CHAPTER THREE

      THE INTERVIEW WAS progressing very much to Lucas’s satisfaction. Galloway, the butler, seemed quietly impressed by his excellent references, his willingness to work hard and his respectful manners. Mrs. Parmenter, the housekeeper, seemed to admire his powerful physique. Lucas had caught her staring at his calves and hoped it was only to assess how good he would look in formal livery. He was not sure her interest was impersonal, though. Mrs. Parmenter had a gleam in her eyes that was quite at odds with the respectable image of the traditional housekeeper.

      There had been a couple of other candidates for the job, but he was convinced that he had the edge over them. Whether he could do all the work was another matter. He had had no idea that the role of footman was so complex. He had thought that all they did was adorn the back of a carriage, looking pretty, and run off with the lady of the house if they got the opportunity. It seemed he was very much mistaken. Fetching the coal, polishing the silver, cleaning boots and shoes, drawing the curtains, helping to serve the dinner—all those tasks would be a part of his job. It sounded fairly tedious but nothing he could not manage if he rose at five in the morning and retired at midnight.

      “Are you experienced in folding a napkin into the shape of a water lily?” Mrs. Parmenter inquired.

      “I am afraid not, ma’am,” Lucas replied. The sorts of talents he possessed were of absolutely no use to him here. He had a flair for winning at cards, for example, and had made his first fortune at the gaming tables. He had made a second fortune through investment in a shipbuilding company that Jack Rutherford had established. He had other businesses, other investments. He had no skill in folding napkins.

      Mrs. Parmenter’s face fell. “But you are accustomed to serving dinner?” she pressed. “You are trained in the correct etiquette?”

      “Of course, ma’am,” Lucas said smoothly, in answer to the second question, at least. His etiquette had been learned in his stepfather’s palace, although he had never been the one serving the dinner. In some ways his had been a gilded existence. But the trouble with gilt was that it tended to rub away leaving something ugly beneath.

      Galloway shifted in his chair. It seemed that he had heard enough to be satisfied with Lucas’s credentials and was moving on to give him some background on the establishment at Kilmory. Lucas listened attentively.

      “We are a small establishment here despite being a ducal household,” Galloway was saying. “Over the past few years His Grace has preferred to make his home here rather than at his main seat in Forres. It is smaller and also—”

      “Cozier,” Mrs. Parmenter intervened, shooting the butler a quick glance. “Kilmory is more...comfortable.”

      Lucas hoped he did not look as incredulous as he felt. If Kilmory was more comfortable than Forres then Forres must be practically uninhabitable. From what he had seen, half of Kilmory Castle was a ruin and the other half was medieval; a squat, ugly edifice that felt as though it had barely changed for centuries. Scotland had many beautiful castles. This was not one of them. Jack had been right about that.

      What Jack had not known, though, was how much of a home Kilmory seemed to be. It had a welcoming warmth about it that was more important than superficial elegance. The room in which they were sitting, for example, probably the second-best drawing room, had charm in the slightly rickety chairs with their faded cushions. There was a vase of flowers bright on the mantel and several magazines and papers tossed carelessly on the table. Lucas read them upside down—the Caledonian Mercury from three weeks before, the Lady’s Monthly Museum, the Edinburgh Review.

      He wondered if it was in fact financial considerations that had led the duke to close Forres Castle. Kilmory would be cheaper to run. But that would be at odds with the reputation of the Duke of Forres as the richest peer in Scotland. Even so, it was worth investigation. A man would often pretend to riches when he lacked them, and it would be useful to know the truth of Forres’s financial affairs in case he, too, were involved in the whisky trade.

      “It is Lady Christina MacMorlan who runs the estate on behalf of her father,” Mrs. Parmenter said. “In practical terms, she is the head of the household.”

      Lady Christina.

      Lucas felt a flicker of elemental awareness along his skin. Christina MacMorlan. Was she the woman he had met the previous night? It was becoming increasingly likely. A woman who was capable of running an estate would have all the skill, efficiency and contacts to operate a whisky-smuggling ring. And if Mrs. Parmenter was right, then Lady Christina might not only run Kilmory but she might also have knowledge of what had happened to Peter. Lucas felt his pulse speed up and schooled his expression to polite indifference.

      “It is the land agent who runs the estate,” Galloway corrected. “It would not be appropriate for her ladyship to work.”

      Mrs. Parmenter gave a snort, quickly smothered. It was quite clear whom she thought did all the hard work at Kilmory. Lucas’s interest in Christina MacMorlan sharpened.

      “Speaking of work,” Galloway added, with a repressive glance at the housekeeper, “we would require you to turn your hand to almost any task were you to come to work at Kilmory, Mr. Ross. Some footmen have ideas of what is beneath their station.” His tone made it clear that such militant modern views were quite distasteful to him. “We are too small a staff here to tolerate such vanity.”

      “I would be happy to help with any task, Mr. Galloway,” Lucas said.

      Galloway nodded. He studied the papers lying on the table in front of him, frowning as though something was troubling him. Lucas was puzzled, but he couldn’t work out what was holding Galloway back.

      “Your testimonials are impeccable.” The butler said slowly. “You are entirely suitable for the post.”

      Lucas inclined his head. Sidmouth’s clerks had indeed done a good job in concocting a set of references that were strong and convincing without gushing too much.

      “Excuse me,” Galloway said abruptly. He gathered up his papers and strode from the room. Lucas caught Mrs. Parmenter’s look. She smiled automatically at him, but there was uneasiness in her eyes. They chatted for a while about Edinburgh, where the housekeeper had relatives, but it was clear that she was distracted. After a couple of minutes she, too, excused herself hurriedly and went out.

      Left alone, Lucas waited a moment and then stood up and trod cautiously across to the desk. The drawers were packed with account books for Kilmory going back several years. He did not bother to sift through them. He doubted that Lady Christina kept the recipe for distilling the peat-reek handily in her desk, still less anything that might link her and the whisky gang to Peter’s death. If he was caught poking around the house at this stage it would look as though he was a thief and he would be thrown out.

      He returned to his seat, stretching his long legs out in front of him, sitting back and allowing himself to appreciate the room’s warmth and comfort. It felt very unlike the town house he possessed in Edinburgh. That was no more than a set of rooms, expensive rooms, elegant rooms, but with no character or heart. The very untidiness and lived-in quality of Kilmory attracted him, though he felt disconcerted to realize it. He had never in his life wanted somewhere that was more than simply a roof over his head.

      Ten minutes passed. A suspicion started to seed itself in Lucas’s mind. He was almost certain that Lady Christina MacMorlan was a step ahead of him. She had warned him off the previous night, but he suspected that she had also taken the precaution of warning Galloway not to employ him.

      He got up and crossed quietly to the door. Mrs. Parmenter had left it ajar and Lucas pressed his ear to the gap. He could hear the faint sound of voices out in the hall. Galloway