Ardencaple said nothing at first, but his wolfish smile slowly faded. “Near the foot of the Highlands.”
“The foot… would that put it somewhere near Stirling?” she asked curiously.
With a slight frown, he looked at her closely. “Are ye familiar with the geography of Scotland, Miss Addison?”
“Yes…a bit,” she said, even more curious about his sudden change in demeanor.
“Then ye know the Highlands are quite large with many small glens and rivers and lochs.”
“So I’ve surmised.”
“Then ye would have likewise surmised it’s near to impossible to describe where everything lies, aye?”
Anna blinked, confused. “Do you mean to say that you can’t describe where your seat is?”
His reaction to that question was to suddenly and inexplicably reach for her hand and bring it to his lips. “No’ at all. I would describe it just as I did—near the foot of the Highlands. To explain any further would require a map of sorts, and ye are far too pretty to worry with it,” he said, and kissed her knuckles, his lips warm and soft on her skin. “Now, then, if ye will kindly give me leave, I should best be on me way,” he said, and dropping her hand, he turned and walked to the opposite end of the foyer and the entry.
Confused and a little perturbed, Anna watched him go, wondering if he had just insulted her intelligence. Did he think her incapable of grasping the simplest tenets of geography? That she couldn’t think in the abstract?
As the footman opened the door, Ardencaple turned, gave her a strangely cool smile, and stepped outside.
Anna instantly whirled about and marched to the curving staircase leading to the floors above.
Frankly, she didn’t need some dandy Scottish earl to tell her where the seat of Ardencaple might be—she had her books and her atlas and she had managed quite well without him until now, thank you. The next time she saw Lord Ardencaple, perhaps she’d explain to him where his seat was.
In her room, Anna pulled out the heavy atlas of Britain from her vanity, flipped the thick pages until she found Scotland, and began to scour the pages for Ardencaple. She found nothing like Ardencaple at all, which really didn’t surprise her. Lots of peer names had changed over the centuries.
A trip to her father’s library, and Anna returned to her rooms with the voluminous Debrett’s Correct Peerage and began a painstaking search for Ardencaple.
After an hour or more, she found it. Her eyes widened, and she squinted at the page, read it again, using her finger to trace every word to make sure that she did not miss anything. And when she had finished, she slowly sat back and stared blindly at the wall in front of her.
There was no earldom of Ardencaple! At least, there hadn’t been since the Ardencaple title and lands had been assumed by the duke of Argyll decades ago. Which meant that Lord Ardencaple was…some sort of fraud?
Now that was an intriguing notion, Anna thought as a smile crossed her lips.
Six
F irst the remark about Liam, and now the questions about Ardencaple—Miss Addison was beginning to vex Grif.
As he strode away from Whittington House, he had the distinctly disquieting feeling that the lass knew too much. Or something, at least. Or perhaps she simply had the ability to unnerve him with too many questions.
He’d have to be more astute in avoiding her, wouldn’t he?
Grif walked on, tipping his hat and nodding at the passersby as he strolled through Mayfair and north across Oxford.
As he turned onto Cavendish Street, he noticed, much to his chagrin, that Lady Worthall was striding toward him with that insufferable little ankle-biting dog jumping alongside her. Lady Worthall was their intrusive neighbor, who had, apparently, appointed herself Grand Inquisitor. She’d been the first to arrive at their door to review the letters of introduction and was constantly walking up and down the street, peering up at their windows, and God forbid she catch one of them in the street.
“Lord Ardencaple!” she trilled loudly from half a block away.
“Good evening, Lady Worthall,” Grif said, clicking his heels and bowing curtly as she sailed, not unlike a royal barge, to a halt in front of him.
“Been abroad, have you?” she asked, peering up at him as she yanked the leash of her dog, Sirius, who yelped with each yank. “How fortuitous to encounter you here! I’ve just been delivered a letter from Lady Dalkeith.”
Grif’s heart stopped beating for a moment—Lady Dalkeith was Hugh’s grandmother, from whom they had filched the house. “Did ye indeed? I trust she is well, then?”
“Oh, quite well,” Lady Worthall exclaimed. “French air agrees with her, I think. But she’s determined to come home to England, and avowed in her letter to me that she’d come straightaway this autumn. That’s months away!”