Page 21 of The Tartan Trap

“I’m finished,” Rachel said with a grand flourish, leaning back in the desk chair. “Here is Margaret’s list.”

Beatrice sprung from the sofa and went to inspect it. Margaret stayed put—such an optimistic list was barely worth reading. The entire thing was embarrassing. She didn’t know which possibility was worse—that Rachel might have made the list so outlandish out of pity or that she actually believed such men within Margaret’s reach.

“Oh, he’s very handsome indeed. And wealthy.” Beatrice tapped the parchment. “And he has a lively, pleasing temperament that would complement Margaret nicely.” She gave a little clap. “Well done. Now do mine.”

CHAPTER 7- CALLUM

Callum’s study was paneled in dark wood and ringed in bookcases. Each time he stepped over the threshold, he couldn’t help but breathe in the familiar scent of musty books and lemon polish. To Callum, this would forever be his father’s room. He closed his eyes for a moment as the memories flooded him.

His grandfather had purchased the London house from a destitute earl back when he’d first received the title. Though there were a great deal many other houses in London that had a longer provenance, in Callum’s mind, this one firmly belonged to his family. It had been his grandfather’s, his father’s, and now his, and Ettrick was determined to see this house inherited by his own son.

Callum believed that legacy was exceedingly important; he felt a keen sense of duty to continue his family line, to hand the title off to a son he had raised to hold it well. If he didn’t, the title might be given to Callum’s prat of an older cousin and his even worse children, who felt no responsibility toward people under their care.

But in order to have a son who would carry on the family name, Callum needed a wife. In order to raise a son worthy of the responsibility of inheriting the title, Callum needed an excellent wife.

He felt he had found such a woman in the author of the journal. Whoever she was, she had a backbone of iron, impeccable morals, and a tender heart toward those in her care. He silently thanked Providence for putting such a woman in his path—as strange as their “meeting” had been. Callum sincerely hoped he was clever enough to find her and worthy enough to woo her.

His pulse thumped as he pulled the battered journal from his pocket. He had been saving the last few pages until he had an uninterrupted span of time to study them. Though he had some information to go on, it was spotty at best. He was hanging his future on her last entries, desperately hoping that they might plainly state some facts about her identity.

Though he might have a name, he counted the boys at St. Alban’s as far less reliable than the words from the author herself. If she signed the last entry as Rebecca or Caroline or anything else, Callum would discount the name Margaret forever.

Half an hour or so later, Callum took a deep breath and turned to the final page.

Dear Ruth,

I am about to write the most scandalous confession ever contained within your dear pages. I know I’m not the ideal when it comes to appearance. I am one of eight sisters, and were anyone to rank us from most beautiful to least, the middle section might be a topic of great debate, but the top belongs to > or -. The bottom slot is even a less challenged position—it belongs solidly to me. Compared to my sisters, I am ugly indeed. Though this would be a much-bemoaned fact among some women, I bear it as a simple truth. Not only am I blonde, I am not beautiful, as my sisters are, though they all try and shield me from that knowledge. As if I don’t own a mirror! As if there aren’t a hundred gilded examples hanging in our very house!

Dear Ruth,

The time has come for me to seek out a replacement. Your pages are worn thin, and I’ve written in every blank space—habit and sentiment demanded it, even though I have long been able to afford another journal. This is not farewell, my dear friend—this is only a change of ensemble for you, I daresay…

Callum felt as if a bright firework had gone off in his proximity. Finally, after all this time, he had certain facts he could work with. He already knew that the mystery lady lived in London and was recently returned from Paris. But now he knew she was one of eight sisters and had two brothers. Such a prodigious family certainly would be known in town.

And his cousin Ellis had lived here his whole life.

Callum stood, intending to go downstairs immediately and ask. On his way to the door, he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror over the mantel. He hadn’t shaved yet, his shirt was wrinkled beyond repair, and as he watched his own haggard reflection, a crumb from his breakfast tray dislodged itself and rolled down his front.

“A bath first, then,” he mumbled.

As he returned to his chamber and righted his person, Callum considered the lady’s final entries. So she wasn’t beautiful. In fact, she’d called herself ugly. Callum found he didn’t truly care. In his mind, his wife had a blank face and a nebulous figure—he hadn’t hung his heart upon any specific frame or feature.

The only possibility regarding her appearance that Callum truly feared was if the lady’s eyes didn’t point the same direction. He’d always found that slightly difficult to manage; he never knew where to look. Callum invariably found himself trying to follow the meandering of the wrong one, with nauseating results.

One of his stewards suffered from the affliction, and though it hadn’t put Callum off hiring the fellow, to prevent embarrassment on both sides, Callum preferred to write the man rather than to meet with him in person, whenever possible.

Some time later, Callum descended the staircase much repaired in appearance.

“He lives!” Ellis chortled from the sideboard, where he was pouring himself a short dram of amber liquid. He lifted the bottle in silent offering, and Callum shook his head.

“None for me. I only just recovered from a headache.”

“You needn’t lie to me. Your valet is a gossip—he told everyone you’ve been reading a novel all morning.” Ellis winked. “Only you and I know the truth. You’re studying the latest edition of Mr. Pickwick’s Guide to get a leg up on the Season, aren’t you?”

Callum frowned. “There’s a new edition out?”

He would be interested in reading it, but only to see if he could discover his mystery writer within its pages. He had no use for any of the other entries—he’d quite made up his mind.

“If you weren’t reading Mr. Pickwick, I confess I’m very curious to borrow your novel. I’ve never been much for reading myself, but if it’s captured your attention so fully, it must be entertaining indeed.”