She jumped to her feet. “Are you accusing me of indecency, Mrs. Crawley?”
Mrs. Crawley started at the counterattack. “Well—” She glanced sideways at Jean. “One hates to think that—”
“Does one?” Ilsa raised her brows. “Does one also hate to suggest it without evidence?”
“Ilsa!” hissed Jean.
The widow’s face turned scarlet. “I never!”
“Good,” said Ilsa. “I accept your apology.” She turned toward the door without a word of farewell, only to be brought up short by the butler.
“Mrs. Arbuthnot, ma’am,” he said to Jean.
Ilsa’s jaw tightened. Another scandalmonger. She wasn’t going to stay and face three of them.
But Mrs. Arbuthnot burst in, lappets and dress fluttering. “My dears, have you heard?” she cried before Ilsa could escape. “There has been a breakthrough!”
Jean and Mrs. Crawley gasped in unison, and urged Mrs. Arbuthnot to come sit and tell all. The woman was only too happy to oblige; she was breathless from hurrying to tell them. Ilsa lingered at the door, curiosity momentarily overwhelming her outrage.
“’Tis very momentous news,” Mrs. Arbuthnot gushed. “As you know, my brother-in-law Mr. Hay is in the sheriff-clerk’s office, and he tells me they have apprehended one of the villains!” She flapped her hand at Mrs. Crawley’s indrawn breath. “For certain this time, Lavinia!”
She paused for breath and accepted the cup of tea Jean urged upon her. “He’s a very low, criminal sort—English, of course. He wants that pardon! Clearly he should go to the hangman, too, but we must be consoled by the thought that he is revealing all the secrets of Edinburgh’s criminal elements.”
“But has he told them who was involved?”
Mrs. Arbuthnot nodded. “Apparently he informed the sheriff of at least one accomplice, and hinted that there is yet another, the mastermind of the whole plot.”
“Good heavens!” Jean clapped one hand to her bosom, riveted. “Who is the mastermind?”
“Now, he hasn’t said yet,” replied the woman with a trace of disappointment. “Mr. Hay thinks he wishes to extort something else—as if a King’s Pardon isn’t enough! But he did give some clues, which have tantalized the sheriff to no end! Oh, thank you, dear.” She took a sip of tea and accepted a plate of cake.
“What are the clues, Cora?” demanded Mrs. Crawley, her weak chin quivering. Ilsa thought she was annoyed not to have been the first to hear—and share—this news.
Mrs. Arbuthnot shook her head. “He didn’t name the man, Lavinia. He said only that it’s a prominent man of the town, and that it’ll cause a great stir when he’s revealed.”
“What else?” Jean wanted to know.
Mrs. Arbuthnot knew plenty. “He—the thief who turned, that is—is a nasty bit of goods called Browne. Mr. Hay heard that he led the sheriff to a set of false keys, which so far have opened the doors of Mr. Wemyss’s shop, Mr. Johnstone’s shop, and there are several other keys they’ve not identified yet. Imagine it! The thieves had keys to the burgled shops!”
Ilsa barely heard the ensuing excited conversation. Drew had mentioned keys . . . and so had Papa.
Papa was not only a cabinet-maker; he was also a locksmith. And she thought he might have done work for one of the victims—a grocer who’d lost a great deal of tea.
No. It was madness to think Papa would be involved in the robberies. He was one of the most respected men in town, a deacon and town councilman. What’s more, he was a wealthy man, with a successful shop. Why would he risk all that for petty thieving?
There was no more prominent locksmith in Edinburgh, though. And it would cause a mighty stir if someone accused him of thieving.
She closed her eyes and bit down on her lip, furious at herself. Papa! It couldn’t be.
But he did have a weakness for gambling, and he had been tense and twitchy the other day when she mentioned the robberies. He’d told her to mind her business. He was ill, she argued to herself, even as her feet started moving toward the door. It meant nothing; there were dozens of locksmiths in Edinburgh, to say nothing of criminals skilled in picking locks. This villain, Browne, was surely casting about for someone else to throw to the wolves, to secure the pardon and save his own neck. He probably made the keys himself.
