endured the stench of the cells. No wonder he feared he’d arrived in Hell.
She wrinkled her nose, toying briefly with the notion of offering the wig to the sergeant in lieu of a mop.
She’d come in search of her uncle’s favor, but had instead caused an embarrassing disruption. He scowled at her. “What is it?”
While she appreciated he hadn’t used her name in front of the prisoners, she didn’t recall him ever addressing her so abruptly. “My lord,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. “I was hoping for a few minutes of your time.”
He drummed his fingers on his desk. “As you can see, I am rather busy. Can it not wait until luncheon?”
Since she wished to invite Braden to the midday meal, this wasn’t an option. “Er, no. It’s urgent.”
He let out an exasperated breath as he came to his feet. “Sergeant, escort these men back to the cells. We’ll deal with them this afternoon. And send a servant to clean up the ink.”
The black-fingered sergeant glowered at the prisoners who made no effort to conceal their amusement as he shoved them out into the corridor. She too was tempted to smile. The man was unaware he’d smudged ink across his nose.
The Duke stared at her as he regained his seat. “I might ask why you’re wearing a formal wig in the middle of the day, but it looks uncomfortable, not to mention slightly ridiculous. Why don’t you take it off and tell me what you want?”
The headache disappeared as soon as she lifted the thing off her head. He didn’t look pleased when she plopped it down on his polished desk. Lacing her fingers together, she decided to be forthright, or at least as forthright as circumstances allowed. It was imperative she not reveal her secret identity. “I wish to speak to you of Braden Ogilvie.”
He furrowed his brow. “Who is Braden Ogilvie?”
She recognised the moment he remembered. His frown deepened. “The prisoner from Oban?”
She inhaled deeply in an effort to calm the pulse leaping in her throat. “He’s no longer a prisoner. You found no guilt in him and ordered his release.”
His face reddened. “I sent him on his way.”
“I couldn’t allow that.”
She’d seen illustrations of Vesuvius erupting and feared steam and molten lava might pour forth from her uncle as he got to his feet. “What exactly do you mean by that, young lady?”
She swallowed hard, ignoring the discomfort of her fingernails digging into her flesh. “It would have been against the teachings of our Savior to cast out an innocent man with no means of sustenance and no proper clothing. He’d languished unjustly in your cells and didn’t deserve to suffer further.”
“Therefore you took it upon yourself to save him, a lunatic who claims to be three hundred years old?”
“He’s not a lunatic,” she murmured.
He pressed his knuckles to the desk and leaned forward. “And how would you know this?”
If she gripped the desk it would appear confrontational, but she desperately needed something to hold on to. It was vital her uncle approve of Braden, though she didn’t understand why he’d suddenly become much more important than providing fodder for a simple novel. Her eyes fixed on the slowly spreading pool of black ink. “I interviewed him. We had a long discussion on the topic of the Scottish monarchy, and I explained the Jacobites, and he’s very intelligent, and I—”
The Duke held up a restraining hand as he slumped into his chair, gazing at her in amazement. “Where did this interview take place?”
“I secured a chamber for him, and provided a bath and sent Daniel to shave—”
“ My valet?” he shouted. “You instructed my valet to shave a prisoner, probably with my razor?”
“I must admit I didn’t give any thought—”
Vesuvius erupted. “Of course you didn’t, but then you rarely do,” he yelled, his face crimson. He dug his fingertips into his forehead. “I suppose it’s my fault. With no children
She wrinkled her nose, toying briefly with the notion of offering the wig to the sergeant in lieu of a mop.
She’d come in search of her uncle’s favor, but had instead caused an embarrassing disruption. He scowled at her. “What is it?”
While she appreciated he hadn’t used her name in front of the prisoners, she didn’t recall him ever addressing her so abruptly. “My lord,” she said with as much confidence as she could muster. “I was hoping for a few minutes of your time.”
He drummed his fingers on his desk. “As you can see, I am rather busy. Can it not wait until luncheon?”
Since she wished to invite Braden to the midday meal, this wasn’t an option. “Er, no. It’s urgent.”
He let out an exasperated breath as he came to his feet. “Sergeant, escort these men back to the cells. We’ll deal with them this afternoon. And send a servant to clean up the ink.”
The black-fingered sergeant glowered at the prisoners who made no effort to conceal their amusement as he shoved them out into the corridor. She too was tempted to smile. The man was unaware he’d smudged ink across his nose.
The Duke stared at her as he regained his seat. “I might ask why you’re wearing a formal wig in the middle of the day, but it looks uncomfortable, not to mention slightly ridiculous. Why don’t you take it off and tell me what you want?”
The headache disappeared as soon as she lifted the thing off her head. He didn’t look pleased when she plopped it down on his polished desk. Lacing her fingers together, she decided to be forthright, or at least as forthright as circumstances allowed. It was imperative she not reveal her secret identity. “I wish to speak to you of Braden Ogilvie.”
He furrowed his brow. “Who is Braden Ogilvie?”
She recognised the moment he remembered. His frown deepened. “The prisoner from Oban?”
She inhaled deeply in an effort to calm the pulse leaping in her throat. “He’s no longer a prisoner. You found no guilt in him and ordered his release.”
His face reddened. “I sent him on his way.”
“I couldn’t allow that.”
She’d seen illustrations of Vesuvius erupting and feared steam and molten lava might pour forth from her uncle as he got to his feet. “What exactly do you mean by that, young lady?”
She swallowed hard, ignoring the discomfort of her fingernails digging into her flesh. “It would have been against the teachings of our Savior to cast out an innocent man with no means of sustenance and no proper clothing. He’d languished unjustly in your cells and didn’t deserve to suffer further.”
“Therefore you took it upon yourself to save him, a lunatic who claims to be three hundred years old?”
“He’s not a lunatic,” she murmured.
He pressed his knuckles to the desk and leaned forward. “And how would you know this?”
If she gripped the desk it would appear confrontational, but she desperately needed something to hold on to. It was vital her uncle approve of Braden, though she didn’t understand why he’d suddenly become much more important than providing fodder for a simple novel. Her eyes fixed on the slowly spreading pool of black ink. “I interviewed him. We had a long discussion on the topic of the Scottish monarchy, and I explained the Jacobites, and he’s very intelligent, and I—”
The Duke held up a restraining hand as he slumped into his chair, gazing at her in amazement. “Where did this interview take place?”
“I secured a chamber for him, and provided a bath and sent Daniel to shave—”
“ My valet?” he shouted. “You instructed my valet to shave a prisoner, probably with my razor?”
“I must admit I didn’t give any thought—”
Vesuvius erupted. “Of course you didn’t, but then you rarely do,” he yelled, his face crimson. He dug his fingertips into his forehead. “I suppose it’s my fault. With no children
Similar Books
