Fury and concern churned in Hamish’s gut. It horrified him that Catherine had been taken on his watch. It horrified him more that the same could easily have happened to Elizabeth.

Regardless, it was extraordinarily difficult telling Duncan Mackay the news.

“What do you mean, she’s gone?” he bellowed.

“Tiverton took her,” Hamish said.

“What do you mean, he took her?”

“I spoke to the coachmen in the mews,” Ranald said. “They saw Tiverton and several men toss a bundle into his carriage. The bundle was . . . kicking and screaming.”

“Do we know where he’s headed?” Duncan asked, his voice a rough scrape.

Ranald scrubbed his beard with his palm. “Word is, he’s taking her to Gretna Green.”

Duncan frowned. “Are you sure?”

“It’s what he told his friends at White’s.”

“Bastard.”

“Where else might he take her?”

Ranald shrugged. “He has an estate in Leeds.”

“Excellent. That is on the way.” Duncan headed for the door.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Hamish called after him.

“I’m going to rescue my woman.”

“Not without us,” Ranald growled.

Duncan sighed. “I appreciate your assistance, but you have a job to do here. What would the duke say if you abandoned his cousins?”

“They can eschew the season until we return,” Ranald insisted.

“They are women,” Duncan reminded him. “They willna want to eschew anything.”

“They are also Catherine’s friends,” Hamish said. “They will want her safe. They will understand.”

“Quite right.” Ranald nodded. “Now, let’s prepare for the flight north. We have a carriage to catch.”

Indeed, Esmeralda and the girls were more than understanding. Anne and Elizabeth even wanted to come along, but Ranald convinced them to stay. It was essential they hold up the fiction that Catherine was still at Sinclair House, should any gossip come sniffing around.

But hell, it was hard saying goodbye, not knowing how long he would be gone. It was hard saying goodbye in front of the entire household too, because there was no opportunity to pull Elizabeth into his arms and kiss her once more.

It ate away at him that he had no right to do so.

Beyond that, there was Twiggenberry. The bastard. No doubt he would continue to woo Elizabeth, or whatever it was wealthy lords did to win their brides.

Again, Hamish had no right to care, which irritated him more than it should.

His apprehension, however, gave him wings. As he, Ranald, and Duncan Mackay pounded to the north, they made excellent time.

Unfortunately, they saw neither hide nor hair of Tiverton’s coach and stopping at each roadhouse to ask if anyone had seen them slowed them considerably, as did stopping for food and sleep.

Several days in, when they reached the road to Leeds, Hamish turned off and headed for Tiverton’s estate while Duncan and Ranald continued northward.

When he determined that the coach had not passed this way, he turned around and rode back to the King’s Road to follow his friends to Scotland.

And damn it. This would extend the journey.

It would be worth it if they found Catherine and brought her back safely, but a part of him hated being away from Elizabeth. It was like a hole in his soul.

Another part of him, the logical part, knew it was a good thing that he would be away a week or more. Elizabeth needed to think, very carefully, about her choices. Twiggenberry was of her class. He had a fortune and a title and he would be a good match for her.

Hopefully, while he was gone, she would see that.

Hopefully, she could forget him and her foolish obsession with him.

Although that thought did not make him feel hopeful in the least.

* * *

“You seem down.” Anne jumped as Elizabeth spoke behind her. She’d been so deep in thought, she hadn’t even heard her sister enter the conservatory. “I’m sure Catherine will be all right.”

Oh dear. Anne could hardly admit she hadn’t been thinking about Catherine at all. She’d been thinking about Ranald, and how much she missed him.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d come to rely on him, and in such a short time. How much she enjoyed their chats and his support.

“I’m sure they’ll find her in time,” she said.

“Of course they will.” Elizabeth assured her. “And if they don’t, I doubt it will make a whit of difference.”

Anne flicked a curious glance at her sister.

“Catherine will never say yes to Tiverton.”

Anne huffed a laugh. “That is true.”

“Though I do hope they come back soon. I miss them.”

Something in Elizabeth’s tone caught her attention. “Them?”

“Of course, them. Both of them.”

This flicker of jealousy did not become her. Surely Elizabeth didn’t have a soft spot for Ranald. She could only pray that was the case. “I suppose they have become a part of the household, in a manner of speaking.”

Elizabeth laughed and clapped her hands, which was, above all things, annoying. “I can’t believe this is you saying that! You hated having them here.”

Anne bent and sniffed a rose to hide her blush. “They grow on you.”

“I cannot tell you how pleased I am to hear that.”

Anne eyed Elizabeth warily. She did sound pleased. Far too pleased. “Why do you say that?”

“Do you promise not to tell anyone?”

Oh. Dear. Something sank in Anne’s belly. It felt like a stone. “How can I promise without knowing what it is?”

