Page 14 of The Elusive Earl (The Bad Heir Day Tales #3)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

“None the worse for her little adventure, then?” MacIver asked, stroking a hand over the hound’s head.

Graham had found the gamekeeper and his familiar enjoying the midmorning sunshine on the porch of MacIver’s cottage. The cottage had been built back in Queen Mary’s day and had often housed a large family comfortably.

Now, one old man, a few hounds, and a lot of memories were left to fill the entire space.

“Miss Lanie is bearing up,” Graham said, settling on the wooden porch steps. “Like Peter, she prefers to put bad days behind her. I bring her thanks as well as my own, Miss Morna’s, and Peter’s for your help.”

“Part of my job, Laird, and part of Hamlet’s job. I wish we could track the bastard that pulled this trick.”

The dog raised his eyebrows, his chin remaining on his paws.

“Can you find him?” Besides conveying personal thanks, this was the other purpose for Graham’s call. “You know where to start casting for his scent, and he was wearing my cloak.” Until the wretch had tossed it at Lanie and strode away, apparently, leaving her shivering on a bench under a dark, frigid sky. The dusting of snow had been gone an hour after sunrise, while Graham’s ire remained unabated.

“That’s the problem,” MacIver said, pulling the hound’s ear gently. “He was wearing your cloak. Fine wool, velvet lining. It would reek of you for donkey’s years and mask the other fellow’s scent to a significant degree. If Hamlet were to follow the smell of the trail itself—the broken vegetation and footprints and such—he’d simply take us to the Leap and back to the castle. If I were your villain, I’d have rejoined the festivities, which hosted both a crowd of guests and a crowd of footmen and maids lent by our neighbors for the night.”

MacIver lowered himself gingerly to sit one step higher than Graham. “I am sorry, Laird. Somebody deserves a good hiding, at the least.”

Somebody deserved to be left alone in the dark, unable to see, six feet from certain death.

“We might not have found her but for you and your hound, MacIver. I don’t mean to insult you, but you could ask anything of me now, and I’d be delighted to make your wishes come true. Steaks for the dog don’t half begin to show our appreciation.”

“Can you bring my Nan and her weans back from Nova Scotia?”

“I’ll fetch her back on a chartered sloop if that’s what you want.”

MacIver snorted with what might have been amusement. “Don’t you dare, laddie. She’s happy there, if her letters can be believed.”

Letters MacIver doubtless read over and over, until the ink faded and the creases began to wear through.

“If she’s not to come home, then why are you still here?” Graham asked, giving the hound a scratch about the ears. A thick tail thumped a couple times in response.

“Where would I go?”

“Nova Scotia, of course. Take your hounds and set sail. The coneys will rejoice until Michaelmas.”

Nobody would rejoice if Graham returned to Australia—Graham least of all—but somebody might stop threatening the lives of the people Graham loved.

Might.

“If I lark off across the sea, who will keep your game, Laird?”

“The braw, bonnie laddie of your choosing, that’s who. All the local men know how to read sign, set snares, and fill a game bag thanks to you. Those skills served me well in Australia, I’ll have you know.”

Graham had not come here to talk MacIver into retirement, much less emigration, but the old man seemed to be giving the notion some consideration.

“I love my home,” MacIver said. “That’s the Scot in me, and here, I have my post, a roof over my head. Responsibilities. Respect. If I trade that for a chair by Nan’s fire, I’ll turn into another version of that wretched fool Brodie, a teller of tales—and boring tales at that. They’ll start calling me Back-in-Scotland, as we used to refer to Brodie as Down-in-London. Not a flattering way to end one’s days.”

Brodie had behaved himself at the ball. He’d refrained from spiking the ladies’ punch and avoided the near occasion of duels or slaps to his face. He’d been least in sight at breakfast, and Graham had yet to tell him of Lanie’s abduction.

MacIver, who’d had the more taxing evening, had doubtless been up before the sun.

“Firstly, you’d have your pension. You’ve long since earned it. Secondly, you would not sit by Nan’s fire for long. You’d be out in the woods, showing her lads how to catch a coney with their bare hands. And the stories you have are the ones they need to hear and the ones Nan longs to hear again. If your sobriquet becomes Back-in-Scotland, it will be bestowed with respect and affection.”

