Page 87 of The Scottish Duke's Deal

“You probably do.”

He shot her a look. She didn’t retract it. Lady Fraser didn’t smile, but her eyes warmed. Just enough.

“You’ll have to choose soon,” she said softly. “Where your home is. Which part of you gets to lead. You can’t keep living divided, Ramsay. You’re a man now. You’re not allowed to sit on the fence.”

“Do you think I’ve been waiting for you to come down from Scotland to tell me this?”

She was quiet for a long moment then, “There’s something else.”

His gaze flicked to hers.

Her tone shifted. He heard it before he understood. “It’s Callum,” she said.

Ramsay’s mouth tightened. “What?”

“He’s been… difficult. More than usual. Since the news reached us about your title. He’s been saying things. Loud things. In pubs. At meetings. Anywhere anyone’ll listen.”

“What kind of things?”

“That you bought your way into the peerage. That your new friends in London wouldn’t look so kindly on your past. That if they knew what really happened…”

Ramsay’s jaw clenched. “So it was he who sent the letter then.”

Lady Fraser met his gaze evenly. “You received a letter?”

He nodded. “A threat. It didn’t say much. Just blackmailing me that they would expose what happened in Inverness to the ton.”

“Then it was Callum,” she said. “Of course, it was. I told you long ago he resents you. Always did.”

“I thought he’d moved on.”

“He hasn’t. He won’t. And now that you’ve risen, he’ll want to drag you back down.”

Ramsay stood. Paced once, hands clenched at his sides. The memory of Eleanor’s laughter still echoed faintly in his chest, and the thought of her being pulled into this—intohim—made something dark stir in his gut.

“I’ll handle it,” he said.

“I know you will, but be careful, Ramsay,” Lady Fraser said quietly. “He doesn’t just want to hurt you. He wants to ruin you.”

Twenty-One

The morning sun spilled through the windows like warm milk, catching on the polished banisters and the intricate moldings Ramsay had so clearly not chosen himself. Eleanor moved quietly through the corridor, one hand brushing along the velvet wallcovering, the other resting lightly on Penelope’s shoulder. The child walked beside her, small fingers curled trustingly around Eleanor’s own.

“Are we going to the room with the angry lady?” Penelope asked, wrinkling her nose.

“She’s not angry,” Eleanor replied gently. “Just a little… sharp around the edges. Like your uncle.”

Penelope gave this some thought then sighed, as if resigning herself to the fate of tolerating yet another grown-up. “Do you think she has biscuits?”

“I think she might,” Eleanor said, knocking once on the wide double doors before pushing them open.

The sitting room was dim but richly furnished with a great velvet armchair perched beside the hearth. In it sat Lady Fraser, wearing an expression so unreadable Eleanor nearly reconsidered her entrance. But the older woman rose with surprising grace for her age, eyes landing on Penelope.

“Well,” Lady Fraser said, “there she is.”

Penelope clutched Eleanor’s skirts.

“Come closer,” Lady Fraser added. “I won’t bite. I only do that to grown men and governesses.”