Every year Lady Kerswood hosted a Burns Night Ball in a poorly disguised attempt to outshine my aunt and uncle’s Hogmanay Ball. One year Lady Kerswood had tried to plan a ball on December thirty-first alongside my aunt, inviting many of the same people. When she received mostly regrets, the guests preferring to continue their annual tradition at Clintmains Hall, Lady Kerswood opted to move her event to Burns Night, pretending that was what she’d wished to do all along.
Burns Night was traditionally celebrated on an evening around Robert Burns’s birthday, January twenty-fifth, and included readings of his poetry as well as Scottish food and music. Unfortunately, Lady Kerswood had transformed what would normally be a fun night into an overextravagance of all things Scots. She insisted everyone wear clan dress and talk in thick brogues, though she herself was exempted, claiming she was too delicate to manage it. And rather than wear Lord Kerswood’s clan colors, she instead decked herself out as Mary, Queen of Scots, or Flora MacDonald, or some other famous Scottish figure.
For whatever reason, our aunt felt some obligation to attend, and insisted that the rest of us join them whenever we were in the area, no matter how much we loathed it.
“Are you sure she included me in the invitation?” I asked, actually hopeful for once that I had been snubbed.
Trevor’s expression was not amused. “She did. And don’t even think about trying to get out of it.”
“Trying to get out of what?” Gage asked as he rejoined us inside the carriage. He wrapped on the roof with his fist and the horses set off again. He glanced from me to Trevor as we glowered at each other. I was the one to finally speak up.
“Lady Kerswood’s Burns Night Ball.”
“Burns Night? The poet?”
“Yes.”
Gage settled back against the squabs. “When is it? Am I invited as well?”
“I’m sure you’ll be welcome,” Trevor replied.
“Excellent,” he declared, his eyes warm as he gazed down at me by his side. “Then I’ll finally get a chance to dance with your sister.”
I felt my cheeks begin to heat under his intense regard, and couldn’t stop a small smile of pleasure from curling my lips, delighted that he’d remembered.
“Didn’t you both attend a ball in Edinburgh?” Trevor asked, ruining the moment. “Why didn’t you dance with her there?”
I parted my lips, trying to figure out how to answer him without actually telling him the truth. Gage came to our rescue, all the while never removing his gaze from mine.
“We were pursuing a suspect.”
I inhaled deeply and offered him another smile, this time of gratitude.
His eyes dipped to my lips, and I was sure that if Trevor had not been there, he would have kissed me.
? ? ?
When we arrived at Marefield House, the butler informed us with a sober smile that Lord Fleming was in his study and expected us. But when I asked if I might be shown to Lady Fleming instead, his eyebrows rose to his hairline. Apparently he’d overheard some of our conversation the previous evening, or simply deduced Lady Fleming’s displeasure from the manner in which she stormed out.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Gage’s face twitch in suppressed amusement, but I dared not look at him. We had decided on this course of action during our drive here, hoping that Lady Fleming might be more willing to talk without her husband present. If she suspected her nephew’s involvement in these body snatchings as we did, then she might be keeping it from her husband. I had argued that she was more likely to speak with Gage than me—a woman she clearly despised—but he’d insisted that a tête-à-tête between two ladies was more suitable and would draw less suspicion from Lord Fleming. I had to reluctantly agree, though I wasn’t looking forward to bearding the lioness in her den.
The butler coughed into his palm, quickly recovering himself. “Of course.” He swiveled to look at the footman stationed behind him. “Robert, please show Lady Darby to the conservatory.”
I followed the young man through the corridors to the back corner of the house. Like most conservatories, the ceiling and three of the walls were made of glass, but unlike the maze that our garden room at Blakelaw House had become, this one was arranged in neat rows. The footman left me at the door and I wandered to the left, following the sound of clay scraping against wood. I rounded a rhododendron bush and found Lady Fleming standing before a long crude wooden table, her gloved hands pressing down the soil around a plant inside a pot. The flora was green and leafy, but with my limited knowledge of horticulture, I had no idea what kind of plant it might be.
She must have sensed my presence, for she looked up, sparing me only a cursory glance before returning her concentration to the plant before her. “Lady Darby, how kind of you to visit me.” The bite in her voice indicated just how ironic those words were. “I assume Mr. Gage is closeted with my husband.”
“And my brother,” I added, advancing toward her.
She raised her eyes again at this statement, but did not comment.