Page 4 of Claiming His Scottish Duchess (Scottish Duchesses #2)

Chapter Four

“ C han eil tuil air nach tig traoghadh.” There is no flood that does not ebb.

“Lydia,” Richard said, his voice sharp as he prepared himself to lecture the girl.

He had been the recipient of many a lecture from his father. Those lectures were always at the forefront of his mind, their emphasis on the importance of duty, family, and obedience. He hoped that the quiet walk home had given his niece time to consider the position she had put herself in.

“You cannot wander off like that. Do you understand what could have happened to you? How actions like this can affect other people? Your maid was frantic!”

Richard’s voice, while heated, remained measured, his expression unreadable, as though any flicker of feeling might be a step too far.

His niece did not respond. Not even a glance.

“Lydia, look at me,” Richard said, his patience wearing thinner with each passing moment.

He knelt before her so that he could be on her level. Yet she remained silent and kept her gaze fixed on the floor.

“Lydia, I have asked you to look at me, and you would do well to obey me,” he growled again, unable to contain his frustration.

Hurriedly, she turned and fled to her room, her tiny feet clacking on the stairs in haste. Richard flinched as he heard the door slam shut behind her, with surprising force.

If only you could understand the guilt that festers inside of me. If only there were a woman in this house, a wife to care for you.

Still, he’d have to find a patient woman. A woman who wouldn’t judge the girl’s muteness. A woman who could understand the pain of loss, the pain of feeling alone. A woman who could help Lydia come out of this dark cloud that had stolen her voice.

How on earth would he be able to find such a woman in the ton when all of them seemed to care only about bonnets and exclusive guest lists?

But that was a problem for another day.

Now, he needed to speak to Lydia. He would not let their conversation end without her understanding the severity of what had transpired that afternoon.

So, he charged up the stairs to her quarters. He raised his hand and rapped on the door.

There was no answer. He knocked again. Still no answer.

So, he cracked the door slightly and saw Lydia sitting in the corner, gazing out the window and holding her favorite doll, cradling her gently in her arms as a mother would.

He pushed the door further open.

“Lydia, you have an obligation to be mindful of your elders and to be careful in public,” he said emphatically, desperately wanting to say his piece and be done with the matter.

“If anything were to befall you, I—” Richard trailed off, as he struggled not to choke on his words.

“Just don’t do anything like that again. ”

Lydia gripped the doll tightly, and she turned to face the corner.

There was nothing else he could do. So, he marched away from her room and ordered the kitchen staff to bring her supper to her quarters that evening.

As he stood in his study, he closed his eyes.

All he could see was the image of her hanging her head and cradling her baby doll. The image replayed over and over behind his lids.

Why could he not bring himself to provide that same comfort?

He could see her small shoulders hunched in a silent testament to her distress, but as ever, the girl would not utter a word.

He wanted to hear the sound of her voice again. For the strength of his brother to grow within her blood. And yet, he knew the pain she carried, and that her voice would come in its own time.

For all his headstrong ways, Richard knew that no one could wrestle a dove. Lydia would understand the family’s ways in time. She would learn.

Richard wrung his hands, which were surprisingly still warm from Lydia’s delicate touch on their walk home.

He could not let the terror of potentially losing her go; the thought was too cruel a prospect to fathom.

The last of my brother, the last thing I have to lose. If I fail Lydia...

For a moment, his mind turned to Everett. He hoped that the man was not too disturbed by the encounter to back out on the deal. He was afraid that the vulnerability he demonstrated while caring for his ward would affect his reputation.

There was also the matter of the maid and her incompetence. The woman had stood frozen, as useless as a statue, when what was needed was someone who would take command. Was she truly fit to care for his niece after allowing the girl to wander off unattended?

No, that would not do. He would need to ask around for recommendations—or place an advertisement in the newspaper. A proper governess was required, and soon.

He could not afford carelessness, not with his ward. Her safety was paramount—but just as important was the message. The world had to understand that his family was not to be trifled with.

No ill will befall Lydia. Never again.

