"Thank you, Danny." Beth's voice came from the hall, but she remained without and didn't try to push her way in. "Come along, Hart. If Daniel says it's all right, it must be."

"Yes, let's go have some tea," Ainsley said. "Eleanor will be dying to hear what is happening.

Besides, don't you need to pry secrets out of a Prussian prince?"

Hart didn't answer either of the ladies. He held Ian's gaze, and Ian didn't let himself look away. He knew that Hart was reassured when Ian looked into Hart's eyes, taking it as a sign that Ian hadn't slipped back into madness. Gazing into Beth's eyes was easy--they were so beautiful; she was so beautiful--but Ian still wasn't always comfortable sharing so intimate a glance with anyone else.

But he'd learned that he could look at his brothers if he wanted to. And if it meant they went away and left him in peace, so much the better.

Hart at last gave Ian a nod, turned around, and stalked away, as though going had been his idea. Ian heard Beth and Ainsley begin talking at once, Cameron's growl, less edgy than before, and Curry's exasperated exclamation that looking after Ian was putting lines on his face.

Daniel closed the door and beamed a wide smile. "What a setup. For Beth, you say?"

"For Jamie and Belle." Ian liked that Daniel moved carefully, not disturbing what Ian had put into place. "Which will make Beth happy again."

"You're amazing, Uncle Ian. The only man in Scotland who can put an entire house in an uproar by locking a door."

"I didn't want the dogs in."

"Good thinking. Now." Daniel put his hands on his kilt-clad hips. "I have a few gadgets I could add--

clockwork figures, clockwork noisemaking machines, and . . . clocks. Will you let me?"

Ian imagined it, the timing, speeds, and events. "Yes," he said.

Another thing Ian liked about Daniel was that he didn't need long explanations and reassurance. He only laughed and rubbed his hands.

"Right," Daniel said. "Let's get to it."

*** *** *** David Fleming walked into Castle Kilmorgan and made a rude gesture to the Mackenzie ancestors glaring down from the walls at him. David was connected to these people, as his great-great aunt, Donnag Fleming, had been daft enough to marry a Mackenzie. David was descended from Donnag's brother, and that was as close as he wanted to become to being a Mackenzie.

The quantity of whiskey sloshing around inside him didn't help when looking up at all these people.

Nor did the long journey and lack of sleep.

At least Hart had comfortable beds, David thought. He knew he should be at home managing his own estate, but that seemed boringly tedious, and too much like the life his father had wanted him to lead.

Hence his eager acceptance of Hart's Christmas invitation.

I'll be a staid lord of the manor when I can't stand up anymore.

There was one drawback about staying in Hart's house, however. When the footman took David's wraps, he informed him that His Grace was waiting for David in a chamber in the duke's private wing.

Ah, well, best to get it over with. David straightened his cravat in front of a mirror on the second landing, brushed back his dark hair, and tried to convince himself that his eyes weren't as bloodshot as they felt.

At least his valet had stuffed him into a new suit. Hart would have him in a kilt for the rest of the visit, but David was happy he'd been able to make the drafty train journey with his legs covered.

He knocked on a door near the end of the corridor as directed by a helpful maid dusting in the hall.

Not Hart's bedchamber. However, he knew that Hart had changed his bedchamber after his marriage, declaring he wouldn't sleep in the monument dedicated to his father any longer. Not that David blamed him, but that meant he was being directed to . . .

A maid opened the door from the inside, gave David a deferential smile, then slipped away, carrying out whatever tray she'd come here to remove.

Hart Mackenzie, the Duke of Bloody Kilmorgan, sat on a gilded chair from the last century, ruining its finish by rocking back on the chair's legs and resting his feet on the large bed beside him.

In that bed, like a queen on her throne, reposed Eleanor, Duchess of Kilmorgan, formerly Lady Eleanor Ramsay, the woman whom David, once upon a time, had fallen madly in love with.

Tonight she lay in a modest dressing gown, pillows behind her, covers pulled up under her arms.

Nothing could hide the large bulge of her abdomen, the symbol of her love for David's oldest friend, Hart Mackenzie.


* * * * *

Chapter Nine

"David." Hart brought his legs down and swung up and out of the chair, sounding genuinely glad to see him. "Welcome."

His handshake was warm and strong, Hart's clap on David's shoulder as hard as ever.

"Forgive me for not rising," Eleanor said, her smile as lovely as ever. "For obvious reasons. I had an awful morning, and I was told unequivocally that I needed to rest." She glanced at Hart, who paid no attention. "It's good to see you, David. Come and give me a kiss."

Oh Lord. David pasted on a smile as he crossed the room, took Eleanor's outstretched hands, and leaned down to kiss her cheek. She smelled of honey and lavender, and she was still beautiful, even with, or perhaps because of, her face and hands plump with her pregnancy.

"I'm so glad you've come," Eleanor said softly.

No false politeness. She meant it.

David didn't deceive himself, however. He'd always known he hadn't stood a chance with Eleanor, no matter how besotted he'd become. Eleanor had refused David years ago, after Eleanor and Hart's very public breakup, and she'd never married at all until she had a chance again with Hart. It had always been Hart with her.

"Better than me rotting at home alone at Christmas," David said in a jovial voice. "A Christmas cracker isn't much fun to pull open on your own."

Eleanor winked at him as she released his hands. "There will be plenty of people to break them with here. Especially a few young ladies."

