Jack shifted in his chair. "And suddenly it's your birthday, Rob," he said dryly.

There was an abrupt silence in the room. Everyone looked at Robert.

"Whatever can you mean, Jack?" Lady Methven said.

"Only that Rob likes Lady Lucy MacMorlan rather a lot," Jack said, his grin broadening.

"Thank you, Jack," Robert said dryly. "A helpful intervention, as always." He stood up. "You mistake. I do not like Lady Lucy at all and I do not trust her an inch."

Lady Methven looked scandalized. "Robert! She is a sweet girl."

"She is a manipulative little minx," Robert said brutally. He thought about Lucy. He had every right to be angry with her, but he could not deny that he was still attracted to her. He thought about the taste of her and the feel of her in his arms. She might be a deceitful hussy, but there was a spark that burned between them like a flame on dry tinder. That heat and desire were exactly what he would have wanted from the woman in his bed.

If only he could trust her.

Mr. Kirkward cleared his throat. "Lady Lucy is heiress to sixty thousand pounds, which will be paid upon her marriage."

Jack whistled. "A not inconsiderable sum. Not that you need the money, Rob."

Robert did not. He had made a vast fortune of his own in Canada, trading in timber, but to marry an heiress was never a bad thing.

"She is also a most generous donor to charity," Mr. Kirkward continued.

Robert's head snapped up. "With what?"

Mr. Kirkward looked confused. "With the earnings from her writing, my lord. Lady Lucy is a benefactor to both the Foundling Hospital and the Greyfriars Orphanage. She donates anonymously, but it was not difficult to discover."

"Your skills of detection impress me, Kirkward," Robert said. He remembered Lucy claiming that she wrote for the money. The one thing she had not done was to justify her actions by telling him she gave the money away to charity. He wondered about her motives.

"You see!" Lady Methven said triumphantly. "I told you she was a sweet, generous girl." She sighed. "I'll allow that Lady Mairi might have been a better choice of bride, though. She is older, widowed and therefore has no false illusions about the married state-"

"Thank you, Grandmama," Robert said, "for the vote of confidence."

Lady Methven snapped her fingers. "You know what I mean, Robert. Besides, Lady Lucy is very particular. She had two seasons in London and three in Edinburgh and refused every suitor." Lady Methven wrinkled her nose up. "The gossips say Lady Lucy's heart was broken when her fiance died and she has never met another man to match him, but personally I think that is so much nonsense. Duncan MacGillivray was a dry old stick and no suitable match for a young gel, but whatever the case, she has turned down many proposals of marriage."

"She will not have the chance to turn me down," Robert said smoothly. "I cannot afford a refusal."

He pushed the hair back for his brow. He knew he had no choice other than to marry Lucy. "Do you know whether Lady Lucy returned to Forres or to Edinburgh after the wedding, Grandmama?" he asked Lady Methven.

Mr. Kirkward cleared his throat delicately. "My lord, I made discreet inquiries into the whereabouts of the duke's daughters once I realized they might be eligible...." He flicked through the papers. "Apparently they belong to a club called the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society. It is an elite and prestigious society for Scottish ladies with academic credentials and it meets regularly in a different castle each month."

"So I have heard," Robert said. The Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society was as famous for its secretive nature as for its scholarly interests. No one who was not a member could attend the meetings, and no one quite knew what those meetings entailed. Robert imagined an esoteric group of ladies sitting around discussing dry-as-dust history and literature all day before changing for dinner and indulging in more discussions on intellectual subjects.

"Unfortunately," Mr. Kirkward continued, "I have been unable to ascertain where they are currently meeting. It is secret information."

"Grandmama?" Robert said. He knew that Lady Methven was not a member of the society, but she knew plenty of ladies who were.

Lady Methven smoothed her skirts. "Really, Robert," she said. "The Highland Ladies is a secret society. The clue is in the word secret. You cannot expect me to give away any details."

"Even to save Methven?" Robert queried. "I need to find Lady Lucy quickly and make her an offer of marriage."