Later that night, Richard found himself in the familiar comfort of the dimly lit, smoke-filled atmosphere of White’s—one of London’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs, of which his family had been members since its inception in the late seventeenth century.

Instead of his usual spot, this evening he sat at a remote corner table opposite Lord Arlington, a man known for his deep connections with the local authorities—and even deeper pockets.

“Arlington,” Richard began as he swirled the brown liquid in his tumbler. “Is there any news to report about my brother and sister-in-law? I trust you have been working on this and reaching out to your contacts, as we had previously discussed?”

Arlington shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he gathered his thoughts. Richard expected that he had not planned to run into the duke, judging by the way he avoided eye contact and nervously swirled his glass.

He took a hearty sip from his brandy snifter and began.

“The authorities apprehended some other bandits who were known to raid that area, Your Grace. They’re unsavory chaps who have been an issue for some time.

They were known to associate with the men convicted of the crime last year,” he said as he scratched the back of his head nervously.

“And what do you think? Were they a part of the plan? I feel there is so much more to this than meets the eye,” Richard stated almost breathlessly, the idea of unraveling the final pieces of the puzzle a balm for his aching head.

“No, we do not think they were capable of something like that. They lack the acumen for that work. It’s more of an opportunity to ascertain information…

further leads have not surfaced just yet …

but the authorities are confident they can work them over to learn something… once they sober up, that is.”

“Come again, Arlington?” Richard pressed, impatient now as he began to sense that the conversation would be anything but fruitful.

“What is the status of the investigation at this present moment? We know with Anna’s most expensive jewelry left behind in the carriage that this was not the work of mere thieves looking for a prize,” he growled.

Arlington considered his response carefully as Richard signaled for another round of drinks, as he would not let him get off easily.

“As it stands now,” Arlington swallowed, downing the last of the glass.

“No new evidence. No activity to suggest anything else. I’ve had to do a lot of work to get them to continue to look at this case, with the bandits having confessed to the crime.

I can understand your suspicions about this, and believe me, I share them, but?—”

Richard’s frustration boiled over as he slammed his glass hard on the table. “That’s it? That’s all you have? After what I’ve offered, all you can come up with is the same passing bandits?”

He leaned forward as his eyes burned into Arlington’s.

“Is that really all you have? Because I need more. Much more. Something of value . Whoever orchestrated this, they will pay, and to that end, I will pay whatever it costs to get that. I need the truth.”

He took a steadying breath and pressed his fingers harder around the glass, his knuckles growing white.

“Since you’ve already wasted enough time, it’s best I pursue this matter myself. Surely you have connections, Arlington. Everyone in London knows this. Men of influence. Men who know things. I need their names. Don’t you understand? I cannot rest until this has been resolved.”

Arlington recoiled slightly as Richard’s intensity pulsated between them.

“Your Grace, I understand your concerns. Truly, I do. But there’s nothing more to pursue at this time, I can assure you of that, with all my honor. Unless new evidence emerges, or someone steps forward…” He trailed off, his gaze darting away from Richard toward the exit.

Richard leaned forward, needing— damn it—needing this man to understand. His hand moved to the decanter between them, not in anger but desperation. Still, his grip was too forceful, and the crystal gave a faint crack as it knocked against the rim of his glass.

He poured without finesse. Brandy splashed over the side and onto the polished wood, pooling darkly. He didn’t care.

“You speak of honor,” Richard said, his voice low, tight. “But what of justice? What of truth?”

He set the decanter down harder than he meant to—not a threat, not truly, but the sound rang too loud, too sharp. Heads turned. Arlington’s shoulders drew tight.

“I… I have a prior engagement,” he stammered as he started to rise abruptly.

Richard slammed his hand on the table, the noise echoing throughout the club as a sudden pause in conversation amplified the acoustics.

The sound made Arlington jump into the air. He scrambled to disappear into the belly of the crowded room, smoke swirling around as men puffed on pipes, and made his way to the door without looking back.

Richard gripped his glass tighter. His knuckles were white with strain, and he downed the remaining brown liquid from his most recent glass. He barely registered that the crystal had begun to crack under the pressure of his strength.