So many stories in Australia. Injustices, christenings, sprees, miraculous coincidences, journeys, and silly mishaps. The stories had done as much to fortify the transportees as any ration of grog ever had.

Why didn’t Brodie’s stories have the same quality?

“Brodie is a cautionary tale,” MacIver said. “Always has been. ‘Don’t be like yon ass,’ my wife used to tell the lads. Never paid his wagers, always dodging off to avoid some angry papa or brokenhearted female. London was welcome to him. If you were to leave again, we’d miss you, Laird.”

Canny old hound. “What makes you think I’m contemplating another journey?”

“You’ve had trouble since you came home, despite your watchful English ghillie, if one might use a contradiction in terms.”

English ghillie. St. Didier would be flattered. “Some trouble. I didn’t expect everybody to welcome me with open arms. I was judged guilty of a serious crime.”

“Bollocks to that, laddie. The countess was old and frail, and you would never have wished her harm. We knew that. All I’m saying is, you’d be missed. We’d understand—we understood last time—but you’d be missed.”

“Go to Nova Scotia,” Graham said, rising. “I’ll stand you to a first-class ticket, and that includes as many hounds as you’d care to travel with.”

The thought of another sea voyage… Graham felt sick at the very notion, but not as sick as he’d felt when Hamlet had started on the trail to the Leap.

“First class is for idiots like Brodie. The company is much better in second and downright convivial in steerage.”

“Second, then. I’m serious, MacIver.”

“You’re worried, and with good cause.” MacIver rose as well, not a hint of stiffness in his movements. “A person who will put a blameless and blind woman in danger is cursed with a black heart indeed. Think carefully, Laird, before you decide on next steps.”

“Good advice. Again, our thanks, MacIver.”

“No need. No need a’tall.”

There was every need, and yet, one did not argue with old John MacIver.

Graham cut through the woods on the way back to the castle, forcing himself to sit on the bench at the Leap and consider options. Leaving was one choice, but far from ideal. Lanie had nearly come to harm at the ball. Morna had nearly come to harm in Edinburgh. St. Didier might have been stabbed in London.

Somebody was very determined and very well informed. “I could spend three more eternities in Sydney and still not stop them from whatever mischief all this crime is in aid of.”

The river roiling below made no reply, save for its relentless roar.

The old fears crowded in next: What if the determined somebody was Peter? Always willing to leap over the past, to change the subject, to lighten the conversation, but having faced many difficulties in life and as capable of anger as the next man.

Though Peter, even to hide his own past misdeeds, would never countenance risk to Lanie.

What if the somebody was Peter trying to protect Lanie—for reasons outlandish or genuine—and Lanie had acceded to his schemes?

“I’m going daft,” Graham muttered, getting off the bench and considering the swirling water far below. Not quite full spate, but still frigid and dangerous. Looking into those waters, he felt again the sheer terror he’d experienced the previous night.

“What comes after daft?” Graham asked the brisk morning air. “Something awful.”

As Graham left the woods, he was sure of only one thing: The time had come to talk very honestly to Morna. He did not want to leave the castle, no matter how relentlessly some scheming bounder pushed him toward that course.

More significantly, Graham did not want to leave Morna, and he was incapable of seeing past that reality.

The decision to confer with Morna for a consideration of all possibilities, no matter how outlandish didn’t exactly settle Graham’s nerves, but it did feel right. He’d made a weighty choice before without consulting her, and look how that had turned out.

Graham was halfway up the garden steps when he heard Uncle Brodie shouting out a window at the footmen hauling the torches off the back terrace. The hour was nearly noon, half the day gone and brilliantly sunny, and Brodie expected silence to aid his slumbers.

“Down in London, nobody stirred before noon, you damned louts! A proper morning call was made at two of the clock. How is a man supposed to recover his humors with the racket you make?”

He shook a fist and banged the sash down, leaving the footmen to exchange patient grins. They caught sight of Graham, bobbed shallowly in his direction, and went back to stacking the torches in a barrow.