David backed away from the bed and dropped into a chair. Dear God, even the decorative furniture in this room was comfortable.

"No matchmaking, El," David said. "Don't you dare. I'm a drunken sot, and the women who like me are not the sort I'd introduce to my mother. I prefer it that way."

Hart had resumed his chair, observing the exchange in his eagle-eyed way. He didn't hover and growl like a jealous husband, but the watchfulness was there.

Foolish man. Eleanor was madly in love with Hart, the Lord only knew why. Hart had been the very definition of the decadent rake in his younger days, with David his avid disciple, though sometimes his tutor.

"I feel certain there is someone out there for you," Eleanor said. "It's only a matter of narrowing down possibilities and presenting opportunities."

"No," David said emphatically. He hooked his ankle around a footstool and dragged it to him, settling his dirty boots on it. Exhaustion was beating on him, making his eyelids sandy.

"Leave him be, El. He's our guest." Hmm. Was that Hart Mackenzie being so kind and understanding?

"True," Eleanor said. "And there's the matter of the little task we need him to do."

Ah ha. Hart was never kind without a reason.

"So you called me here to work, did you?" David asked. "And all I thought was that I'd take advantage of your soft beds and excellent food."

"And you will," Eleanor said, smiling that smile that meant she was up to something. "We need it done before Christmas Eve, and then you can sit back and feast as much as you wish."

"Good." David's eyes narrowed. "What is this task for which you need my expertise?"

"Blackmail the Earl of Glastonby," Eleanor said.

She spoke in a matter-of-fact voice, as though she commanded her husband's friends to blackmail a gentleman every morning, two after teatime.

"Glastonby?" David's tiredness ebbed as interest took over. "Prudy Preston that was? He was head lad at school," he explained to Eleanor. "Ready to pounce as soon as you even looked as though you thought about breaking a rule. Still that way. What has he done to be blackmailed by you, Eleanor?"

"Nothing yet," Hart said quietly.

"Now, this sounds more intriguing." David reached for the flask inside his coat and took a drink of whiskey. "I believe I take your meaning. You wish me to goad Glastonby into a compromising position, and then threaten to tell the world about it, unless he gives me . . . what?"

"A Ming bowl," Hart said.

"A Ming . . . You've lost me."

"For Ian," Eleanor said. She'd placed her hands on her abdomen, and her face took a faraway expression, a mother lost in the contemplation of her child.

Pain like a poisoned dart stabbed David's heart. He did not so much wish anymore that Eleanor would carry his child, but he envied Hart for having a beautiful wife, thick with his firstborn, so in love with her husband that she'd help him ask his friend to do a spot of blackmail for him.

David shifted uncomfortably, wishing the pain would go away. "Ian collects Ming bowls, yes," he said. "And you are saying Glastonby has one. The question I ask myself is, why do you not simply purchase the bowl from Glastonby?"

"He won't sell," Hart said. "I've spent the last week and a half tracking down a bowl almost exactly like one of Ian's that was broken--a blue one. The design has to be blue, Beth says. Glastonby has the closest I can find. I made a large offer for it, which he promptly turned down. Won't sell to a Mackenzie, he said. Not to me, not to Ian, not to any of our wives. We are tainted and don't deserve to possess such beauty."

"Sounds like something Prudy Preston would say."

"Quite vexing of him," Eleanor said. "Ainsley offered to steal it, leaving a substantial payment for it, of course, but Hart's idea is better. You can obtain the bowl for us and put your Prudy Preston in his place at the same time."

She looked so smug, so confident as she plotted Glastonby's doom. The man didn't stand a chance.

David took another sip of whiskey. "Your wife is dangerous, Hart. Do you know that?"

"Aye, so I've learned." Hart's solemn tone made David want to laugh. The great Mackenzie, feared by men and adored by women, had been brought to his knees by blue eyes, a wide smile, and a bloody devious mind.

"And therefore," David said, "you called in the expert on all things perfidious, your old friend, David Fleming."

"You'll do it?" Eleanor asked. "Excellent."

"Of course I will do it. I'd do anything for you, El, and you knew that, which is why you had your servant send me up here. What had you planned to offer me as a reward?"

Eleanor shrugged. "Soft beds, a feast at Christmas and Hogmanay."

"All very tame and domestic. I'll do this, but we'll discuss my price later. That will give me time to think of something outrageous--" A soft tap on the door cut off David's speech, followed by the door opening, and the creaking Wilfred putting his head around the doorframe. "Your Grace. There is the matter of letters to sign before I depart for Kent." Wilfred's tone was less apologetic than reproachful.

Hart rose at once. Tamed by his wife, tamed by his secretary. Amusing.

David's amusement faded when Hart leaned down and gave Eleanor a kiss. The kiss turned from a brief good-bye to something more passionate, more intimate, more private.

The look Eleanor gave Hart when he lifted away shattered any illusion David might have harbored that Eleanor ever had been torn between the two men. She looked at Hart with pure love, nothing less.

"Talk to El for a moment," Hart said, following Wilfred. "Don't upset her." The flash in his eyes told David that all the wars of the world would be nothing to Hart's rage if Eleanor was upset.

David saluted with his free hand. He took another pull of whiskey as Hart closed the door, then tucked the flask back into his pocket.

"How are you, Eleanor? Truly. You can tell Cousin David."

"Truly wonderful. Running such a large household has its difficulties, but we are weathering."

"Even having to run it while you're laid up?" David gazed at her distended belly under the covers.