Mrs. MacLaren looked a wee bit nonplussed. “Aye, he’s been the subject of wretched gossip.” She stirred sugar into her cup and added, “I canna imagine there’s a soul in these hills who’s no’ heard what is said of him.”
“Do you believe it?” Catriona asked.
Mrs. MacLaren frowned. “I donna know what I believe, in truth. Lady Montrose was much beloved in and around Blackthorn.”
“It seems impossible that anyone can simply vanish, much less a duchess, aye?”
Mrs. MacLaren nodded. “Particularly such a bonny young woman. A true beauty, that she was. Och, but she was full of light and love, and younger than the duke. Quite young, really. And him so brooding,” she said with a shiver.
“Is he?” Catriona asked. She had thought him rude. But brooding?
“Rather distant, he is. But I suppose that’s to be expected from a duke.”
Catriona didn’t suppose any such thing, but she kept that opinion to herself. “What did the duchess look like?” Catriona asked.
“Oh, she had beautiful ginger hair and piercing green eyes,” Mrs. MacLaren said, happier to speak of the duchess. “A true beauty, that she was. He must have believed so, too, for he had her portrait made and hung it in the main salon at Blackthorn.”
“Why would anyone assume he’d murdered her, do you suppose?” Catriona asked. It seemed so curious to her that murder should be everyone’s assumption, rather than believing the duke had cast his wife out. A woman who’d been cast out by her husband had turned up at Kishorn Abbey a year or so ago. Did someone somewhere believe that woman had been murdered?
“I can hardly guess the workings of a deviant mind,” Mrs. MacLaren said with a slight sniff. “What I do know is that passion can often be a dangerous thing between two people. But I shall no’ speak ill of the duke,” she said, in spite of having just spoken ill of the duke. “He’s no’ been charged with a crime, has he? To speculate would be to malign his reputation, and no matter what else, he’s done a lot of good for his tenants. But he’s made no friends for himself, that is true. And besides...” Mrs. MacLaren’s voice trailed away.
“And besides?” Catriona gently prodded.
“Well...it was no secret that there was great unhappiness at Blackthorn.”
That was a foregone conclusion. Happy homes did not lose a member here and there. “What sort of unhappiness?”
“I know only it’s been said,” Mrs. MacLaren demurred, and sipped her tea. “Ah, but she was a bonny woman, indeed she was. Devoted to the staff and their families. And he, well...he was rarely seen about. Quite cold, that one. It will be a curious thing to see him in society.”
“I saw him in the common room at the Red Sword and Shield on the day I arrived,” Catriona said.
“Did you? Perhaps he’s changed his ways. God knows he needed to. All right,” Mrs. MacLaren said, putting her teacup down again. “Enough of the duke. Is it true that your uncle has brought Russians to Dungotty?” she asked.
Catriona said it was true, and as Mrs. MacLaren began to speak of a chance meeting with a Russian count several years ago, Catriona thought of the dark-eyed man with the stern countenance and the portrait of his wife—Dead wife? Missing wife?—hanging in his salon.
Catriona hoped he would come to dine. She hadn’t been as diverted by a terrifyingly slanderous tale in ages.
Fortunately for her, they received the duke’s favorable reply on Wednesday.
“YOU’RE CERTAIN OF THIS, are you?” Hamlin asked.
“Aye,” Eula said. She was standing on a chair before him, working on the knot of his neckcloth, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“I was speaking to Mr. Bain,” he said, and touched the tip of his finger to her nose.
“Aye, your grace, that I am,” a voice behind Hamlin said.
Hamlin eyed the reflection of his secretary, Nichol Bain, in the mirror. He was leaning against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest, watching Eula’s ministrations. The auburn-haired, green-eyed young man was ambitious in the way of young men. He didn’t care about the rumors swirling around Hamlin, he cared about performing well, about parlaying his service to a duke to a better position. What would that be, then? Service to the king? Hamlin could only guess.
Bain had come to Hamlin through the Duke of Perth, the closest friend of his late father. As Hamlin had been a young man himself when he’d become a duke, Perth had taken him under his wing, and twelve years later, like his father before him, Hamlin considered Perth his closest adviser. Perth had brought Bain to him, had vouched for what Hamlin had thought were rather vague credentials.
Bain’s expression remained impassive as he calmly returned Hamlin’s gaze in the mirror. The man was impossible to discern. Whatever he thought about any given situation, he kept quite to himself unless asked. But he’d made up his mind about tonight’s dinner at once when Hamlin had asked. Frankly, he’d hardly thought on it at all. He’d said simply, “Aye, you must attend.”
Hamlin looked at himself in the mirror, eyeing his dress. He’d not seen about acquiring another valet since the last one had “retired” from his post after the fiasco with Glenna. He’d never been anything but perfectly civil to the man, and yet he’d believed the talk swirling around his master. Fortunately, Hamlin was quite capable of dressing himself and had donned formal attire. His waistcoat was made of silver silk, his coat and breeches black. Alas, Eula’s attempt to tie his white silk neckcloth had not met with success.
“I think it a waste of time,” he said to his reflection, returning to his conversation with Bain. “Nothing of consequence can come of it.”
“It is well-known that the Earl of Caithness is unduly influenced by MacLaren’s opinion. A vote from Caithness will be instrumental, if no’ decisive,” Bain said. “It could verra well be the vote to put you in the Lords, aye? The more familiar you are with the Caithness surrogate, the better your odds.”
Hamlin responded with a grunt. If he secured a seat in the House of Lords, it would be nothing short of a small miracle. Scotland was allowed sixteen seats, and those seats were determined by a vote of the Scottish peers. Four had opened, and his name had been put forth by virtue of his title. But his appointment, which had once been seen as a fait accompli, was now tenuous at best. People did not care to be represented by a man rumored to be a murderer.
“You see this as an opportunity to be familiar with MacLaren. I see it as an opportunity for a lot of scandalmongers to invent a lot of scandal.”
“What does it mean, scandalmonger?” Eula asked.
“It means busybodies have been invited to dine, that’s what.”
She shrugged and hopped down from the chair, her task complete. “Will the lady attend?”
“What lady?” Hamlin asked absently as he tried to straighten the mess she’d made of his neckcloth.
“The bonny one with the golden hair.”
And the gray-blue eyes. He could not forget those eyes sparkling with such mischievous delight. She was a minx, that one. It seemed of late that when most women viewed him at all, it was with a mix of horrified curiosity and downright fear. But Miss Mackenzie had looked at him as if she wanted to either challenge him to a duel or invite him to dance. He didn’t know what to make of her forthright manner, really. He wondered if anyone had ever tried to bring her to heel. She was not a young debutante, that much was obvious, but a comely, assured woman, scarcely younger than