Down in London…

Peter’s comment, about fearing to become like Brodie, haunted Graham anew. A cautionary tale, MacIver had said. Graham was still staring at Brodie’s closed window when St. Didier sauntered down from the terrace.

“You look gobsmacked, Dunhaven.”

“I am… in possession of an insight. A truth. If I return to Australia, or make my way to India, I will end up exactly like Brodie.” Far better to end up like old John MacIver—knowledgeable, respected, patient with human foibles, capable of great sacrifice on behalf of loved ones, and always ready to put his experience in service to others.

“End up like Brodie?” St. Didier studied the footmen wheeling their barrow down the row of torches. “You’ll spend your days flirting with widows and avoiding creditors?”

“Not that part, the part about boring stories. I’ll cling to an endless lament about when I was back in Scotland, and the Scottish have a saying, and the best food in the world is to be had in Scotland. Boring stories from a boring old man who has nobody’s respect.”

The rest of the insight clobbered him like the cold, salty deluge of a huge sea wave breaking over the bow of his life.

Blessed Saint Andrew, no. Graham took off across the terrace at a jog.

“Dunhaven, where are you going?”

“To talk to Morna. Keep a close eye on Brodie if he condescends to leave his apartment before supper, please.”

“If I must.”

“You must. You absolutely must.” Graham didn’t take an easy breath until he found Morna, hale and whole, in the music room.

“Where are Lanie and Peter?” Graham asked, closing the music room door.

Morna rose from the piano bench, surprised at his preemptory tone. “Why?”

“Humor me, please. Recent events have left me a bit unnerved.”

He didn’t sound unnerved. Lanie might say he sounded determined and formidable. “They’re counting the silver in the butler’s pantry. The senior staff has the day off, and that will be one less job for them to do. Graham, what’s bothering you?”

“Has Lanie said anything more about last night’s abduction?”

“Not to me. I hope she’s putting Peter’s friendly ear to good use.” Lanie had certainly been clinging to Peter’s friendly hand last night and had insisted on sharing her meal with Peter exclusively. The pair of them had then sat among the potted palms for the rest of the evening, until Lanie had pleaded fatigue. “How is MacIver?”

“He’s planning a remove to Nova Scotia. He just hasn’t quite settled to the notion yet. How are you?”

Morna took a seat on the stool behind the great harp. “Worried. You are in some sort of swivet, and you won’t tell me what it’s about. The last time I felt this way, matters did not resolve themselves to my satisfaction.” Graham had left Scotland, taking secrets and half of Morna’s heart with him.

He pulled up the piano bench and sat facing her, nearly knee to knee. “My less-than-sanguine mood is caused by the need for some plain speaking.”

“You are not leaving for Australia, Graham MacNeil. I forbid it.” Morna should have trembled to deliver such an ultimatum. “You aren’t leaving without me, that is.”

Graham sat back as if slapped. “You cannot come to Australia with me.” He stood, sat down again, and used a finger to coax an incongruously gentle glissando from the harp. “What I mean to say is, would you truly consider leaving Scotland with me?”

“Try to stop me, but I don’t favor that course. You belong here.”

He took Morna’s hand. “You are daft, you know. I’ve always fancied that about you. Since I’ve come home, somebody has indulged in kidnapping, assault, and an attempted tragic accident to make me rethink my return. I’ve considered everybody but you as a possible suspect.”

He was apparently in deadly earnest, suggesting daftness was catching. “Why not me?”

“The notion that you’d use minions and subterfuge, much less put Lanie in harm’s way to send me off is laughable. Besides that, I love you, so even if you did want me gone, I’d not believe it.”

“You love me.”

“Madly. But we cannot have any more abductions, Morna, or worse. I’ve considered Peter or some combination of Peter and Lanie as our culprits. I’ve even tried to pin the mess on St. Didier.”

Morna laced her fingers with his. This was plain speaking indeed. “I’ve done likewise, but unless St. Didier poisoned Grandmama and hopes to keep you from further investigating the past, he has no motive for the present mischief, and he had no motive for taking Gran’s life in the first place.”

“That’s my Morna, always practical. I reached the same conclusion, and I also considered Dr. Ramsey again, but he had every reason to keep Gran from her celestial reward.”

