Free The Devil Wears Kilts by Suzanne Enoch

go find Mr. Henning. Tomorrow she needed to do some searching into the background of the Marquis of Glengask. Luckily for her, the best person to ask happened to be residing three bedchambers away from her own.

 
    Chapter Three
    “M’laird, Uncle Myles is awaiting yer pleasure in the front room.”
    Ranulf looked up from the newspaper he’d been reading over his breakfast. It felt odd to have hold of news that wasn’t a week old. And unsettling to read that the Marquis of Glengask was in Town and residing precisely where he was. “He isnae yer uncle, Owen. To ye, he’s Laird Swansley.”
    “Aye, m’laird. It’s just that he was at Glengask fer so long—”
    “I know. Bring ’im in here.” He’d long ago learned the advantage of claiming a room and a seat, and had no intention of allowing Myles Wilkie the opportunity to do so. London might be Myles’s domain, but the MacLawrys claimed Tall House for themselves. For a fortnight, anyway.
    A moment later Myles Wilkie stood in the breakfast room doorway, kind brown eyes taking in the setting and finally resting on Ranulf at the far end of the table. Ranulf watched him in return. Sympathetic gaze or not, the man had the wits of a fox and the stubbornness of a badger. He wasn’t about to forget that. Not for an instant. Not even when Una trotted forward, tail wagging furiously, to greet the viscount. Fergus remained under the table at Ranulf’s feet and huffed his disapproval. If he’d needed any further proof that most lasses didn’t have any sense, that provided it.
    “You sent me a request to find you some likely servants,” the viscount finally said, and produced a folded paper from one gray pocket. “Keeping in mind your … particular requirements, I thought I’d best bring it by in person. I’ve located half a dozen men and three maids who should suffice.”
    Ranulf nodded, flicking a finger at Peter. The footman went to retrieve the paper and unfolded it himself. “I cannae read these hen scratches, m’laird,” he proclaimed after a moment spent squinting at the page.
    From the opposite side of the room Owen blew out his breath and walked past Myles to snatch the paper from Peter’s fingers. “Ye cannae read any scratches, and ye’ve nae fooled a one of us aboot that.” After a moment he looked up from the page, frowning. “These ain’t Scots names, Laird Swansley.”
    “No, they’re English. Born and bred.” Myles squared his shoulders. “May I sit, Ranulf?”
    “Aye. Give ’im back the paper, Owen, and go have Stirling saddled. We’re off in twenty minutes. Take Peter with ye.”
    “But—”
    “Now.”
    The gray that had once sprinkled across Myles Wilkie’s temples had lightened and spread, turning his brown hair almost blond. That had all happened sometime in the past three years. His edges all seemed a bit worn, Ranulf realized, though it remained to be seen whether it was more than skin-deep. Nor did he judge anything based on the fact that Myles took the chair directly to his left rather than the opposite one at the far end of the table.
    “I missed you, boy,” the viscount finally said. “You and your brothers. And Rowena, of course. You’re all that’s left of my family.” He took a breath. “And Rowena, for God’s sake—she was just a child when last I saw her. And now … She’s a lovely young woman.”
    “Why only Englishmen on yer list?” Ranulf broke in, attempting to put a halt to the reminiscing. He hadn’t caused the split between them, after all.
    “So it’s to be nothing but business, then?”
    Ranulf picked up his slice of toasted bread. Slowly and deliberately he spread a thick layer of peach marmalade across it. “I believe I told ye that we’re no longer family, so we’ve naught to discuss but business.”
    Myles sat forward, jabbing his forefinger into the polished tabletop. “If you still don’t trust me, why was it me you asked for help in finding servants?”
    “Better the devil ye