A new thought struck her even as she slipped out the door and hurried downstairs. Papa should know in case Browne did mean to accuse him. She seized her hat, flung a shawl around herself, and bolted.
She was running by the time she reached her father’s house, where he was putting on his hat to go out. “Papa, have you heard?” she demanded.
He frowned at her. “Why are you screeching at me, child? I’ve not got time to talk now.” He took up his walking stick and motioned her back out the door, held open by the servant. “If you wish to walk with me, come.”
She followed him into the street. “Mrs. Arbuthnot came to call today and what do you think she told us?”
“Some gossip of illicit love affairs?”
Ilsa shook her head. “It was about the thieves.”
He snorted. “What can she know? I’ve never met a sillier woman.”
Ilsa smiled fleetingly. “Her brother-in-law is in the sheriff-clerk’s office, and she heard from him that they have a thief in custody.”
“Oh. Aye. I knew that.”
“The man wants the pardon, of course, but he says he’ll inform on the other thieves. Papa, Mrs. Arbuthnot said he gave the sheriff a bunch of false keys, which fit the locks of shops that were robbed.”
“And?”
“Papa!” Ilsa tugged at his arm, but he only raised a brow at her, his pace unchanged. “He said he would accuse a prominent man of the town, and you’re a locksmith. You told me you refitted the lock of one of the victimized shops.” Now that she was saying it aloud, it sounded even more ridiculous.
“Half the shops in Edinburgh have had their locks refitted. Every wright and locksmith has been busy from morning till night,” he said, with a certainty that made her wilt in relief.
“Of course,” said Ilsa, calming down. “But what if one of the thieves worked in your shop—?”
Of a sudden he stopped, gripping her arm. “What?”
“Well—it’s possible, isn’t it? Your apprentices learn how to fit locks . . .”
His eyes narrowed, and she had the sense he was furiously angry. “Cora Arbuthnot ought to keep her mouth closed, and the same for the blabbering fool who put that word in her ear. Surely you don’t think my lads would do such a thing?”
“No!” She lowered her voice until it was barely audible. “But perhaps it is something to prepare for. If she’s telling the matrons of Edinburgh . . . well, people may start to suspect you. Mrs. Crawley was there, and she’ll tell everyone in town.”
“’Tis arrant nonsense, and I’ll not dignify it with a response.” He relented at her expression. “Forgive me, Ilsa. I swear to you on your mother’s grave, I had nothing to do with this thieving.”
She exhaled in unspeakable relief. “I knew you couldn’t have. But why—?”
“People will say anything when they feel the hangman’s rope tightening about their necks.” He patted her hand. “You heard the story that there was a pitched battle on the docks at Leith, no? Complete with a cavalry charge and cannon. Twaddle.” He made a face of disdain.
“But if people believe it . . .” She faltered. “Don’t let them drag you to the hangman, Papa, just because people have lost their heads.”
“Aye, you’re right. Edinburgh wants to hang someone. Too many robberies, too many losses over too many months.”
“But you’ve been worried,” she began.
Her father’s mouth eased. “Not for myself, and not on this matter. A man who used to work for me has been locked in the Tolbooth. I’m going to see him now. John Lyon is a good lad. His mother begged me to look in on him, fearful he’s fallen in with scoundrels. If I can save him from the gibbet, I must make an effor
t, aye?” He looked away from her. “He’s not even your age, child. A young man with a wife and a babe on the way.”
She took a calmer breath. “Of course. You must try to help him.” She didn’t remember John Lyon but she could picture his type: a young wright trying to support his family, falling prey to a scoundrel in the numerous taverns and gaming pits around town. It didn’t take much to trip up a man.
Her father bade her go home and not to worry about him. Feeling much better, Ilsa did. She avoided her aunt, who was pestering Mr. MacLeod to physically bar every door and window now that the thieves might have keys. To avoid an argument about safety she stayed in that evening. After the alarm she’d given herself today, a quiet night had some appeal.
But in the morning, a grim-faced officer from the sheriff-clerk knocked on her door. Papa was gone from Edinburgh.
