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"We appreciate your help, Jock," said Philp. "Somehow I think you and Angus will manage to be a tad more persuasive than myself and Master Derry."

Angus gave a short guffaw and shifted his prodigious weight from foot to foot.

"Aye, don't ye worry. We members of the Society of St. Andrews Golfers must stick together, especially when someone dares go up against the likes of you, Hugh.

Go on now, you and the lad head back te yer shop.

Wee Willie will turn over them sticks if he has 'em, or he'll at least tell us wot he knows. Count on it."

A quick grin flickered over his meaty features. "What say ye ta owing us each one of those bonny long nosed putters ye make if we find yer man's clubs?"

Philp nodded. "Auch, with pleasure."

"Now the scamp has no chance of wiggling out of trouble," said Jock. He turned to his companion. "Let's be quick about it."

"That was bonny thinking, lassie, to enlist the two of them to help out," said Philp as they started back up the hill toward the shop.

"You heard Angus—golfers stick together.

And they are the biggest golfers I could think of, not to speak of being the toughest fellows around the docks.

Why, the only men who dare get in a fight with them are each other.

" Her nose crinkled in some satisfaction.

"It would serve Willie right if they wring his traitorous little neck. "

"Let us simply hope that they return with Lord Marquand's clubs."

Sure enough, not an hour had passed before Jock and Angus appeared at the shop door, a large bundle wrapped in oilcloth carried between them.

"Nary a scratch on them, Hugh, " said Jock in a low voice as he handed the clubs over.

"You could almost say the same for Willie," added his companion with a short chuckle. "He's taken off to pay a wee visit to his aunt in Dunfirmline. Decided the climate would be a bit better for his health."

"Well done, my friends." Philp began to unwrap the wet cloth and wipe the beads of moisture from the varnished hickory. "Come around in a week's time for your putters. However, you both must promise me they won't end up knocking up against each other's skulls."

"Auch, no Hugh. A club fashioned by your hand is far too valuable to risk damaging in that way," replied Jock with a grin. "Gud luck in besting Lord Hertford. We had best be getting down to the boats now that the weather looks to be breaking."

Derrien came over to help inspect the viscount's clubs as the two men headed back down to the harbor.

They were indeed undamaged, save for a slight tear in one of the sheepskin grips, which could easily be repaired.

Philp went to trim up a piece of new leather, and when he returned to his bench, he found that she had already cut the old one away and was carefully rewrapping the underlisting.

"Don't wind yourself too tight, Derry," he cautioned, taking in the pinch of worry on her face. "There’s really nothing more you can do now, save going out and helping him play a good round tomorrow."

"I know that, Hugh." She looked up, her blue eyes darkened by the crosscurrents of concern and some other, more unfathomable emotion. "But it... means so much to him."

"And to you, lassie. Does it mean so much to you, now?"

Derrien ducked her head without answering.

"Hold the shaft firm while I apply a layer of glue," he said after a moment's pause. Though he pressed her no further, his expression had become quite grave, though he, too, bent low to hide his thoughts.

The work was nearly done when the viscount walked into the shop. His hair was damp from the lingering mist, drops clinging to the raven locks that curled over his brow and against the collar of his upturned jacket. Derrien had to force her eyes away from his chiseled profile and muscled shoulders.

Fool! She must get a grip on such wayward thoughts. It wouldn't do to see the viscount as aught but a golfer who needed her skill and expertise. She must never show that she... loved him.

Her fingers tightened around the tapered shaft with such force that her knuckles went white.

There—she had finally admitted it, if only to herself.

She had done the unthinkable and fallen in love with the English lord, despite all her resolve to the contrary.

The mere sight of him was enough to set her heart to fluttering, no matter that her feelings would never be reciprocated.

But somehow, she must keep yet another secret hidden away, at least for one more day.

That should not be so impossible—after all, she had a good deal of practice in the art of disguise.

"Is something amiss?" The viscount's gaze shifted from Philp's drawn features to Derrien's rigid shoulders.

"A slight accident, but nothing to be concerned about, milord." Philp held the club out at arm's length and inspected his handiwork. "It's already fixed."