"What unromantic haste!" Lady Methven looked down her nose. "You should be trying to woo her, Robert, not dragoon her into marriage!"

"I do not have time to be romantic," Robert said.

"I'd like to see you even try," Jack murmured, sotto voce.

Lady Methven gave an exaggerated sigh. "Oh, very well, but do not let it slip that I told you or I will be drummed out of Edinburgh." When Robert merely raised his eyebrows she said, "They are meeting at Durness Castle."

Robert managed to swallow the instinctive curse that rose to his lips. It would not do to offend his grandmother with his language. She already considered him sadly uncouth. But Durness was remote, in the far north of Scotland; it would take him several days to reach it, longer if the weather turned bad. Worse, Wilfred Cardross owned the estate adjoining Durness. It seemed more than a coincidence. He had seen Cardross paying court to Lucy at Brodrie, and now he wondered what the earl was planning.

"The Highland Ladies like to travel," Lady Methven said. "It broadens the mind."

Robert sighed sharply. Some of his own estates, including the northern Methven stronghold of Golden Isle, lay in the same area. He had not been there since Gregor had died.

The day seemed darker all of a sudden, the gray clouds gathering and thickening into rain.

"It will be good for you to wed a member of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society, Robert," his grandmother said thoughtfully. "An educated woman will have a civilizing influence on both your manners and your mind after all those years living in the wilds of Canada. She may instruct you in both the social refinements and any intellectual accomplishments in which you are deficient-literature, mathematics, astronomy, geography, manners and conduct..."

Behind him, Robert heard Jack give a snort of laughter and made a mental note to threaten his cousin that if a word of this conversation ever reach the inns and clubs of Edinburgh, he would be a dead man.

He half expected his grandmother to start issuing him with instructions on how to fulfill the other requirement of the treaty, the need to produce an heir within two years. Her advice on that would be a step too far.

As far as he was concerned, Lucy MacMorlan would give him a far greater gift than that of scholarship: the ability to claim his estates unchallenged by anyone, take them and hold them safe. All he had to do was persuade her to marry him.

Lady Lucy owed him a bride. Now he was going to collect on the debt.

CHAPTER SIX.

THE SHEEP'S HEAD Alehouse at the bottom of Candlemaker Row was not the sort of inn frequented by the aristocracy, most of whom had fled the narrow, crowded passageways of Edinburgh's Old Town many years before. It was dark, cramped and smelled strongly of tobacco and stale beer. A man would not recognize his own mother in the gloom, and if he did he would be shocked to find her there. Which was exactly why Wilfred Cardross had chosen it. He had also changed his usual flamboyant style of dress for something a little less obvious. It was one of the reasons he was in a bad mood; he hated not to be the center of attention.

The other reason the earl was tapping his fingers irritably on the battered wooden table was that his guest was late. He disliked being kept waiting. It was not appropriate to a man of his elevated station in life. So when Mr. Stuart Pardew slipped into the seat opposite, he greeted him with an ostentatious checking of his pocket watch and no offer of refreshment.

Mr. Pardew seemed completely oblivious of the earl's ill temper. He shook the rain from his cloak and stretched his legs toward the fire with a contented sigh. He raised a hand to summon the servant and ordered a tankard of ale. He looked thoughtfully at the earl's near-empty glass and then failed to offer him a refill.

As soon as the bartender had gone, Cardross pushed his glass aside and leaned forward, elbows on the table.

"Well?" he demanded.

Mr. Pardew looked at him blandly. He had a round, open face, reminiscent of a friendly dog. It was his greatest asset in a life of crime because he looked so honest that no one ever suspected him.

"Methven means to wed one of the MacMorlan sisters," he said.

Cardross's mouth pinched. "Will that hold up in court?"

Pardew shrugged. "Kirkward thinks it will. Descent is through the female line. He is certain he can make the case." He took a long draw on his pint of ale and smacked his lips appreciatively. Cardross looked pained. Silence fell. Pardew, the earl thought, measured every drop of information for its value. He burrowed in the pocket of his cloak and took out a bag. It clinked softly as it landed on the table. For a moment Pardew's eyes gleamed, revealing the true depth of his cupidity.

