Page 35 of The Tartan Trap

“It’s truly a wonder you haven’t been shot yet,” Callum mused.

Laughter around the table, some of it more nervous than others.

Lord Nelson grinned as if it were all in good fun and continued, “And then the Preston sisters. Four of them out at the moment, though the three eldest are a bit old for my taste, and the youngest is a bit out of my scope of interest. As I’ve said, I prefer my ladies light enough to pick up.”

Probably to make the abduction easier, Callum thought. For he couldn’t imagine a woman who’d willingly go along with Lord Nelson.

“So have you dallied with any of them? The Stevenses or the Priestons?”

“Preston. And no—both sets are new to me. New to society as a whole, so I’ve heard.”

Callum thought he might be able to even accomplish the task with the tiny tongs resting atop the sugar bowl. “But would you have heard? Doubtless not all the gossip about young ladies reaches your ears.”

Nelson snorted. “My good sir, gossip about young ladies is all I care about. I hear much of it. Luckily for me, Mr. Pickwick is kind enough to screen them all for me, anyway.”

“Who is Mr. Pickwick?” Callum said, feigning ignorance.

“Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Pickwick. You’ve never heard of Mr. Pickwick?”

Callum stared at him with dead eyes. Hadn’t he just said as much? There was almost nothing he hated more than speaking to an idiot, and Gavin Nelson was obviously one of those.

Nelson swatted at his friend’s arm. “You have a copy of the latest, don’t you?”

“Just the latest addendum.” He tugged a small booklet from his inner pocket and passed it across the table.

“Mr. Pickwick’s Guide to Marriageable Young Ladies,” Callum read. He glanced up and arched an eyebrow. “You put stake in what a gossip rag says?”

“It’s not a gossip rag. Well, perhaps it is a bit, but it’s dead spot-on. Mr. Pickwick has eyes everywhere. He’s written about every scandal I’ve ever heard of, and many I haven’t. If you want to know about young ladies, that’s your best source. Ask anyone.”

“Thank you. I believe I will.”

Callum stood, slipped the booklet into his own pocket, picked up the full plate that a waiter had just placed before him, and tucked his now-empty chair back into place with his large boot.

Lord Nelson frowned up at him. “Where are you going?”

“For the record, Nelson, you’re right about one thing—you’d never get within ten feet of my sister. And it’s not because she’s too large or too ugly. It’s because I would pick you up by your skinny neck with one hand and toss you from the bloody parapet if you tried.”

Callum turned his back, crossed the room, and sat at the first empty chair he saw.

“I don’t believe I invited you to join me.”

The Duke of Devonshire spoke from behind his spread newspaper; Callum was fairly certain the man hadn’t even seen him sit.

“Forgive me, Your Grace. If I stayed at the other table any longer, I was in danger of murdering someone.”

“Ah, Ettrick. Apologies. I thought you might be someone else.” He folded his paper and set it neatly next to his plate. “I did rather wonder at your choice of breakfast companions.”

“My mistake. It certainly wasn’t worth it.”

“To satisfy my rampant curiosity, why did you choose to sit there to begin with?”

Callum studied the man before him. They weren’t friends. They didn’t know each other—rather, they only knew of each other. Still, what he’d heard of the Duke of Devonshire was that the man was pragmatic and truthful, fiercely loyal to his family, and not a gossip. Perhaps he should have asked to sit with him from the start.

“I came to London to find a wife.” He picked up one of the silver shakers on the table and began to add a prodigious amount of pepper to his eggs.

“A shocking admission, by society’s standards.”

“I rather thought that was what the Season was for.”