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William nodded. “Ewan said Molly McGuire can deliver a note to the kitchen lass in the Simpson house.”
William’s father gestured to a footman. “Go and fetch Molly, then. Tell her no’ to be a mouse about it. It will all be over soon.”
“Papa, that sounds as if you mean to sack her,” Susan said. “Tell her to come and say no more,” she instructed the footman.
“I’m no’ wrong,” the duke said as the footman strode from the room. “The girl shivers like a leaf every time she’s out of the kitchen.”
They all discovered this was true minutes later, when Molly stood before them, shivering. But Lady Aleksander, with her reassuring smile and kind voice, convinced her that she was not in any sort of trouble, and, in fact, the family needed her desperately.
“They need me, ma’am?”
“They do. Do you think you could get a very important message to the kitchen girl at the Simpson house?”
The girl looked around the room at all of them, wide-eyed. “Aye. My cousin Janie, she’s the scullery maid.”
Of course. If William had been able to think a moment, he would have realized that everyone around here was related to everyone else.
“Well, then, my lord, I think you should write the letter,” Lady Aleksander said to him.
“Aye, that he should,” his father agreed and looked at a footman. “Robert, bring up some of the cellar whisky, aye? We’ll make a right proper celebration of it.”
And that, William’s parents did. As he struggled to write a letter to Miss Simpson that conveyed he was trying to help her, but would need to know the name of the father of her child in order to do that, his father regaled the rest of them with the time-honored classic tale of how he had come to the conclusion that he was the direct descendent of the Scottish kings.
When William had written the letter, he gave it to Molly. Molly put on her cloak, and away she went to deliver it.
For the rest of the night, William could hardly sit. He kept getting up and going to the window to look for any sign of the girl. He imagined that everything had gone wrong, that the girl had lost the letter, or Miss Simpson was gone from Hamilton now, or her father intercepted the letter and knew what they were about. He imagined that Mr. Bartholomew would fail and would be run out of the village.
He imagined that he would not see Justine again. It felt like a burr in his heart. Every movement sent a sharp pain through him.
The girl did not come back to Hamilton Palace that night.
William slept not at all.
The next morning Ewan was dispatched to the village to watch Mr. Bartholomew’s performance and report the outcome of it. William paced, waiting for Molly McGuire to return. He sent a groomsman out to look for her. He didn’t see her along the road.
It was afternoon before Molly finally returned, ambling up the road. William strode out to meet her on the drive. “Where have you been, lass?”
“I beg your pardon, milord!” she said and started to shiver. “But the hour was late and my cousin insisted I stay for the night. The cook gave me the day today. I had some things to do in the village.”
William drew a long breath so that he wouldn’t snap at her. Perhaps they hadn’t made it clear that time was of the essence.
He heard someone behind him and turned to see Lady Aleksander walking quickly to them. She looked as anxious as he felt. Apparently, he was not the only one who hadn’t slept last night.
“Well? Did she give the letter to her cousin?” she asked.
“We’re just getting to that. Well, lass?”
“No, milord.”
“No?”William thought his heart would stop beating. His heart was going to fail him, right here, in front of Hamilton Palace. Maybe he ought to hope for it—it was surely less painful than this.
“No,” Molly said softly. “Miss Simpson, she come down from her rooms. She had the bairn, and he’s such a fine-looking lad.”
“A boy!” Lady Aleksander said.
“Aye, ma’am. Still in swaddling, but has a bit of ginger hair—”
“Molly.” William spoke as quietly and evenly as he could. “What did Miss Simpson say?”
