No one could dispute it—Mared and Griffin had pored over old books and family trees until they finally landed on the fictitious Lord Griffin MacAulay, laird of Ardencaple, a title that was passed to the duke of Argyll one hundred years prior and was later abolished by the duke as redundant. There was nothing left of Ardencaple now save a few crofters. “Ardencaple. Who could possibly know that old name?” Grif had laughed.
Once his identity was established, Liam and Ellie took over, schooling Grif daily on the habits and haunts of London society and many social protocols. They enlisted Dudley, the Lockharts’ longtime butler-cum-manservant-cum-groom-cum-gardener to accompany Grif and lend credibility to his being a lord.
But it was the wee lass Natalie who had handed them a bit of a quandary one day when she remarked, from amid her collection of Mared’s old dolls, “I think he must have a valet if he is to be a lord.”
They’d all stopped talking at once and stared in horror at the lass. “Dear God, I had forgotten,” Ellie muttered.
Carson came up with a brilliant solution, and enlisted Hugh, the son of his oldest and dearest friend, Ian MacAlister, to play the role of Grif’s valet in exchange for a small percentage of what the beastie might bring. Not only was Hugh willing to pose as Grif’s valet, he also knew of a place they might take up residence. Hugh’s maternal grandmother, Lady Dalkeith, had married an Englishman after her husband died, and he knew his grandmother’s house on Cavendish Street sat vacant and unattended while she accompanied her husband to France every summer.
The Lockharts celebrated with several tots of Highland whiskey, for not only had they access to a vacant house in London for several months, but proper letters of introduction, expertly fabricated by Ellie.
That left them with one last hurdle—money. As the Lockharts had scraped together all they had to send Liam to London, their pockets were now decidedly empty. But Grif had an idea. “I think we’ve no other option, then, but to ask Payton for a small loan,” he suggested. “He’s the only one with money in these parts.”
“Traitor,” Mared hissed.
“Payton Douglas?” Hugh asked.
“Bloody Douglas, that’s who,” Carson said, as he was wont to do anytime the name Douglas came up, and then instantly softened. “Aye, he’d be a Douglas, but a decent sort, if there’s such a thing.”
“He’s been right clever,” Grif said carefully, knowing how the subject rankled his father. “The sheep have served him well, and I hear he plans a distillery. He’s no’ an idiot, that one,” he said, and added, for Hugh’s benefit, “He’s suggested an arrangement of lands between us, he has—one that would benefit both Lockhart and Douglas.”
“Ach, ye’re a fool, Grif!” Mared said instantly with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He’s a Douglas! Lockhart and Douglas have never seen eye to eye!”
“Aye,” Liam said on a weary sigh, “but Grif is right. Douglas is our only hope.”
“Then Mared must ask him,” Aila said. “He esteems her greatly and always has.”
“Mother!” Mared cried. “I’d rather be drawn and—”
“Quartered!” Aila exclaimed with her. “I know, I know, mo ghraidh. But it doesna alter the fact that he’s sweet for ye—although God knows why, the way ye treat the poor soul. Yet he might be favorably inclined to make a small loan to yer father …if ye were to ask him nicely.”
With a moan, Mared covered her face with her hands.
“There now,” Liam said kindly. “It’s no’ as if ye must kiss him,” he said, and he and Grif laughed roundly at her muffled cry.
Two
P ayton heard them coming before he actually saw them—the screech of rusted iron from the Lockharts’ old landau echoed across the little valley, drifting in through the open window and startling his poor cousin Sarah so badly that she put down her teacup with a clatter.
“What in heaven is that horrid noise?” she asked, daintily covering her ears with her hands.
“A carriage. Ye’ve carriages in Edinburra, no?”
“Payton!” Sarah chided him. “I’m no’ accustomed to the country, and well ye know it.”
“Aye,” Payton said, already walking to the windows that overlooked the drive.
Below him, the old Lockhart landau had come to a stop. Captain Liam Lockhart was standing with his brother, Grif Lockhart. The two of them, leaning forward, were peering into the interior of the carriage. Liam’s voice was raised; Grif was calm and smooth, as always. And then he heard the familiar voice of their sister, Mared. Except in that particular moment, it sounded more like a screech.
At that moment, Payton’s butler, Beckwith, entered the room. “Beg yer pardon, milord, but the Lockharts are calling.”
“That I see.” Payton nodded thoughtfully. “The question is, why?”
“I couldna rightly say, milord.”
Neither could Payton. The last time a Lockhart had entered this house was… actually, Payton couldn’t remember a time.
“Who are the Lockharts?” Sarah asked.
“Neighbors.”
“Oh!” Sarah exclaimed excitedly. “Invite them in—”