“Papa!” Elizabeth exclaimed. “It isn’t fair to bait me. You know perfectly well what I mean. London is disgusting and dirty. I hate it here. I always have hated coming to London. You should allow me my independence. I do reach my majority in April.”

“Hmmm...I’m well aware of your age, Elizabeth,” Lord Atholl mused, concerned over his youngest daughter’s stated intention of avoiding marriage — no matter the cost. “Amalia hinted this afternoon that you’d have all your reasons to return to Dunkeld in place before you sought an audience with me. Planned a little fait accompli, have you? What you’ve offered doesn’t sound either urgent or convincing, though.”

“Amalia spoke to you?” Elizabeth asked, rattled by that admission. She waited with bated breath for her father’s answer. What had Amalia said? Had she mentioned Evan?

“Yes. Amalia and I had a very long and thorough conference earlier this afternoon.” The duke sipped his sherry, then put his glass aside and turned to study Elizabeth as he continued. “She tells me that Evan MacGregor put in an appearance last night. What do you make of that?”

“What should I make of it?” Elizabeth ignored the quickening tempo of her pulse. She kept her face impassive, her hands still and her eyes firmly on her father. “He has nothing to do with me, Papa. Why, I haven’t seen or heard one word from him since his sister married, five years ago!”

“Is that so?” John Murray inclined his head a bit, to better study his daughter’s flawless face. He failed to see a single sign of the heightened interest that he was seeking. Surely his gut feelings weren’t wrong?

Of his three daughters, Elizabeth, who had never really known her mother, most favored his late wife. Elizabeth had inherited the wide, intelligent eyes and brows and flawless skin of the Cathcarts.

Unfortunately, her chin and her very full lips proclaimed her a Murray to the core. She had a way of sliding her eyes to the side to study one that reminded him very much of his long-lost Jane Cathcart. She was giving him that look now, just as her mother had been wont to do. Elizabeth was keeping secrets again. There was nothing new about that.

“You are both of a proper age, now,” the duke said blandly, probing the still waters skillfully. “You liked each other well enough when you were children. Many a successful marriage has been built on less.”

“Marriage!” Elizabeth choked. “All that nonsense about Evan and I was over and done with when he went to Eton. You know that as well as I do, Papa.”

“Is that right, puss?” he asked absently, knowing better. They’d corresponded for years, three and four letters a week to one another, right up to the very day Evan’s sister married — May 28, 1802. He remembered the date precisely.

“Yes, it most assuredly is. I had every right to admire him years ago. Evan protected me. Mrs. Grasso was a right witch, you know, Papa.”

“She was a very good teacher,” John Murray said, nonplussed. His daughter flashed an insincere smile. The duke wasn’t the least bit fooled. She was throwing smoke and covering her tracks. A bloody ferret couldn’t dig the truth out of Elizabeth Murray.

God Almighty knew he’d done everything in his powder — everything short of beating a pregnant woman — to get her to tell him the truth at Port-a-shee, when it became glaringly evident that she’d bedded someone.

“And the other thing I’ve considered thoroughly is Robbie.” Elizabeth pounced on another quasi-valid reason. “This doctor you insisted on having examine him will be of no consequence. The only thing troubling Robbie is that he has no one to bond with now that Nanny Drummond has passed. He adored her. He’s grieving, that’s all. What is best for Robbie is to go back to Port-a-shee, and all that is familiar to him.”

“I don’t see the significance there. I’ve fostered the boy no differently than I’ve fostered any of a dozen other lads over my years.”

“Really, Papa? Is that the same thing as having a recognized parent?”

“Don’t throw words like those in my face, young lady. You made your choice years ago, and you will live with the consequences of that decision. Count yourself blessed to have the opportunity to know the lad under my patronage.”

“I’m not complaining. I am content with things the way they are.”

“You are? Then what’s your point?”

Exasperated, Elizabeth exclaimed, “My point is, I want to go back to Dunkeld. What’s so unreasonable about that? Will you grant me that boon?”

Murray patted his pockets till he found his pipe. He pulled it out and laid the bowl in his palm to scrape out the insides with a flattened pocket nail. It was a handy bit of business to fill the time with, while Elizabeth sat on tenterhooks, waiting. She wasn’t going to appreciate his answer. Elizabeth didn’t like being told no.

“Amalia thinks this season will be different.”

“Ha!” Elizabeth choked back a bitter laugh. “Papa, let’s not deceive ourselves, shall we? Not when we both know the truth.”