“I know. Graham, where are you heading with this?” Not to Australia, thank heavens.

“I can’t make accusations without some proof, Morna, and for that I need to talk to Lanie. Peter can disown me, you can disown me—though I hope you don’t—but it’s time Miss Lanie and I put our heads together.”

“She didn’t kill Grandmama, Graham. She would never do such a thing, and she was just a child and would have no idea…”

Graham took Morna’s other hand in his. “She had survived a bout of measles and knew all about being dosed with patent remedies. Her eyesight was better then, and she might have been simply following Grandmama’s instructions without realizing their import. I am more focused on the fact that somebody besides me or Peter blew out the candles, and Lanie was the only person whom we know to have been in the room at the time.”

Morna’s whole being rebelled at Graham’s suggestion, and yet… what few facts they had fit this hypothesis.

“You have to be wrong, Graham.”

“I expect I am wrong. I suspect Lanie is blameless, and another party entirely is behind the entire ball of trouble, but Lanie alone can support that conclusion with evidence. I propose that she and I have a private chat—no witnesses, no eavesdroppers, and the less Peter knows about the whole business, the better.”

“You’re asking my permission to talk to Lanie?”

“If you want to put it like that, yes. I did not consult you before I signed away my freedom following the countess’s death. I thought I’d protect you with distance and silence, rather than have you trying to exonerate me and putting yourself in harm’s way. I am sorry for that, Morna, and I hope you’ve forgiven me. I’m consulting you now, and I will be guided by your counsel.”

What had it cost him to put the reins in Morna’s hands? “I could have made you talk to me. I didn’t even try, Graham. I nursed my injured pride and then embroidered my fingers numb with regret and resentment.”

“I broke sod. Australian sod is ungodly tough.”

He smiled at her, and Morna leaned forward to put her forehead on his shoulder. “I never want to lose you again, Graham MacNeil. Talk to Lanie. Get to the truth.”

He circled her shoulders with one arm and spoke close to her ear. “And if the truth lets all manner of demons out of the box with it?”

“The demons are already free, driving coaches and leading Lanie into the woods. To banish them, you and Lanie must clear the air.”

“You’re sure?”

“I wish I had even the slightest doubt. Peter will be furious.”

Graham kissed Morna’s temple. “He thinks he’s protecting her, and she probably thinks she’s protecting him. Fools in love. A common problem. Can you have Lanie meet me in the study?”

“Give me half an hour, but whatever she says, Graham, you know she’ll tell Peter of the discussion.”

“That will be her choice.”

Morna indulged in a long, fortifying hug, denied herself the pleasure of kissing Graham, and went in search of her sister.

“I love this room,” Lanie said, inhaling the aromas in the earl’s study as if she were in a blooming garden. “Our whole story is in here, with the scents of the leather, the books, and the peat; the portraits, the ledgers, the furniture that’s been in the same spots for ages. I hate when somebody moves furniture on me. Detest it bitterly.”

“Lanie, you needn’t be nervous,” Graham said. “I don’t want to talk about last night.” Graham, oddly enough, wasn’t nervous. He’d spent too much time being unsettled, anxious, frustrated, and bewildered, as had they all. The time had come for answers.

“I’ll talk about last night,” Lanie retorted, “though not in front of Peter. He isn’t always the pleasant, easygoing fellow he wants us to believe he is.” Lanie put out a hand, connected with the back of a wing chair, and sidled around to take a seat.

Damn the blindness, but Graham was counting on the backhanded gifts that blindness had bestowed.

“Peter was threatening to kill whoever abducted you. Nobody chided him for it. I think you know who the culprit is, or you have a strong suspicion.”

Lanie toed off her slippers, tucked her feet up, and pulled the plaid blanket from the back of the chair to drape over her legs.

“It was dark, Graham, and if I’m to see at all, I need strong sunlight. The whole neighborhood was on hand, and that creates a confusion of scents. Even Hamlet apparently needed some time to sort out what he was sniffing.”

“Right, but we aren’t concerned at the moment with last night. Lanie, talk to me about the night the countess died. I know you and Morna broached this topic, but you and I have never discussed it.”