"Which sister?" Cardross said softly. He leaned closer.

Pardew took his time. "Lady Lucy," he said. "Neither of the others is eligible under the terms of the treaty."

Cardross sat back. He felt obscurely relieved. "Lucy will never agree," he said. "She is set against marriage." Everyone knew that Lucy MacMorlan had refused endless suitors.

Pardew yawned. "Then Methven will do whatever he has to do to persuade her." He tilted his head slightly and looked thoughtfully at Cardross. "He is ruthless in protecting his inheritance. You know that."

Cardross did know. From the moment that Robert Methven had returned to take up his estates, he had been single-minded in restoring the lands his grandfather had so systematically run down. Cardross cursed him for it. The old marquis had been so neglectful that Cardross's men had easily been able to take some cattle here, annex some land there. They had burned villages and pillaged crops without redress. Then Robert Methven had returned. The very next raid had met with a vicious response that had sent Cardross's clansmen back with their tails between their legs.

"Something must be done." Cardross was thinking aloud. "I cannot rely on fate to remove Methven's bride a second time."

"Too risky," Pardew agreed, his eyes on the bag of money.

"Indeed. But I cannot do anything too obvious." There was a plaintive note in Cardross's voice at the trouble Robert Methven was causing him. "The Duke of Forres is a rich and influential man. I cannot afford to alienate him."

"Perhaps you could marry Lady Lucy yourself." Pardew looked bland again. "If you could manage that."

Cardross looked at him sharply but could detect no sarcasm in Pardew's expression.

"Lady Lucy would never consent," he said. "She hates me."

"That is most unfortunate," Pardew agreed. For a second Cardross could have sworn he saw a spark of mockery in the other man's eyes. "I am afraid, my lord, that you may have to accustom yourself to getting your hands dirty after all. All in aid of the greater good, of course."

Cardross shuddered. Getting his hands dirty literally or metaphorically was simply not his style, but he thought Pardew was probably correct.

"Find some men who can arrange an abduction," he said. "Men experienced in-"

"Violence, my lord?" Pardew said affably.

Cardross shook his head. How Pardew liked to try and provoke him. "Men experienced in kidnapping," he said, "but with sufficient self-control not to damage the goods."

"Ah," Pardew said, the light of understanding breaking in his eyes. "I see." He paused, looking at the bag of money again. "That will cost a great deal, my lord. The kidnapping is easy, the self-control very expensive."

"Of course," Cardross said wearily. He pushed the bag of coins across the table and Pardew pocketed it in one swift move, like a spider gobbling its prey.

"Thank you, my lord," Pardew said with deceptive deference.

"Does Methven show any sign of visiting Golden Isle?" Cardross asked.

Pardew put down his tankard. Suddenly the expression in his eyes was very bright and very sharp.

"No, my lord," he said.

"I need more information for my contact there," Cardross said.

"Ah." Pardew looked resigned. "That will need a little more...financing. The king's officers are, unsurprisingly, very careful in whom they place their trust."

Cardross smothered a curse. More money. It always came down to more money.

Grudgingly he pushed another money bag across the table to Pardew, who turned so that his back was to the room. He loosened the drawstring. Cardross saw the flash of gold.

"It's all there," he said irritably. "Though if you wish to count it like a damned moneylender, pray do so."

"That won't be necessary," Pardew said. He was smiling genially. The second bag disappeared into his pocket, following the first. Cardross heard the chink of coin against the wooden table leg.

"That is very satisfactory, my lord," Pardew said. "I will have some information for you to pass on to your contact very soon." He drained his tankard and stood. "Such a pleasure doing business with Your Lordship."

