Scotsman of My Dreams by Karen Ranney Page B

wear them on his shoes. Either that or the man had to be told to announce his arrivals and departures.
    â€œWe’ll have refreshments now,” Dalton said, hoping the secretary hadn’t left. Otherwise, he was going to look the fool.
    â€œVery well, Your Lordship.”
    Another thing about Howington. He didn’t use that officious tone unless someone else was with him. When they were alone, his secretary behaved normally. Only when there were guests did he act as if Dalton were king.
    Ever since returning from America, he’d been annoyed by his secretary, whereas before, the man had rarely disturbed him. Did the man miss the old Dalton?
    His guest settled next to him.
    James Wilson had been his roommate in school and was the fifth son of a duke. They had found in each other not kindred spirits as much as boys with similar backgrounds. He’d been a hell-­raiser even back then, while James always urged caution. He’d called James his conscience more than once.
    But whenever he had succeeded in one of his routs, James was more than willing to share the proceeds, such as those times he’d raided the school’s larder. Together, the two boys often shared a jar of brambleberry jelly slathered on a loaf of bread.
    Dalton had always been hungry back then, and as he grew, his appetites hadn’t diminished as much as changed direction. James had been as prudent and celibate as a monk.
    They hadn’t seen each other for a number of years and, in that time, James had acquired a reputation as an adept investigator, one with not only talent but tact. If a man suspected his wife was seeing another man, he went to James Wilson. If a member of the peerage was disturbed about his heir’s habits, he too went to James. Whatever sin was unearthed was never spoken about or revealed to another soul.
    Dalton had even recommended James to Arthur. His brother hadn’t mentioned the subject of the investigation or pried, but Dalton had his suspicions. Alice, his sister-­in-­law, had defied society and remarried shortly after Arthur’s death.
    While James spent the intervening years adding to his good name, Dalton had done the opposite, a thought that kept him silent for a few moments.
    Despite their differences, he and James had been true friends. When had friendship ceased to be important to him? He’d cultivated hangers-­on, boys turning to men, men with little to do but carouse and drink. None of them offered him anything in the way of intellectual challenge. Nor had their characters been such that he was compelled to emulate their better behavior. They were all like him, adrift in the world, with no greater thought than the next night’s woman, drink, or bet.
    Two years ago he’d been at the center of a popular group in society. They shocked, amused, horrified, and fascinated all of London. Yet not one person had called on him on his return. Not one of them sent him a note or letter. They vanished in a puff of smoke as if they’d only been figments of his drunken, hazy memories.
    â€œI’m going to tell you a story,” he said now, before he lost his nerve. “I wish I could tell you it’s all fiction, but unfortunately none of it is. I also wish I could tell you that it paints me in a good light, but almost none of it does.”
    â€œI’ve heard tales of your exploits,” James said.
    He wasn’t the least surprised. “I’m sure you have,” he said.
    He hesitated when Mrs. Thompson announced herself at the door. At least his housekeeper knew the proper way to comport herself around a blind man. Perhaps she could give lessons to Howington.
    She bustled about, ensuring that James had tea, scones, and oatmeal biscuits.
    â€œI’ve soaked the raisins in whiskey, sir,” she said.
    To Dalton’s surprise, she didn’t urge him to partake. Maybe she knew how much he liked oatmeal biscuits, or perhaps she thought it was