She nodded once. “Because it upsets Peter. He thinks discussing the past upsets me, and I am apparently too delicate to bear such a burden. The past does hold some unpleasant memories—ask anybody who’s been cursed by measles about that—but what truly bothers me is not knowing what happened.”

“Though you have a theory. I have a theory, too, Lanie, and while you are bothered, I am nigh obsessed with the same riddle. I believe all the recent difficulties—the reckless coach, an attempted assault on the London docks, your abduction—are an effort to drive me from my home. I’ve asked too many questions, but I haven’t asked the right questions.”

“Or you haven’t asked the right people. Ask me, Graham. I’ll tell you what I know.”

Graham mentally hugged her for her fortitude and hoped her honesty was up to the challenge. “I know you kept Grandmama company on her last night, as had become your habit. Peter brought her a posset as usual and noticed you dozing in the chair by the fire. The candles were lit at the time, but when I came by later—again, keeping to my routine—the candles had been doused.”

“Peter mentioned that, but I wasn’t sure of the signif—oh. You wonder if I doused the candles, but I don’t recall doing so. That wasn’t a job for a blind girl. I might have knocked a candle over, or left one burning by accident, or burned myself blowing them out. I could toss peat onto the fire safely enough, but I left candles for others to deal with.”

“I assumed as much, so we know somebody else was in the room between Peter’s visit and mine. Lanie, what scents do you recall?”

She pleated the hem of the blanket, unfolded it, pleated it again. “My recollections are muzzy, Graham. I was muzzy, for that matter. I’d been deeply asleep, for some reason, though I seldom slept well then. It’s hard to get physically tired when you can’t go hiking through the woods at will or take your pony out for a hard gallop.”

So much Graham hadn’t considered about Lanie’s realities, though Peter was doubtless keenly aware of these facts.

“Morna said when you woke up to return to your own room, you didn’t feel right. What was off, Lanie?”

This part was delicate. Graham didn’t want to suggest memories into existence, but he wanted every crumb of truth Lanie could part with.

“I told Morna even the air felt wrong. What did I mean?”

“What did you smell, Lanie?”

Her hand went still on the blanket. “Cedar—that was your preferred fragrance at the time. Balsam—that was Peter, even then. The lemony-cinnamon aroma St. Didier prefers wasn’t in the mix, and neither were Morna’s roses, but…”

Lanie went silent.

“Tell me, Lanie. The evidence won’t be enough for a conviction, but justice doesn’t always mean involving the courts.”

“Cigars. The stink can’t be obliterated by more pleasant aromas, and it lingers forever. Graham, I smelled cigars.”

Graham felt no sense of triumph or vindication at this revelation, only the relief of a sad hypothesis confirmed.

“Uncle Brodie,” Lanie said. “Why would he end his sister’s life? Could it have been an accident? He would not have known the sickroom routine, would he?”

“He would, if he’d asked any footman or maid.” Or if he’d asked Mrs. Gibson. “Lanie, is there any doubt in your mind about what your nose told you?”

She stroked a hand over the soft wool of the blanket. “I think I knew without knowing, Graham, which is why when Peter told me to let it go, I was willing to heed him. He thinks I killed Grandmama, doesn’t he?”

“He might, and his reaction has been to protect you rather than sort out the past. Will you tell him what you’ve recalled?”

“I want to. You believe me, don’t you? I smelled Brodie’s cigars, and that’s why the air felt wrong.”

“I believe so, and other evidence points to Brodie’s guilt.”

For three ticks of the clock, they sat in silence, and then Lanie folded up the blanket in her lap. “What now, Graham? Will you challenge Brodie to a duel? Peter says they’re going out of fashion. Besides, you’re a peer, so you can’t challenge a commoner.”

“And Brodie is very much a commoner. Have you been brushing up on the Code Duello , Lanie?”

“Peter read it to me. Don’t tell Morna.”

“May I tell Morna about what we’ve discussed?”

Lanie gathered up the blanket, shoved it behind her, and rose. “You may, but what will you do about Brodie?”

Graham got to his feet as well, but he could not let Lanie leave quite yet. “You smelled cigars last night too, Lanie, didn’t you?”