After Pardew had gone out, Cardross ordered another brandy and stared half-drunk into the fire. A vague sense of self-pity plagued him. It seemed so unfair that he had gambled away his fortune and was now obliged to sell secrets to the French in order to pay his debts. He was not at all clear how he had got into such a difficult situation. It was even more unfair that the lucrative sidelines he had developed in the northern isles, selling island men and boys into the slavery of the navy press-gangs, smuggling, would be put at risk if ever Robert Methven chose to take back his northern territories. Cardross lived in fear of that day.

If he wed Lady Lucy MacMorlan he would not only thwart Methven's latest round of marriage plans, but he would also gain Lucy's sixty thousand pounds. Greed curdled in him at the thought. He needed that money. He deserved it.

He would have to act fast. Fortunately he had been farsighted enough to plant a spy in the Duke of Forres's household a long time before. Now it was time for the woman to earn her money.

"MY DEAR, THERE is nothing remotely inappropriate in it." Lady Kenton rested a reassuring hand on Lucy's arm. "Why, the practice of massage has a long and noble history as a medical and therapeutic treatment. All the ancient civilizations embraced it." She leaned closer and lowered her voice so that the other members of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society could not overhear them. They were taking tea in the conservatory at Durness Castle. The chink of china and the babble of conversation rose to the glass roof and filled the air.

"My practitioner, Anton, was trained by a Swedish physician, Dr. Ling," Lady Kenton said. "He is an expert. I recommend him to you." She sat back and took a sip of her tea.

Lucy fidgeted with her teaspoon, avoiding Lady Kenton's eye. Her godmother was a fellow member of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society and was the most reassuringly respectable of ladies, but Lucy could not quite eradicate the idea that massage was decidedly improper. The thought of a man's hands on her body, and that man not even her husband, was truly shocking. Except that her shoulder and her back ached badly from too much writing and she was desperate to find a remedy.

"He is medically trained, you say," she repeated cautiously.

Lady Kenton smiled. "Indeed he is. He is practically a doctor himself. And should you have any further qualms, my love, let me tell you that Anton is not a man who..." she paused delicately "...is interested in women, if you take my point. Besides, your maid would be present to preserve the proprieties. I can send him to you this evening, if you wish. He accompanies me everywhere."

"Thank you," Lucy said. "Well, that sounds very helpful." Lady Kenton's traveling entourage was legendary. On every outing of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society, Her Ladyship was accompanied by her own pastry chef, her laundry maid, a manicurist, a hairdresser and now a masseur.

Lucy flexed her fingers. "I confess I am in a great deal of discomfort from holding my quill. My shoulder aches incessantly."

"What are you writing at the moment?" Lady Kenton inquired. She refilled the china cups and passed one to Lucy. "Last time we met you were working on a treatise on Shakespeare's sonnets. How is that progressing?"

"Mr. Walsh has agreed to take it for the winter edition of the History Review," Lucy said.

Lady Kenton beamed. "Excellent! He has always been a good friend to us and eager to publish our works."

Lady Kenton herself was a well-known author of stories based on Highland folklore. Many of the members of the Highland Ladies Bluestocking Society were authors or poets and were published in a variety of journals. Lucy was proud to be the youngest of their published authors.

"Have you given any further thought to a betrothal with your cousin Wilfred Cardross?" Lady Kenton inquired. "I am certain that your dear mama would have approved the match."

They were back on her godmother's favorite topic. Lucy had known it would only be a matter of time. Lady Kenton was a woman with a mission.

"I cannot marry Wilfred, ma'am," she said, deciding that bluntness might offend her godmother but it was better than prevarication. "I told you, I don't like him."

Lady Kenton's plump little face took on a dissatisfied expression. "You cling to the ghost of Lord MacGillivray," she said disagreeably. "Your father was a fool to permit such an engagement, promising you to a doddery scholar old enough to be your grandfather!" Her fingers beat an irritable tattoo on the arm of her chair. "Really, Lucy, to throw yourself away on a man with one foot in the grave! I could only be glad that he died before the marriage, because the wedding night would most surely have finished him off and that would have been both scandalous and very unpleasant for you."