Amanda Scott by Highland Spirits Page B

wry smile, he said, “I have seen her, although she was married to the Duke of Hamilton at the time. She and her sisters are all quite famous for their beauty, my love, although in my humble opinion, theirs fair pales beside your own.”
    “Flatterer.” But the countess blushed rosily and looked pleased.
    Lady Agnes, who had done her best from the isolation of the Highlands—with the willing assistance of a host of correspondents—to keep up with the gossip of the beau monde, said thoughtfully, “I’d quite forgotten that Elizabeth was so famous for her beauty. It’s been some time since those days, of course, and she’s been married to John Campbell for nigh onto six years now, but I daresay she still retains her captivating manners. She was one of the Gunning sisters, you see,” she added, clearly for Pinkie’s benefit, since no one else was paying her much heed. “Lud, but they were famous, years ago. Elizabeth became Duchess of Hamilton, and then Hamilton died and she married John Campbell. Now, if he succeeds his father, which he must do if Argyll does not outlive him—and sometimes one does think that Argyll means to live forever—But if John Campbell does succeed, she will have married two dukes, won’t she? I wonder if anyone else has ever done that.”
    The earl and his countess, speaking quietly to each other, seemed still to be paying no heed to Lady Agnes, and Chuff had left his seat to gaze out one of two tall windows that Pinkie thought must overlook Hyde Park. Thus, she felt obliged to reply. “I’m sure I do not know if anyone has, ma’am. It is surely a great thing to have married one duke. Two seems a bit greedy, to my mind.”
    “Aye, that’s true enough,” Lady Agnes agreed, “and what’s more, she’s Irish. Her mother, Bridget Gunning, was no more than the housekeeper at Somerset House, after all, but about fifteen years ago Elizabeth and her sisters were the rage of London. They were said to be of such surpassing beauty as to drive sane men to madness. Her older sister married the Earl of Coventry. There is a younger one, too, although I do not believe she has chosen a husband yet.”
    “Goodness me,” Pinkie said, “they sound like three Cinderellas.”
    “Too good to be true, you mean,” Chuff said from the window, proving that he had not been entirely deaf to Lady Agnes’s chatter.
    “Aye, lad, and so it would be,” Duncan said, “if they had not suffered tragedy as well. I beg you, ma’am, not to prattle of John Campbell’s affairs in company. Remember that he and his lady lost their only son less than a year ago.”
    “Aye, that’s true, and a tragic loss it was, too,” the dowager said.
    Before she could launch herself into what Pinkie was certain would be a recitation of every detail of the child’s final hours, Mary said hastily, “If you have finished your tea, Pinkie love, perhaps we should ring for someone to show us to our bedchambers. I want to change my dress and look over the rest of the house.”
    The door to the gallery opened as she was speaking, and the Master of Dunraven entered with his usual haste and lack of ceremony. His dark hair was tousled, his shirt had come untucked from his breeches, and he had a smear of something on his right cheek that looked suspiciously like strawberry jam.
    Mary exclaimed, “Roddy, where have you left your manners, my love?”
    “Well, I ha’ been searching for you everywhere, and yon blathering fool, Peasley, said you didna want to see me, but I kent you would, so I came. Please, sir,” he added, looking up with a beseeching air at his scowling father, “I want to go into the garden. The lass who brought up our supper said it is a fine garden, and if I do not go out at once, it will soon be too dark to see anything.”
    Sternly, Duncan said, “Does Lucy know where you are?”
    “Nay then, but she willna care,” was his heir’s unabashed reply. “She’s busy helping Anna get the bairns off to