“Of course not,” Johanna said. “What line of business is MacMasters in?”
“Why, he’s a physician, dearie. I thought ye knew that. Doctor MacMasters.”
“And his brother?”
“Good heavens, if ye ever find the answer to that question, be sure t’pass it along to me. I couldn’t begin to tell ye. The mon’s a hellion. Always has been. But a good mon, none-the-less.”
“One does not earn a living as a hellion.” Johanna lowered her voice to a conspiratorial tone. “How does he earn his keep?”
Mrs. Duncan’s eyes twinkled. “I’ve heard tales…but they’re not fit fer a young lady’s ears.”
“I am not fresh out of schoolroom, and at this point, I’m not certain my conduct would qualify as ‘befitting a lady.’”
“Aye, if ye wanted to leave this house, I’d think the door might’ve been easier.” Bobbing her head in agreement with her own words, the housekeeper pulled down the quilt and plumped a thick pillow. “I’ve no place carrying tales. Ye’ll need to find out for yerself.”
“Won’t you tell me just a bit? I must confess to a great curiosity where Mr. MacMasters is concerned.”
“I’ve been with this family since Dr. MacMasters was in nappies. ’Tis not my place to gossip.” Mrs. Duncan’s mouth slid into a coy smile. “They’re not the usual sort. Even schooling in England didn’t dampen that wildness in their souls. They’ve got the clan in their blood. No fancy manners will change that. But I suspect ye’ll find that out in time.”
Without a backward glance, Mrs. Duncan turned and strolled from the room, closing the door softly behind her.
Good heavens, what pursuits were these men involved in that kept even the housekeeper intrigued?
Mrs. Duncan was right. Johanna would find out soon enough what the brothers were about. She’d no intention of following blithely along with whatever schemes the men were brewing. No, she’d glean whatever good she could from her time with the Scottish rogue and use it to her advantage.
MacMasters had trailed her since her arrival in Inverness. Could he be in league with the blackguards who’d followed her every move since Mr. Abbott had embarked on what he’d deceptively termed a holiday?
Her fingers went to her blouse, unfastening the buttons. She shrugged out of the sleeves, draped the soiled garment over the bedpost, and followed suit with her skirt. Despite Harrison MacMaster’s assurances that he’d procure fresh clothing, she might well need to rely on what she’d worn on her back.
With a sigh, she removed her corset. Sinking into a plumply upholstered chair, she indulged in a long, soothing stretch, then examined the garment. The tiny, pale stitches she’d made within the lining were undisturbed. Another sigh escaped her. She’d no doubt MacMasters had examined her clothing. But they had not detected the hiding place she’d constructed within the undergarment. Judging from their questions and statements, she’d assured herself that her secret had remained safe. But her relief seemed nearly a tangible thing.
No, MacMasters had not uncovered the scrap of paper she’d concealed there, a remnant of the last correspondence she’d received from Richard Abbott. If the Scot had uncovered her secret, his inquiry would’ve taken a very different tone.
She’d burned the letter, not long after the ominous final missive had arrived in the post. There was no telling who had knowledge of its bleak contents, but she could take no chances. She’d watched the paper curl and burn in the fireplace, obliterating the strange sequence of digits he’d noted in that precise hand of his. Whether the numbers were connected to a clandestine bank account or had some other meaning, she couldn’t be certain. But she’d memorized the sequence and destroyed the page, salvaging only three brief but priceless lines Mr. Abbott had penned while his danger-fraught existence had apparently unraveled.
Following her brother-in-law’s instructions, she’d tossed his earlier correspondence in the fire. As the flames consumed the letters, she’d struggled to keep a taut rein on her emotions. Mr. Abbott had implored her to take the train to Inverness and see Laurel safely home. He’d made arrangements for her care while he dealt with the repercussions of a business deal that had taken an ugly turn, or so he’d said. Gathering her things hastily, Johanna had prepared to leave on the next morning’s train.
That was before the messenger arrived. The scrawny lad had shown up on her doorstep, telegram in hand. The wording on the communiqué was purposefully bland. But its meaning was clear. Laurel was in danger, and it was up to Johanna to ensure the child’s safe return.