"Good, for I should like to get in one more round of practice before tomorrow." His lips curled into a faint smile. "That is, if it agreeable to you, Master Derry?"

"Of course," she mumbled, turning to gather up the rest of his clubs from one of the other workbenches.

"Mr. Philp," continued the viscount. "I wondered whether you might have the direction of Mrs. McDare and her niece, as I have been given to understand that you are a friend of the family?"

A long spoon clattered to the floor.

"Er, yes, I am." Philp took a moment to light his pipe.

On seeing the older man's furrowed brow, Adrian added an explanation. "Miss Edwards was taken ill last night, and I thought I might inquire as to how she is feeling when I am finished here."

"Oh, as to that, I happened to stop by their home on my way to the shop this morning so I can assure you that Miss Edwards is fully recovered," he replied in some haste. "Enough that she has gone out for the day. I don't believe she is likely to return before dusk."

"I see." He shrugged. "Well, I'm happy to hear it is nothing serious."

Nothing serious , thought Derry as she opened the door.

Perhaps it was true, and that as soon as the viscount returned to London, her heart would indeed fully recover.

But somehow she doubted that the image of his intriguing eyes and sensuous smile would be quite so easy to banish as a bout of sniffles.

As he lingered in conversation with Philp, she ventured another surreptitious look at his face, searching for some sign of bruised emotions. Ferguson had sent word that he and Lady Honoria had slipped away before dawn, so surely the viscount would have heard of it by now.

However, far from exhibiting any brooding sighs or mournful sighs, he looked to be in excellent spirits as he traded a quip with the master.

Her brow furrowed. It was odd—he certainly was not acting like a gentleman whose heart had just been broken.

She shifted the clubs on her shoulder and quickly resolved to keep her thoughts from straying off the fairway. Golf, for all its maddening nuances and frustrations, was at least a game whose rules she understood.

Adrian surveyed the terrain that lay between him and the distant flag.

"Ditch skirting the right side fairway, those two bunkers, 'The Spectacles,' guarding either side the far approach, and a tricky swale sloping off behind the flag," he muttered under his breath.

After tossing up a few blades of grass in order to better gauge the direction of the breeze, he turned to Derrien with a questioning look.

"I think the best play is to lay up with the heavy iron and count on the baffing spoon to get me close on the next shot. "

She handed over the club with a bob of her head. "Very good, sir. You are beginning to think like a true golfer."

He chuckled. "High praise indeed, Master Derry.

" Having finally eliciting some reaction other than a curt yea or nay, he was now trying to pry a smile from lad, but to no avail.

The young caddie merely lowered his head in the face of the gusting wind, the floppy tweed cap hiding even more of his smudged face than usual, and hurried off toward the ball.

Adrian followed at a more leisurely pace, thinking not for the first time what an odd fellow the lad was.

But at the moment, his thoughts were not inclined to dwell on a boy, odd or otherwise.

Quite the opposite.

Though he knew it was important to stay focused on his golf, it was deuced difficult not to let the image of unruly wheaten curls dancing in the breeze come to mind. Or a pert, freckled nose. Or alluringly expressive lips.

The devil take it. Adrian closed his eyes for an instant. This would never do—he must banish all thoughts of that intriguing face, at least until after tomorrow.

And then? With a harried sigh, he forced that question out of his head as well. It was the state of his golf swing that should be of utmost concern at the moment, not the mysteries of his heart.

The ball lay just where he meant to place it, perfectly positioned for an easy chip over the bunker and gentle roll down to the flag.

His caddie was already holding out the baffing spoon.

Taking deep breath to steady his concentration, Adrian stepped up, studied the distance and let fly with an easy stroke.

The stitched featherie arced up over the hazard and came to earth on the fringe of the green, its spin pulling it to within a scant foot of the hole.

The viscount repressed a wry grimace—perhaps he should let his mind wander after all!

"I hope you are saving a few of those for the morrow," Derrien said rather gruffly.

He strolled over to his ball and tapped in for his par. "Never fear, Master Derry, I am beginning to feel as if Lady Luck is not such a fickle harlot after all."

It seemed that a strange look flickered over the caddie's half hidden features. "That's a strange sentiment, coming from a gentleman whose intended bride has just run off with another man," she blurted out.