“You have to. Or I won’t tell.”

Really. Sometimes Elizabeth was so vexing. But she had to know. Her heart pounded with some strange dread. “All right. I promise.”

Elizabeth leaned in and whispered, “I think I love him.”

Oh. Dread, indeed. Nasty bile rose to tickle the back of her throat and she swallowed it down. “Love him?” she parroted.

“Yes.” A gush.

Her mind ceased to work. Somehow she managed to say, “But you’ve only just met him. How can you know it’s love?”

It was a question she’d asked herself more than once. But now she feared the answer.

Elizabeth hugged herself and twirled around the aisles between the roses and the potted palms. “It’s the way I feel when he looks at me. When he holds me. When we kiss . . .”

Anne’s head went woozy. They’d kissed? Oh dear. This was worse than she’d thought. And now that she thought about it, Ranald had never said or done anything in the least romantic. He’d never once intimated that he felt a certain way for her. All his glances, smiles, gentle touches . . . Not the least bit amorous.

It had all been in her head.

In her imagination.

She’d thought she’d seen that warmth in his eye, but he was the one who’d insisted on friendship, hadn’t he?

Her cheeks went hot as a familiar mortification washed through her.

“I am certain he feels the same. He told me he did.”

“He told you?” Of course he would. Elizabeth was enchanting and lovely and young—

“So what do you think? Would you come and visit us if Hamish and I get married? I know you don’t like Scotland, but I couldn’t bear not seeing you at least once in a while.”

“Of course I would, darling—”

Wait. Had she said Hamish?

She had said Hamish, hadn’t she?

Before she could ask, Elizabeth tackled her in an effervescent hug. “Oh, I am so happy, Anne. I’ve hated keeping it a secret.”

“I, ah, does Aunt Esmeralda know?” It was all she could manage through her relief.

Elizabeth pulled back and gaped at her. “Are you mad? She wants me to marry Twiggenberry and have an affaire with a Scotsman.”

“Surely she did not say that.”

“She most certainly did. But I won’t do that. I can’t. Besides, if Hamish feels the same, why should we not marry?”

“Indeed.”

“So you think it’s silly too, don’t you?”

Anne blinked. “What?”

“That Hamish is worried what the duke will think.”

“The duke? I can’t imagine he would care one way or another, as long as you are both happy.”

“That’s what I thought. But Hamish doesn’t have a title and he thinks that makes a difference.”

“If he can support you—”

“He can.” She beamed.

“Then I don’t see a problem. It’s not as though he’s a groom . . . or a footman.”

“Indeed not. He, Mackay, and Ranald have a very successful distillery.”

Anne held back a laugh. “That explains his penchant for whisky.”

“Yes. So you agree that I should refuse Twiggenberry and—”

Anne blinked. “Refuse him? He’s made an offer?”

“Yes. And I threw up on him.”

“Why am I never informed?”

“Surely you knew I threw up on him?”

Anne glowered. “About the offer.”

“I asked our aunt not to tell anyone.” Elizabeth batted her lashes in lieu of an apology. “To be truthful, it made me ill to think of marrying him. How could I, when I love Hamish so?”

“I agree, it would be awkward, having a husband who turns one’s stomach. And if you and Hamish love each other, I wish you nothing but happiness.”

“I do fret about the duke though.”

Anne hated the worry on her brow. “I’m sure he will approve, darling.”

“Are you?”

“I am.”

Elizabeth hugged her again. “Thank you, Anne. I am so happy.”

“And I am happy for you,” she said. And she was.

But the jealousy was still there.

It was just a different kind.

Her beloved sister had found that elusive happiness Anne had wanted her whole life but had never allowed herself to know.

And whose fault is that? A voice mocked from the back of her mind.

What a pity she didn’t have the strength to answer.

* * *

“They’ve found her!” Aunt Esmeralda burst into the parlor where the girls were diligently ignoring their needlepoint one day about two weeks after Hamish had left. She had a letter in her hand which she waved manically.

Elizabeth leaped up from her chair and rushed to her aunt’s side. “They’ve found her, thank God.”

Victoria cheered and Mary applauded.

“May I see that?” Elizabeth asked. It had been a boring two weeks, not attending parties or taking calls on the excuse that there was a fever in the house, but she hadn’t minded being bored because it kept Twiggenberry at bay. He had called each and every day and been turned away.

Esmeralda handed the parchment over and Elizabeth scanned it.

“What does it say? Read it aloud,” Victoria demanded.

“There’s not much. Bower and Mackay intercepted the coach near the border. Catherine is fine and . . .”

“And what?” Mary asked, her eyes alight.

Elizabeth sighed. “They are in Gretna Green.”

