Page 36 of The Tartan Trap

“Your purpose isn’t shocking—it’s your blunt admission of it that might raise eyebrows. But I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. You’re a Scot, after all.”

Callum frowned, unsure whether he should be offended on behalf of his countrymen. “What does that have to do with it?”

“An Englishman would only hint at his intention, until he’s quite sure of his success.”

He shrugged. “I’m sure that if I want a wife, I’ll manage to find one.”

“With holdings as impressive as your height, I’ve no doubt you’re correct.” Devonshire chuckled. “Forgive me, I’m still not sure what you wanting a wife has to do with you sitting with that lot.”

“I was in search of gossip,” he grudgingly admitted before spearing part of a sausage and popping it into his mouth.

He’d been right—the sausage was far more enjoyable with a room’s worth of distance between him and Lord Nelson.

“It must be difficult to walk in blind to English society, especially when you’re shopping for the most important member of your family.”

Callum arched an eyebrow and nodded, still chewing.

“Perhaps I can help.”

Callum blotted his lips with a napkin before he said, “Have you heard of a Mr. Pickwick?”

Devonshire’s features closed as surely as a slammed door. “Of course. Who hasn’t?”

“Me, until recently. Do you trust his advice?”

The man relaxed into his chair. “Implicitly.”

“Truly?” Callum’s eyebrows raised. “Why?”

Devonshire smiled. “Mr. Pickwick has proven himself as a credible source time and time again throughout the years.”

“Does he write about all the young ladies?”

“Most of them.” He tilted his head. “And I know many more. Are you asking about a certain lady in particular?”

“Yes, but I don’t know if you’ll keep my confidence.”

“At this early point in the Season, I’ve given out so much advice regarding eligible females, I’m starting to wonder how I might make a profit from it. Perhaps I should just hang a shingle and be done with it.” He blotted his lips with his napkin. “The information will go no further than my wife’s ears, I assure you.”

Callum’s lip quirked. “Fair enough.”

He considered Devonshire’s implicit offer while the man waited patiently. If there was one thing Callum knew, it was that Devonshire couldn’t have been more different than the likes of Lord Nelson and his ilk. What harm could there be in asking an honorable man an honest question?

Decision made, he leaned forward, his eyes intent. “What do you know of Miss Margaret Preston?”

CHAPTER 12-MARGARET

That afternoon, Margaret dressed with particular care, choosing a pale blue dress with off-white stripes. Typically, she avoided patterns. She had found them to be either too small and distracting, or if they were larger, she felt she looked like a lumpy ottoman.

However, like all of the dresses Miss Dahlia Warrington had designed for them, this one was cleverly done, with an eye for Margaret’s form. The stripes didn’t simply go up and down; the material darted in at her waist, then flowed naturally from her hips. Margaret thought it accented her shape quite nicely.

While Margaret didn’t expect to be entertaining any gentlemen personally, she knew her sisters would. They certainly would look lovelier than ever, and Margaret didn’t want to disrupt the general beauty of the tableau.

Lily had made quite the stir at last night’s ball; she had stood up for nearly every dance. In contrast, Margaret had only been asked for the one dance, and she’d written that invitation off as politeness and pity. The duke had danced with several other ladies that evening, and Margaret thought he’d only asked her first because she’d quite literally fallen on him.

Now, as the Preston sisters walked into the large parlor for visiting hours, Lily’s fingers twisted together in nerves. Margaret took compassion on her and sat on the same sofa even though she had been planning on taking one of the armchairs near the window. She hadn’t wanted to draw attention to the fact that she was sitting alone.

Margaret did her best to encourage Lily as they waited, but the ticking of the clock from the mantel had never seemed so interminable. She had to beat back the instinct to swing her foot back and forth or to chew her inner cheek. The nerves were so thick in the parlor that Margaret felt she was inhaling them as if they were smoke.