“For fuck’s sake, Freckles.” He grabbed a delicate sandwich between his thumb and index finger and a cucumber slid out limply and plopped onto the doily. Portia speared it with her fork.
“Rules are put in place to test people, Tavish. They establish a baseline for respect, and people who can’t meet that baseline are considered rabble that don’t have to be tolerated. It’s all bullshit, but if we’re going to do this, I’m not letting anyone treat you like rabble. Or even merely tolerate you. You’re going to be the best fucking duke this country has ever seen, got it?”
Tav stared at Portia through a space in the multitiered sandwich tray. She looked good in her dress, but now she was wearing that look of determination he found even sexier. And it was all for him. It wasn’t quite how he’d imagined coaxing the expression from her, but it would do. For now.
He straightened in his seat and saluted her with his tiny sandwich. “Let’s do this.”
Chapter 16
A palace. A freaking palace.
Holyrood, which was indeed a freaking palace at the end of the Royal Mile, seemed to serve as more tourist trap than actual functioning home of an aristocrat, but apparently it was also used for meetings when lowly commoners showed up claiming to be secret heirs to dukedoms. Portia wondered if this weren’t some form of intimidation; Thabiso had told her he usually met with Scottish peerage at the Royal Scots Club and had only been to Holyrood for events and parties. Or maybe they were going to be dragged into a secret torture chamber on the premises. Good thing she’d packed her bear spray.
After being mistaken for tourists and twice told they had to pay to enter, they’d eventually been led to the private wing of the palace, reserved for the usage of the duke and the royal family when they visited Scotland.
“Ms. Hobbs? Mr. McKenzie? Please, follow me,” the butler who met them at the entrance to the private wing said.
Portia had been to homes with household staff—nannies, cleaning women, and serving staff—but seeing a real-life Jeeves reminded her that there was wealth and there was aristocracy. Even a poor duke or earl was accustomed to a certain lifestyle, and that lifestyle included butlers who sneered at guests without the decency to have titles in front of their names, or absurd wealth to make up for the lack of it.
Having worked in museums, Portia felt appropriately awed as they passed through the halls. Nearly every item, from artwork, to furniture, to molding, could have been put on display in the main touristic area.
Her phone vibrated in her purse and she was certain it was Nya or Ledi responding to the OMG I’m going to ruin everything and also if you don’t hear from me in an hour have Thabiso send the SWAT team freak-out messages she’d sent to their group that morning, Scotland time. She let the vibrations comfort her. She wasn’t alone. She was with Tavish. She had her friends. She could do this.
They could do this.
They entered a lavish sitting room where a man and two women sat in uncomfortable-looking chairs before a fireplace. The walls were covered in rich, floral-patterned wallpaper and large oil paintings of white dudes at various stages of life and facial hair manscaping trends.
The man, who was sitting in the most ornate chair, turned his head in their direction, and that was when Portia realized that the largest, and newest, portrait, which dominated the space above the fireplace, was him.
The two women had been in deep conversation, but then they both stood. The younger woman gave a friendly smile and adjusted the lacey collar of her dress, which looked like Duchess of York cosplay gone wrong. The slightly older woman stepped forward, a neutral expression on her face and delicate white gloves on her hands, indicating that she was above general drudgery.
“Thank you so very much for coming. We spoke on the phone. I’m Francis Baker, secretary to His Grace, David Dudgeon, the Duke of Edinburgh,” she said, gesturing to the man before the fireplace. He was an average-looking dude in an ugly but expensive suit, and he stared at Portia and Tavish like they were a strange substance spilled on the last open seat in a crowded subway car. He didn’t bother to stand, and looked away dismissively before Ms. Baker was even done with the introduction.
Portia had planned to be gracious, inoffensive, bland. To simply usher Tav through the meeting. But if that was how David wanted to play it, she could do genteel bitchiness, too.
“Hello, I’m Portia Hobbs, assistant to His Actual Grace, Tavish McKenzie, the Duke of Edinburgh,” Portia responded, gesturing toward Tav. David curled his lip in response.
“I’m Leslie, David’s sister,” the other woman said. She curtsied as well, and then glanced back and forth between Tavish and David. Little worry lines creased the space between her dark brows, though she tried to smile.
“Pleased to meet you,” Tavish said, walking over to the seat. He reached out to shake David’s hand and the man simply regarded him for a moment, then grabbed Tav’s hand and began executing some strange maneuver that didn’t resemble a handshake at all. If he had tried it on a weaker man, perhaps he would have taken him off guard and shaken him like a rag doll. Instead, Tavish stood unmoved as David gritted his teeth and tugged harder.
“You okay, mate?” Tavish asked, laughter in his voice.
“I’m not your mate,” David said, releasing his grip and wiping his hand on the leg of his pants as he sank back down into his seat.
“That’s right. You’re his cousin,” Portia said. “Distant cousin.”
“Supposedly,” David muttered.
“Shall we be seated?” Ms. Baker asked so politely that of course it wasn’t a request but a demand.
Portia and Tavish took their seats, the sound of the crackling fireplace exacerbating the tension in the air.
“Before we begin,” David said, and then looked at Ms. Baker. She reluctantly pulled out a plastic case and opened it to reveal a small glass tube and some cotton swabs.
“No point in beating around the bush,” David said. “It’s a paternity test. If you’d be so kind as to swab your mouth.”
Tav stiffened and Portia laid her hand on his knee.
“Mr. McKenzie, excuse me, His Grace, would be happy to take the test.” Tav’s knee flexed beneath her hand and she squeezed a bit. “I’m assuming you took one as well? After all, your claim to the title is much more tenuous.”
Portia took great satisfaction at the way David’s mouth opened and shut silently for a few seconds before slamming into a thin blanched line.
“My family’s bloodline is pure and undiluted,” he said after gathering his composure, barely able to look at Portia. “I didn’t have anything to prove.”
“Given the noted high rate of adultery and other unsavory behavior in the aristocratic ranks, a DNA test should have been carried out if that’s so important to you, but we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” Portia took the cotton swab from Francis and turned to Tavish. “Open your mouth please.”
Tavish’s brow furrowed. “I’m no—”
“Your Grace, do you really not want to do this? It’s the fastest way to make sure that certain people know their place—and yours. But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”
He gave a reluctant nod and took the swab, swiping quickly in his mouth and then dropping it into Francis’s gloved, outstretched hand.
Portia glanced at Tavish, who glared at the floor. David was trying to be insulting, but only because he was already fighting a losing battle.
Portia whipped her head in the direction of their hosts. “Now, we were invited for what I assumed would be tea and a discussion of the new and exciting discovery of Mr. McKenzie’s lineage. Yet we haven’t even been offered refreshment. Is this some modern form of hospitality or is Mr. Dudgeon always so rude to guests?”
Leslie gasped and David frowned, but Ms. Baker jumped up from her seat.
“I’ll see to it,” she said, hurrying away with her sample.