Impulse (19 page)

Kate jumped to her feet, her gaze flying to the clock against the wall. “Oh, my, I've been in here for ages. I—I must be getting back.”

Pettigrew rose, too, coming around the desk and stopping her with a hand on her arm. “No, don't go.”

“I have to. They will wonder what happened to me. And I—well, I should not be here, talking to you.”

“I'm glad you are.” His voice was low and soft. It made her heart flutter in her chest. “I would like to talk to you again. When do you have a day off? You cannot work all the time.”

“I—well, this Sunday I have the afternoon off.”

“Could I see you then? We could take a walk, perhaps.”

“I—I generally go home to visit my mother.”

“In the village?”

Kate nodded.

“I could walk you there.”

Kate took a step backward, shaking her head. “No, I don't think that would be a good idea.”

“Why not? What's wrong with it? Do you dislike me? I thought we were getting along quite well.” He tried a small smile. “Not even a cross word for half an hour or more.”

“No, it isn't that. I don't dislike you. You are—” She sighed, then squared her shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “It just would not suit. I am not the sort of girl who dallies with gentlemen.”

“Dallies? I am not asking you to dally. I am talking about a walk to the village. That's all. Perhaps you would even let me meet your mother.”

“Mr. Pettigrew, please…we both know that, well, there is nothing possible between us. Where would this walk lead?”

He shrugged. “I'm not sure. Can you not take a walk with a man unless he has asked for your hand?”

“No, of course not. It's just that, well, I won't have an affair with you, and there is no point in your trying to seduce me.”

He drew himself up, looking offended. “Miss Harrison! How can you think that I would do something like that?”

“Well, you would not be the first gentleman to try it,” Kate retorted, crossing her arms belligerently.

Jason reached out and took her hand. “Miss Harrison. Kate. I promise you, I have no plans to seduce you. And, believe me, I have no delusions that you are the sort of woman who could be seduced. I am no roué, and I know you are not light of virtue. I want only to walk with you. To spend an afternoon with you. And
whatever might come of it, I swear to you, there would never be any dishonor to you in it.”

Kate's heart skipped in her chest. She looked up into his eyes, dark and serious, and something sweet and exciting swelled in her chest. “All right,” she said softly. “Let's walk to the village Sunday, and you can meet my mother.”

 

Cam and Angela arrived in the town of Carnmore late in the evening and took rooms at a pleasant, if somewhat rustic, inn. The following morning, after a hearty Scottish breakfast, Cam and Angela approached the clerk of the inn and asked him for directions to the goldsmith's shop owned by a family named Monroe.

The clerk, who knew wealth when he saw it and had done everything in his power to make sure that his new arrivals were comfortable, looked puzzled and a trifle frustrated that he could not provide what his guests wanted.

“Monroe?” He repeated. He took off his small round glasses and polished them, frowning in thought. “I'm sorry, sir, I cannot think of any goldsmith in this town named Monroe.” He brightened a little. “If you will excuse me for a moment, let me check with someone else.” He disappeared into the room behind him, returning a few moments later, shaking his head. “I am so sorry, sir. I asked Mr. Chalmers, as he is several years older than I am, but he cannot remember there ever being such a goldsmith here, either. Are you trying to locate a relative, or are you primarily interested in the services of a goldsmith? I can recommend an excellent goldsmith in the High Street, if you are looking for quality work. His name is Stewart. He is very good, as was his father before him. Quite reliable.”

Cam started to demur, but Angela quickly interrupted. “Yes, please, would you give us directions? I am sure that Mr. Stewart would do just as well. It was simply that someone had recommended Mr. Monroe to us. I suspect they must have had the town confused with another place.”

“Certainly, madam.” He gave them directions, even sketched a quick map on a piece of paper for them.

“Why did you want to find this goldsmith?” Cam asked Angela as they walked out the front door of the inn. “Did you want to buy something? A memento of Scotland, perhaps?”

Angela shook her head. “No. But I thought that a local goldsmith would be more likely to give us information about another goldsmith than a clerk in an inn. The clerk said that his father was a goldsmith here before him, so they've been here for many years.”

Cam smiled at her. “Obviously I have married a clever woman.”

“Of course. You know I was always good at ferreting out information.”

He chuckled. “That's true. How could I have forgotten? You used to plague the life out of everyone until they told you what you wanted to know.”

“Or got so nervous they gave it away without meaning to.” Angela showed no remorse for her past sins. “Look, it must not be far. Here is the High Street already. What does his map say?”

“Turn left.”

They turned onto the narrow cobblestoned street, an obvious relic from the past, and made their way along it until they saw ahead of them a small sign stating Stewart and bearing the ancient symbol of a craftsman of precious metals. They walked toward it, but just as
Cam reached out for the handle of the door, Angela laid a hand on his arm.

“Wait. Cam, look.” She pointed across the street at the shop that stood there.

“What? A tobacco shop. What of it?”

“Look at the name printed on the window.”

His eyes went to the small window. He stiffened. “Monroe.”