Before it could completely shatter, a familiar voice called to him and broke through the crowd. He was shaken from his frustrations and lifted his head up to take in a most welcome distraction.

“Bit tense in here tonight, isn’t it?” Michael, the Marquess of Hargrave, said, sliding into the seat beside him. “A lot of nefarious dealings between the elite going on, I wager. What’s got you so sour?”

Richard turned to face him, his expression dark but beginning to soften at the sight of his closest friend.

“I’ve concluded that Arlington is utterly useless,” he said curtly as Michael’s smile fell.

With concern, he asked, “Why? Tell me what’s happened. Surely, it’s not the girl? I heard what had happened at Hyde Park today from Everett.”

Richard gave a slow shake of his head. “Lydia is fine. I’m fine. We’re all just splendid,” he said dryly, his voice flat. “Only the minor inconvenience of uncovering who murdered my brother and his wife remains.”

“Oh yes, just that,” came the reply, an eyebrow arching pointedly.

Apparently, Hargrave was unwilling to let Richard’s grim detachment go unanswered.

“Don’t play with me today, Hargrave,” he sighed, motioning for yet another drink.

“My good fellow,” Michael said, his voice gaining its typical melodic cheer.

“You’re not going to win friends in the ton when you’re scaring them half to death.

I’m sure Arlington gave you all the dirt he had.

Men like him are not used to being pressured like that or by men like you in dark corners.

You need to be subtler. More soft-spoken. You need to earn their trust.”

“I care only about the truth. I’m not in the habit of placating some dandy,” Richard retorted. “I don’t have the luxury of catering to niceties,” he chided, his voice laced with disdain for the trappings of polite society.

He abhorred the machinations that came with it and the social dealings of the elite. Business and power, those were the gods he revered.

“And you’ll catch more flies with honey than with vinegar, my friend,” Michael said as if explaining a basic concept to an unwilling child. “If the thought of being polite makes your blood boil, think of it as being pragmatic. A true strategist!”

Richard listened to his friend’s words, beginning to consider that he, though annoying as it was to admit, might be right. His other tactics had not been fruitful, so perhaps it was time to change course.

“How about this? I am hosting a ball next week,” Michael shared. “Several lords with the connections you seek will be there. It’s the perfect opportunity to gather information.”

Richard scoffed, motioning for yet another refill on his drink.

“A ball? Surely, you’re joking. I have no time for such frivolities.”

“You have time for answers ,” Michael countered, placing his hands on the table in resignation.

“And this is the only way you’ll get them.

Think of how they’ll be softened up with a flute or two of champagne—and the sight of some beautiful ladies!

You know that I can throw quite a soiree.

Surely, even you cannot dispute the merits of that.

Why, it must be better than this interrogation table!

I daresay, if left to your own devices, you’d have the poor man blinking into candlelight, confessing sins he hadn’t yet committed! ”

“I suppose you’re right,” Richard groaned, as he could not dispute the truth of his friend’s words.

“You’re beginning to get the picture,” Michael said with a wicked grin, clapping Richard on the shoulder. “It’ll be a grand affair—and who knows? You might even make a romantic connection. Or at the very least, wake up with a mysterious glove in your pocket and no memory of how it got there!”

Richard rolled his eyes. “I would not go that far,” he said as Michael excused himself to use the restroom.

A little fun? The thought almost made him chuckle, though he couldn’t recall the last time he’d truly laughed. His father had seen to that.

Could he even remember what it felt like to simply be… without the weight of it all?

John had always had a knack for gliding through life, pretending worries didn’t exist. And what had that gotten him?

This ball… what was he even walking into? Did he still know how to talk to people without the usual masks and pretenses?

It was a strange thing, the way people interacted. Almost as though they wore their own armor, always poised and careful, hiding whatever lay beneath.

But not that raven-haired Scot who had defended Lydia. She didn’t trouble herself with armor, just bristles and claws like a true Scottish wildcat.

Imagine seeing her at Michael’s ball! She’d have the ton on its ear with a few careless words.

And part of him wanted to see it.