She scooted around the chair, putting it between them. “I did. I noticed that my escort had brandy on his breath—that rank, been-at-the-decanters sort of breath, and when I realized that, I knew he could not be you. You were keeping a clear head, as the host, according to Peter.”

“As the main attraction,” Graham said. “And this fellow did not walk like me, and you also smelled cigars?”

“Yes, and I told myself I did not want Peter killing Brodie, and Brodie has never known when a prank isn’t funny, and I came to no harm, and… I thought about asking Morna what I should do, but Peter does have a temper. I lean on Morna for much, and on Peter, and sometimes I think I will never have any independence unless I insist on thinking for myself. Does that make sense?”

“Lanie, you are more independent than many sighted women, and I am walking evidence that too much thinking for oneself can cause serious problems.”

“You’ll marry Morna, won’t you? Peter says you have to marry her first before he and I can tie the knot.”

“I dearly, dearly hope to marry Morna, and I’m delighted to hear that you and Peter are engaged. Right now, though, I’ll settle for talking to Morna with Peter, and with St. Didier on hand as well. If you’ll join us, we’ll have the first MacNeil counsel of war in at least a hundred years.”

“Good. I never cared for Uncle Brodie, and Peter doesn’t much like him either.”

“Make yourself comfortable, then, and I’ll fetch the others, but, Lanie?”

“Graham?”

“Lock the door behind me and admit no one whom you don’t recognize by voice. Brodie has to be getting desperate, and precautions are in order.”

Precautions, a counsel of war, and then—at long last, the truth aired in the full light of day.

“We’ll be late for the noon meal,” Peter said, preceding Graham through the study door. “Lanie, I thought you and Morna were counting linens.” To Morna’s eye, Peter looked displeased to find Lanie someplace other than the linen closet.

The two brothers stood side by side before Grandpapa’s enormous desk, the elder a bit taller and more muscular than the younger, but both balanced on the knife edge between caution and battle.

“The linens can wait,” Morna said. “Graham has invited us here for a family discussion, and now it only needs…”

St. Didier paused just inside the door. He’d put aside his kilt and reverted to the attire of a typical English country gentleman, and he, too, bore a watchful air.

“What’s he doing here?” Peter asked, folding his arms. “He’s not family.”

Lanie held out a hand. “And you, dear Peter, are not normally rude. Come sit by me and stop fretting.”

Peter crossed the room and perched on the arm of Lanie’s chair. He looked fretful nonetheless. Morna was certain that where Lanie was concerned, some part of Peter would never stop fretting.

St. Didier shoved the hassock closer to the hearth and took a seat. “A footman conveyed a summons to me. A novel experience, and here I am. Dunhaven, your brother is right: The noon meal awaits. Why not take the conversation to the dining room?”

Graham half sat, half leaned on the desk. “We’ll eat soon enough. First, I’d like to put a theory before present company and ask each of you for your best effort to prove or demolish my theory. The matter has to do with Uncle Brodie.”

He summarized Lanie’s recollections regarding the countess’s death, and sometime during that recitation, Lanie took Peter’s hand.

“I don’t care for Uncle Brodie,” Peter said slowly, “but why would he kill his sister? To put it crudely, wouldn’t that have been like killing the goose who laid his golden eggs? Brodie could lark around London and Edinburgh, cut a dash as a handsome bachelor, and then retreat to the castle when he was out of blunt. Grandmama was his patroness, more or less.”

Morna found it encouraging that Peter was applying logic rather than fists to the situation.

“Brodie came into a competence upon his sister’s death, didn’t he?” St. Didier asked. “Coin of the realm has motivated more than one violent crime.”

“He did,” Graham said, “and Grandpapa had promised Brodie a home for life, so Grandmama’s death would have put Brodie ahead financially.”

“He doesn’t seem to be ahead financially now,” Morna said. “He’s either become the quintessential pinchpenny old Scot, or he’s as skint now as he perpetually was in his youth.”

“Maybe he’s spent his funds,” Peter surmised. “Stupid wagers, a ransom to the tailor and the bootmaker, horse races, fashionable apartments, light-skirts, begging the pardon of present company. He also must have his pretty snuff boxes.”

