Page 59
Julius flashed a triumphant grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling in the warm lamplight. “Indeed. But how many among them possess an entire household of liveried servants whose coats are lined with Campbell tartan? It is a new fashion, only in the last few years, this ostentatious display of clan affiliation among the beau monde. Few families have adopted it, and fewer still have taken it to the extent of lining their staff’s overcoats.”
Audrey’s brows drew together. “So you think the man who attacked you might have been wearing such a coat?”
He nodded. “The assailant wore his own garments rather than formal livery to avoid identification as a servant, but he must have simply worn the only overcoat he had available. One from his servant’s wardrobe. One lined, as I saw at Scott’s house, with Campbell tartan.”
Her lips parted. “You are certain?”
“I saw it with my own eyes,” he confirmed. “Abbott and I managed to attend a gathering there, following a friend of his. The tartan had caught my attention even then. I thought the livery rather outdated, but not unattractive—navy with gold braid. And when one of the footmen turned, I saw the lining flash green and blue. At the time, I dismissed it. Now, it feels relevant.”
Audrey tilted her head thoughtfully. “And this design choice … do you believe it was his?”
“Doubtful,” Julius said. “From all we gathered, Scott’s mother, Lady Isla, manages the household. She is a Scottish peeress in her own right, from Clan Campbell. She may have designed the livery in honor of her heritage. He likely permitted it out of indifference or filial duty.”
“She is a viscountess, you said?”
He nodded again. The soft glow of the oil lamp highlighted the strength in his profile—the elegant slope of his nose, the defined cheekbones, the determined line of his jaw.
“I know it seems unusual,” he added, “but many Scottish peerages are entailed to allow female succession if there is no male heir. Lady Isla is the eldest of four daughters and the title passed to her directly.”
“I see,” she murmured, distracted by his mop of curls, broad and golden in the lamplight.
“There was another book,” Julius continued, drawing a second volume from beneath his arm and placing it beside the first. “A genealogical registry. Lady Isla’s family is listed here—clear as anything. It all aligns. I cannot yet prove Simon Scott’s guilt, but in my bones, Audrey, I believe it is him.”
She lowered her gaze to the page, the weight of his words sinking in. This meant the danger might soon pass. That they might return to London. To reality.
That she would return to Stirling.
Their time was nearly at an end.
She drew a steadying breath. “So … there is nothing more that must be done tonight?” Her voice was low, far softer than she intended. A touch breathless. Something within her braced for his reaction.
Julius stilled. Then returned to the bed to hold her in his arms. It was a night for memorizing the way two souls felt when they shared time together without pretense or social rules. For pretending, just for a few quiet hours, that she might have married this man.
