chance to play the real course at St. Andrews.

She couldn't help but smile on recalling how she had quickly discovered the trick very useful in other ways, as it allowed her to hang around the University without attracting undue notice, and to sneak into the odd lecture once in a while.

Even when such irregular behavior had come to light, Philp had been just as willing as her uncle to discuss the sorts of things that interested her, whether it be the latest advances in botany, the aesthetics of garden design or even so radical a topic as the ideas of Mr. Franklin, the statesman from America who possessed a Doctor of Law degree from St. Andrews.

Philp had never once scoffed at her opinions during the long conversations that accompanied their play on the course or the meticulous shaping and sanding that took place at his workbench. Instead, he had treated her as though her thoughts were as of equal merit as his own.

Derrien's smile deepened into something more complex than amusement.

Perhaps it was because he sensed a kindred soul in her, no matter of the rather obvious differences between them.

Philp had a passion for what he did. His work transcended mere craftsmanship.

The perfection of his clubs, their exquisite balance and graceful curves, had serious golfers speaking about him in the same tones of hushed reverence that art connoisseurs reserved for the Old Masters.

Bowmont preferred to liken his friend's creations to the work of another maker of performance instruments, a gentleman by the name of Stradivarius, saying both men were true artists.

Philp scoffed at such lofty sentiment, saying he was just a man who paid attention to detail, but Derrien knew the marquess's words were true. Philp saw things in ways that other men didn't.