Chapter Twenty-One
That day was the beginning of a nightmare from which she couldn’t wake. Jean sent the sheriff’s officers away with a flea in their ear, but when she closed the door on them, she looked at Ilsa with worry in her eyes.
“My dear, did you know William was leaving?”
“No,” Ilsa exclaimed. “As I told the officers.”
Jean nibbled her lip, a shocking sign of distress for her. “They will discover the ladies were here yesterday. They will think we warned him of something.”
Ilsa swallowed. “I told him what they said—and he denied everything, Aunt. Categorically.”
The older woman stiffened. “Naturally he did! William would never engage in such behavior!”
Ilsa nodded and didn’t say what she was thinking: But he secretly fled town within hours.
The newspapers exploded with wild and lurid charges against Papa, not only of the robberies but of every sordid thing a man could do: lewd behavior at the raucous Cape Club, rumors of multiple mistresses, tales of ruinous gambling at the cockpits, and more than one charge of cheating.
It was as if the entire town had been simply bursting for this chance to destroy William Fletcher. His name entirely eclipsed those of the two common thieves actually under lock and key.
Agnes and her sisters visited, and loyally proclaimed they didn’t believe a word of it.
“If I were unjustly accused, I would go into hiding until I could clear my name,” was Winnie’s confident assertion.
Agnes nodded. “He’s surely gathering proof of his innocence, to silence every chattering biddy in this town. Have faith, Ilsa.”
She managed to smile. “I do.”
“If only Drew would return,” burst out Bella, ignoring the furious motion Agnes made at her. “He would put a quick end to this nonsense.” She noticed her sister’s agitation. “What? You know he would, Agnes. Now that everyone knows he’s to be a duke, they all listen to what he says. He could shield Ilsa from this evil gossip. How rude of him not to be home already!”
Ilsa flinched as if a blow had landed against her heart. She wished Drew were here, too, even as she shuddered at what he might think. Drew’s own family had been robbed, and he had gone to great lengths to get the pardon offered, driving the authorities to finally make a bold move to catch the thieves. No matter what she believed, Papa’s disappearance made him look very guilty. Would Drew believe in him if all the authorities in Edinburgh didn’t?
“Drew will be back soon,” Agnes was saying, “and this will all be sorted. Any man would defend himself, and Mr. Fletcher will want to clear his name. Winnie is right.”
Her sister beamed. “Of course I am! You mustn’t worry, Ilsa.”
Their support buoyed her, but when they left the walls seemed to close in. She yearned for a walk, but people would stare at her, even more than they had for her companion pony.
The next days were worse. The sheriff’s officers came again, armed with orders to search her house. Jean took to her bed and Ilsa huddled with Robert in his room, pressing her face into his neck to muffle the sounds of officers tramping through her home, prying into her life and belongings, looking under the beds and in the wardrobes, rifling her neat little library and writing desk for any betraying evidence against Papa—or her.
They suspected her of warning Papa. Mrs. Arbuthnot, no doubt, had told her brother-in-law of her visit, and Papa’s servants remembered her coming to see him. Ilsa told them she knew nothing to warn her father of, but she feared they didn’t believe her.
Agnes brought Mr. Duncan to offer his assistance. “Out of my own concern for your safety as well as in St. James’s stead,” he said.
“Felix is a solicitor,” Agnes put in. She knew Ilsa had sacked Mr. MacGill. “If you need any advice.”
Ilsa managed a smile. “I do recall. And I thank you, sir, but I don’t know what there is to be done.”
Jean’s friends deserted her. Where once someone had called almost every day, now no one came. Jean’s defiant confidence had gone silent; she sat in the empty drawing room and stared at nothing, the very proper drapes closed protectively. When Ilsa ventured in one day, her aunt asked in a low voice, “What will become of us, without William?”
“He’ll be back,” she said firmly. “I know he will.”
“Back?” Jean reared up in sudden wrath. “How can he come back, Ilsa? He is ruined!”
“He’ll come back to clear his name.”
