Page 3 of A Scoundrel in the Making

Chapter Two

Abigail excused herself to the retiring room, located two doors down from the refreshments room. Her greatest danger was encountering Lord Havisham. He would insist that she drink the champagne he’d fetched, even if it meant waiting for her outside the ladies’ retiring room. Her five-foot-four height easily hid her in the sea of six-foot-tall men, but it also meant she could walk past a group of men and bump directly into the viscount. Abigail opted for the safer, less direct route and followed the wall nearest the balcony. She reached the hallway unmolested and hurried past the refreshments room. By now, Lord Havisham should be on the way back to where he’d left her standing, but one never knew.

She glimpsed a familiar face. Liam MacPherson. Her heart warmed. She hadn’t expected to see her young cousin here. Her mother’s nephew’s son was the closest living relative Abigail had left—more like a little brother than a cousin. Abigail’s father had told her many a time that Liam’s dark hair and eyes were more like her mother’s than his own mother’s. She hadn’t known he’d returned to Inverness. She would speak with him later.

Abigail checked the retiring room, but Lady Elana wasn’t there. That didn’t surprise her. That inner sense that had saved her life more than once told her that The Raven’s presence at Lady Bingley’s soirée was no coincidence. Abigail stepped from the retiring room and found the hallway empty. She hurried away from the ballroom. An instant later, she turned a corner, then slowed. Up ahead, a sliver of light fanned across the carpeted floor from a door that stood slightly ajar.

She lifted her skirts and crept forward. Lady Elana wouldn’t be so careless as to conduct a clandestine meeting with a door ajar. Abigail reached the room and paused to listen. Silence. She leaned closer and peeked into the room, but her vantage offered only a view of a small desk against the left wall. She inched the door open and eased around to see better. Lady Elana stood beside a tall gentleman near a low-burning fire.

Lady Elana met her gaze. “Please, come in, my dear.”

Abigail silently cursed. She straightened. “Forgive the intrusion, my lady.”

Lady Elana smiled. “Not at all. We were expecting you.”

The knowledge stung. Few people could catch Abigail red-handed. The Raven was one of those few, and knew it. Abigail slipped inside.

“Close the door, please,” Elana said.

Abigail pulled the door silently closed and glimpsed the satisfaction that flickered in the older woman’s eyes. The Raven valued highly the ability to move noiselessly.

Abigail crossed the room and halted before them. She curtsied. “My lady. Sir.”

Lady Elana tsked. “No, no, it is we who must bow to the new Marchioness of Buchman.”

Abigail grimaced. “Pray, do not. It is bad enough that others fawn over me. I couldn’t bear if you did the same.”

Amusement sparked in Lady Elena’s eyes. “As you wish.” She turned toward the tall, handsome man beside her. “Marchioness Buchman, please meet Sir Stirling James. Sir Stirling, Her Ladyship, the Marchioness Buchman.”

Abigail extended her hand. He clasped her fingers and bowed over them. “My lady, ‘tis a pleasure.”

His light Scottish accent told her he’d been raised outside of Inverness. In Sutherland, perhaps.

“Sir.” She angled her head in acknowledgement.

“Sir Stirling owns a shipping company,” Lady Elana said. “He has agreed to lend us a hand.”

“Us?” Abigail inquired with a polite lift of her brows.

“I know you are retired, Abigail, but as the new Marchioness of Buchman, you are in a unique position to help. I thought perhaps…” She gave a small shrug.

Abigail suppressed the jump of excitement that accelerated her heartbeat and managed a calm, “I am always at your service, ma’am.”

Elana nodded. “Did I not tell you, Sir Stirling, that we could count on Abigail?”

He flashed a dazzling smile, and Abigail again noticed how handsome he was. “Ye did, indeed, my lady.”

Abigail waited. Lady Elana would reveal the information in her own time. The Raven had one guilty pleasure: she enjoyed a bit of drama now and then. Her staunch patriotism gave her an almost ruthless streak that kept her impulses in check. Therefore, when the opportunity presented itself—such as rare times of leisure like now—she indulged in a bit of theatrics. She well knew that Abigail’s retirement was too recent for the thrill of the hunt to have been tamed—despite the fact that Abigail had requested this retirement.

Memories knotted her stomach. She quickly erected the wall inside her head that separated her new life from her old. But a mental picture flashed of Victor’s face as the bullet struck his chest. He’d been a French lad fighting for his country and he’d died. No, that wasn’t right. He hadn’t just died. She’d shot him.

“This is war,” Lady Elana had told her, “and war is never pretty.”

Abigail suddenly wished she’d taken another glass of champagne. Without it, she might not be able to keep the private promise that tonight she would sleep through the night—or, at least, sleep without dreams.

“You will introduce him into society,” Elana said.

Abigail nodded, realizing she’d missed part of the conversation.