“Possibly,” Graham said, “but by the time Grandmama died, Brodie was sporting about London and Edinburgh less and less. I suspect his debts had become pressing, perhaps mortally so. Until I speak to him, we don’t know if Grandmama’s death was an accident, but we do know Brodie is responsible for abducting Lanie last night.”

Peter kissed Lanie’s knuckles when Morna had been braced for him to explode.

“I knew you were keeping something to yourself, Lanie dearest,” Peter said, caressing her fingers. “You caught the stink of Brodie’s cigars last night, didn’t you? When I put Graham’s cloak about your shoulders, I thought I might have smelled the same thing, but I dismissed the notion. The whole house reeked of beeswax, the cardroom was smoky, and the peat fires were roaring. I couldn’t be sure.”

“Leading me into the woods wasn’t a prank,” Lanie said quite firmly. “That was an attempt to frighten Graham into leaving, which he must not do.”

Peter scowled at his brother. “The coach in Edinburgh?”

“And,” St. Didier said, “the footpad on the London docks. Brodie still has old connections there, and some of them are apparently in low places. If I were Dunhaven, I’d be very cautious about everything I ate or drank.”

“I have been,” Graham said. “I don’t order any trays sent up from the kitchen, and I eat only what’s prepared for the whole family at meals. Peter, I suggest you do likewise.”

“Why?”

The truth landed in Morna’s awareness like a lit Congreve rocket. “Because if Brodie seeks wealth, Graham’s death and yours would bring him closer to that goal. Scottish titles can often be preserved through the female line, and even if Brodie could not inherit the title, he could inherit Graham’s personal wealth, as well as your own, or a good portion of it.”

“I’ve left it all to Lanie,” Peter said. “Took care of that the day I turned one-and-twenty.”

“Morna is my heir,” Graham said, sharing a bashful smile with his brother. “The legalities required a trust document and some weaseling words, but the lot of what I own goes to my dearest.”

“I hate that we’re discussing Uncle Brodie like this,” Lanie said. “We have only the evidence of my nose and a lot of conjecture to convict him, and yet, convict him we have.”

“The evidence of your nose,” Morna said, “is more than enough for me.”

“That’s not all we have,” St. Didier said. “You, Miss MacKenzie, made Dunhaven aware that Dr. Ramsey remained in correspondence with Brodie. I found that odd after all these years. When Dunhaven suggested I have a chat with the physician, I asked some pointed questions about that correspondence.”

Morna sent Graham a puzzled look. “You thought Dr. Ramsey was holding something back, but you didn’t press him.”

“I was too anxious to get us all back to the castle,” Graham said. “Besides, St. Didier has an uncanny knack for encouraging people to air their guilty consciences. Ramsey had more to say, none of it flattering to Brodie, but by no means evidence of murder.”

“I’m told St. Didier is a credit to a kilt,” Lanie said. “A dangerous man, if he’s also prone to wheedling confessions from the unsuspecting.” She emphasized her accent on the final word in the phrase a dangerous mon .

“I’m feeling dangerous myself,” Peter said. “I’d like to murder Brodie in his bed, but I suppose a duel will have to do.”

Lanie unwrapped her hand from his. “Not funny, Peter.”

“Not joking, Elaine Marie.”

“No duels,” Morna said, causing all heads to swivel in her direction. “Injury in a duel is considered an assault, and any violent death can be prosecuted as a murder. I will not support activity that could see somebody I love transported or hanged.”

“Nor will I,” Lanie said.

“I wouldn’t kill him,” Peter muttered.

“Not on purpose,” Graham replied, “but you don’t want to take the risk of him flinching or—more likely—firing early, do you?”

That Graham also disapproved of a duel was more relief.

“Dunhaven, have you a plan?” St. Didier asked. “Brodie might well show himself at supper, and one wants to know one’s lines.”

“I have some ideas,” Graham said, “but they want refining. My general thoughts are as follows.”

Morna detested his general thoughts. Peter and St. Didier were intrigued by them. Lanie had some general thoughts of her own, and before lunch was served, the workings of a plan were agreed to, though Morna didn’t care for the proposed scheme one bit.

On a more encouraging note, Uncle Brodie would positively loathe Graham’s plan, if it went well.