Her aunt stared at her before subsiding onto the sofa. “No, child. I’ve tried and tried to tell you, and now you see the brutal truth of it. A good name once ruined is lost forever.”
Ilsa’s temper sprang up as quickly as her aunt’s. “How dare you say that! Papa is innocent.”
Jean slashed one hand. “He will forever be doubted! Lavinia Crawley always says—”
“A pox on Mrs. Crawley,” said Ilsa loudly. “And Mrs. Arbuthnot, too, if they have turned you against your own brother.”
Her aunt’s face turned red. “Yes, you will always blame me when I have done nothing but try to keep you and your father on an honest, respectable path. And now William has ruined himself beyond all hope—and the gossip will ruin us, too—” She stopped, covering her face with both hands.
Ilsa bit back a dozen replies—that Jean had delighted in salacious gossip about others, that Papa was innocent, and what good was a sterling reputation if it couldn’t withstand mere rumors?
She had to get out; she was going mad without exercise and fresh air. She put on a drab brown cloak, pulled up the hood, and slipped out, leaving Robert behind—Mr. MacLeod had to take him out for his wandering now, to her bitter regret.
She made it a few streets, clutching the cloak at her throat, before a man fell in step beside her.
“Running off to retrieve the stolen goods?” he asked in a booming voice. “Where did your dearest papa hide the bounty from the goldsmith’s? Or the bolts of silk? I wonder, did he steal those for you?”
With a start Ilsa recognized Liam Hewitt, her father’s head wright. “Leave me alone,” she bit out.
He smirked. “’Tis a public street, and we happen to be going the same way.” Even though she sped up, he kept pace with her. “What a dark day this must be for you, Madam Proud and Haughty.” He laughed. “Although, just wait until he’s caught and hanged!”
Never had she hated someone as much as she hated Liam in that moment. He was deliberately baiting her and drawing attention to her; people were turning to watch. Tomorrow the gossip rags would be full of this, she thought in despair. “Don’t say such a thing,” she whispered harshly. “That will never happen!”
“No? Why not? Mrs. Ramsay,” he said with sly, affected surprise, “did you help Deacon Fletcher escape?”
It felt like the entire street full of people, shopkeepers, chairmen, running boys on errands, ladies with servants at their heels, gentlemen on their way to the counting house and coffeehouses, had stopped to watch and listen—and judge. Her face burned and her skin crawled. “Stop,” she pleaded again, low and furious. “Please.”
“Am I making you uncomfortable?” Hi
s eyes gleamed mockingly. “Not so proud and disdainful anymore, are you? All these years you’ve thumbed your nose at me and now you’re begging for my help.” He clicked his tongue. “Not that it’ll save him from the hangman.”
She whirled on him, shaking with fury. “How dare you?” she demanded. “I don’t care if you hate me—I certainly despise you—but how could you walk the Canongate exclaiming that Papa will be hanged, at the top of your lungs? After all he did for you? He’s treated you like his own son!”
Liam smiled bitterly. “Hardly. But I suppose it might look like that to a spoiled daughter. I daresay he took to me because you were such a disappointment.”
Her throat was raw and her hands were in fists. “Stay away from me,” she said, quietly but clearly, “or I will summon the law.”
“Oho!” He laughed as she turned and walked away, slipping on a cobble in her haste. “Summon the law as much as you like! I daresay they’ll be coming for you soon in any event.”
She reached home and slammed the door behind her, leaning against it until her shaking subsided. She hid her face in her hands and squeezed her eyes shut to hold back tears of humiliation. It was no secret Liam disliked her, but Papa had been his mentor, his patron. He had taken Liam into the shop when he was a young man, training him and grooming him to manage the business himself someday. How could Liam betray Papa like that?
“Ma’am.” Mr. MacLeod approached with sympathy in his eyes. “Are you well?”
“Yes.” She swiped at her face and untied her cloak.
“This was left on the step earlier. I took the liberty of peeking inside very briefly, to make certain it wasn’t . . .” He paused. “Dangerous.”
She gave a joyless huff and took the slim wrapped packet, the string loose. “Thank you, Mr. MacLeod.”
A Scot to the Heart Page 23