Highlander in Disguise (Lockhart Family #2)



D rake Lockhart was uncertain as to which house belonged to Lady Dalkeith and had walked up Cavendish Street twice, looking at the distinctive window fans above the door for a clue. A shell of some sort, Garfield had said. As he didn’t see anything that looked like a shell, exactly, he turned round, retracing his steps.

He might have walked over Lady Worthall had it not been for her little dog, which attacked his boot as if it were a cat.

“Mr. Lockhart, is it?” she asked, peering inquisitively through her monocle.

“Lady Worthall, how do you do?”

“Quite well indeed, sir. And how is your lady mother?”

“Very well, thank you,” he said, trying to kick the dog off of him.

“Sirius! Stop that at once!” she cried, but the dog ignored her. Lady Worthall peered up at Drake again beneath the long bill of her bonnet. “No doubt you are in search of Lord Ardencaple,” she said.

He jerked his gaze up in surprise. “How did you know?”

“Why, it would seem the entire town is in search of him!” she exclaimed.

Drake forgot about the dog. “Does it seem so, indeed? Are you acquainted with him?”

“Acquainted!” she spat. “Hardly! He has taken up residence in my dear friend’s house. Of course I wrote straightaway to Lady Dalkeith in France and expressed how happy we were that her dear friend, Lord Ardencaple, had come to reside! And do you know that she wrote me in return and claimed to have no knowledge of a Lord Ardencaple, and that, in fact, the only Scot she had any contact with at all was her grandson, Mr. MacAlister, but neither had he written to request the use of her house!”

“Are you certain?” Drake asked.

“Of course I’m certain!” she snapped. “At last look, there are no bats in this belfry, sir!”

“Of course not—it’s just that I find it quite hard to believe that a man would simply steal someone’s home.”

“As do I, sir, which is why I took it upon myself to inform Lady Dalkeith. And she has written that she will return by the end of this week to have a word with Lord Ardencaple.”

“Which house is it, if you’d be so kind?” he asked.

Lady Worthall pointed to one in the middle of the block. “And best you call now, sir, for Miss Addison has been within far too long!” Lady Worthall sniped.

Drake’s blood ran cold. “I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, that impertinent Miss Anna Addison!” Lady Worthall said, and paused to stop down and pick up her awful little dog, which struggled to be set free. “She’s called on several occasions without benefit of escort! I shudder to think what unspeakable things must be going on behind closed doors!” she said, and closed her eyes and shuddered.

Drake couldn’t think. He could not think. It was impossible to believe that Anna would risk so much by coming here. It was impossible to believe that Anna would have desire or reason to come here! His cold blood was boiling now, and he turned sharply toward the house. “Which one again, that one?” he asked, pointing, wanting to make doubly sure he had it.

“Yes indeed, sir, that one,” Lady Worthall said, nodding furiously. “You’d best pay your call. I think well of Lord Whittington, and I would not like to see his name tarnished!”

“Quite right.” With a tip of his hat, Drake turned and strode purposefully toward Dalkeith House.

He took the steps in twos, banged loudly on the door. And when it was not immediately answered, he banged again, only harder. It was at last opened by a pretty woman with golden red hair, wearing an apron. She cocked one hip as she took him in. “Aye?”

“Lord Ardencaple. You may say Mr. Lockhart is calling.”

“Beg yer pardon, sir, he’s engaged just now.”

“Then I suggest you un-engage him, miss, for I will see him now!”

The woman moved to shut the door, but Drake slapped a hand against it.

“Ye canna come in here like this!” she cried. “Ye’ve no call to do it!”

“I’ve every call, and if you don’t do as I ask straightaway, I will have the authorities at your door before you can drop a hen in your kettle, wench.”

The woman gasped with shock, then suddenly whirled and went running into the house, shouting, “Milord, milord!”

Drake was on her heels, following her up the grand staircase and down the corridor to the last door on the right.

“Lord Ardencaple!” she screeched as she tried to reach for the doorknob.

Drake was too quick; he shoved past her, threw the door open, and strode into the room.

Ardencaple was standing in the middle of the room, his arms folded, his legs braced far apart. He was wearing buckskins and boots, but no coat, only a waistcoat and a neckcloth that was partially untied.

“What in God’s name do ye think ye are about, Lockhart?” Ardencaple roared. “How dare ye push yer way in here!”