“Eloping?” Mary sighed. “How romantic.”

“It is not romantic,” Esmeralda advised.

Victoria humphed. “It is. And much better than being forced to marry Tiverton.”

How true. What a relief that Catherine was safe and in Duncan’s arms, though Elizabeth had really been looking forward to the wedding at St. Paul’s, which would now need to be canceled. She scanned the letter again, searching for news about Hamish, but there was none. She knew there was none, but she had to look once more. Where was he? Was he all right? Was there a reason the baron had not mentioned him in the letter? Was he even coming back?

“When are they coming back?” Anne echoed her thoughts.

Elizabeth glanced at her, having been captured by an unfamiliar tone in her voice. Something almost . . . wistful.

Esmeralda answered for her. “It does not say, but it hardly signifies. The fact is that we can, once more, go out.”

“What a relief,” Victoria gusted. “I’ve been wasting away.

Their aunt ignored her melodramatic whimper. “And just in time for the musicale at the Smythe-Winstons’.”

An agonized groan rounded the room.

“Could Bower not have delayed that missive by one day?” Anne muttered.

“I feel a megrim coming on,” Elizabeth said, putting her hand to her forehead.

Mary followed suit. “Me too.”

As did Anne. “It’s quite excruciating.”

Esmeralda glared them down. “Nonsense. No megrims will be tolerated. We are going to that damned musicale and we are going to enjoy it.”

Mary gasped and put her hands over her ears. “Such language.”

Esmeralda crossed her arms. “As though you’ve never heard the word before.”

“As though she’s never said it before,” Victoria offered, sotto voce, but everyone heard.

“Enough.” Esmeralda clapped her hands, as though that would have any effect. “We are going to the musicale. No more discussion. For now, a celebratory tea, I think. Jamison!” she bellowed at a passing footman.

“Yes, milady?”

“Have Henley bring a tea tray.”

“Yes, milady.” He bowed and scuttled from the room, but not before Elizabeth saw him glance at Mary, and Mary’s responding blush. When Mary caught her staring, her eyes widened—a sure sign of guilt—and she bent her head to her needlepoint, effectively destroying her prior work.

“Really, Mary,” Elizabeth said softly, taking a seat at her sister’s side. “I think you’re making a mess.” She nodded at the needlework, but they both knew she referred to something else entirely. Elizabeth worked at pulling out the stitches while she waited for the others to become engaged in a debate on whether or not they should plan a ball at Sinclair House. Then she whispered to her youngest and most flighty sister, “Well?”

“Well?” Mary’s cheeks were red, but she held her head high.

“He’s a footman.”

“He’s very handsome.”

Was he? Perhaps, in a young, too-pretty kind of way. “Esmeralda will have apoplexy if she notices your flirtation.”

Mary thrust her chin out. “It’s more than that.”

Oh dear God.

“We’re in love.”

Elizabeth gaped at her sister. Love? “How can you be in love? He’s a footman.”

“That does not signify. He is a man. I am a woman—”

“You’re sixteen!”

Mary sniffed. “The duke wants to marry me off, that makes me a woman. You cannot have it both ways.”

“You realize the duke would not approve of a footman.”

“You can’t know that.”

Yes. She very well could. She sucked in a breath and tried again. “The world we live in—”

“I hate it.”

“What?” Elizabeth stared at her sister. “I thought you loved the parties and the balls and the dresses.”

“I do love the dresses.” She smoothed down her silk skirt. “But I would give it all up for love. Wouldn’t you?”

Oh dear. There was no answer for that, was there? Especially when that was exactly what Elizabeth had decided to do—should Hamish have her.

But this was Mary.

It was different.

Mary was far too young to make a decision of this magnitude. Did she not see what a foolish mistake this was? Did she not understand—?

A thought occurred, one that made Elizabeth go hot, then cold.

She was a raging hypocrite.

For one thing, she was preaching one truth to her sister and another to herself.

Did love trump money and social status? Did it truly?

She knew in her heart that the answer was yes.

But there was more. She was painting Mary with the same brush Hamish had painted her. As a girl too young to know her own heart. And she’d been furious with him.

“Elizabeth?” Mary’s quiet call pulled her from her dark ruminations. “Are you going to tell Aunt Esmeralda?”

Oh, how to answer her? “I’m torn.”

Mary sighed. “I understand.”

“Just please be careful. Don’t do anything—” Rash? Silly? Foolish? None of those would work. “Permanent. Not just yet. Please?”

Her sister smiled, a glowing grin. “Don’t worry. I won’t.”

Wouldn’t she? Judging from her expression, especially when Jamison came back into the room carrying the tea tray for Henley, she already had.

She’d given away her heart.

To a footman.

It was a tragedy of epic proportions.