“Coincidental, don't you think?” Angela asked. “A goldsmith and a Monroe right across the street from each other?”

“I do indeed. Which do you think it was? She lived above the tobacco shop and chose the store she had looked at all her life for her father's occupation—or the other way around?”

“My first instinct is that the name is false. What she said about the goldsmith were memories told to a friend. You are more likely to lie about a name, just say the first thing that comes into your head when someone asks you.”

“All right, then, the goldsmith's first.”

He pulled open the door, and they stepped inside. A small bell tinkled somewhere in the back. But a pleasant-looking woman was already in the front of the shop, dusting off their displays, and she turned and smiled at them. “Well, now, and good morning to you.”

She was middle-aged and dressed quite plainly, with a cap on her graying hair, but there was such an innate liveliness in her gray eyes that one scarcely noticed the plain attire. Her expression was warm and kind, and when she smiled, Angela could not help but smile back at her.

“You are strangers, I can tell,” she told them, her Scottish accent not thick, but musical. “From England?”

“Do we look so obviously English?” Angela asked, surprised, glancing down at her dress.

“Ah, well, there's something about you. Now, what can I do for you today?”

“I was hoping to speak to the goldsmith,” Cam said. “Mr., ah, Stewart?”

“Yes. That would be my husband, John. Just a moment, please.” Her shrewd eyes had swept down their clothing and determined that they were wealthy as well as English, worth disturbing her husband's work.

She disappeared behind the curtain in the back, and in a few moments a man emerged from the back room. He was shorter and stockier than Cam, but excitement sizzled in Angela when she looked at his face. His hair was thick and black, and his eyes were almost as dark under straight, stark brows. His face was handsome, though fleshier than Cam's. Angela glanced at Cam, wondering if he could see the resemblance, but his face was expressionless.

Cam introduced himself pleasantly, thanking the man for taking time out from his work to speak to him, then went on, “Actually, I'm not here about your work, which I can see is excellent. I am inquiring after a young woman who used to live in this town. Her name was Grace.”

The other man stiffened. “What are you about?”

“I believe she had some connection to a goldsmith. Perhaps you or your father.”

“I know no one by that name,” the man retorted harshly. “She is dead to us.”

“I beg your pardon.”

“Go on about your business and leave honest folks in peace, will you?”

The man swung around and stamped back through
the curtain, leaving Cam and Angela staring after him in astonishment. Almost immediately, the woman popped back out. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, and she stared at Cam.

“Would you know anything about a Grace Monroe?” Cam asked her. “Perhaps a Grace Stewart? She would have been fifty-two years old now.”

“Would have been?” the woman repeated. “You mean, she's—”

Cam nodded. “Yes. She died two years ago this March. Did you know her?”

The woman shook her head agitatedly, glancing back toward the curtain into the back room. “I think you had better leave now. John does not like having his work disturbed.”

“Mrs. Stewart, please tell me if you know anything about Grace. I am her son, but I know nothing about my family or her earlier life. I would be grateful for anything you could tell me.”

“Please, just go.” The woman went to the door and opened it for them, her face creased with distress.

“My name is Cameron Monroe,” Cam told her quietly, pausing beside her at the door. “We are staying at the Black Swan. It's not far from here. If you could tell me anything, I would be very grateful.”

The woman just looked at him, shaking her head, and closed the door quickly behind them, turning the lock with a snap.

“Well,” Cam commented drily, “I would say we were unwelcome visitors.”

“True. But certainly not unrecognized. Did you notice—”

“That he had my coloring? Yes. My mother was dark, as well.”

“More than that. There was a resemblance, too. It wasn't merely black hair and black eyes.”

“‘She's dead to us.' What do you suppose that means?”

“It sounds like a bitter family quarrel to me. Obviously he didn't know she was really dead. At least, his wife did not.”

“Bloody hell!” Cam slammed one fist into the palm of his other hand. “To be so close, and then have the son of a bitch refuse to tell.”

“Let's go into the tobacconist's. Perhaps he could tell us something. His shop must have been here, too, back then. That is where she got the name.”

But they had even less luck at the tobacco shop. The proprietor was a cheerful man in his early forties who regretfully told them that he knew nothing about any female Stewart other than the wife of the goldsmith.

“You see,” he confided, “I am an outsider. I married Mr. Monroe's daughter twenty years ago, and took over the business when he died. But if Mr. Stewart has a sister named Grace, I never knew of it. Indeed, the only family I know of is a brother who moved to Edinburgh.”

Cam and Angela walked back to their inn, considering ways to find out the name and address of the brother in Edinburgh. Later, as they were having a light luncheon at the inn, Cam sat up straighter and said, “That's it!”

“What is?” Angela looked at him expectantly. She had to admit that she was enjoying herself. Her curiosity had always been lively, often getting her into trouble, and she was eager to find out the true story of Cam's parentage. Besides, it was fun to be together with him like this, trying to discover something; it reminded her of the times when they had gone out exploring when she
was a child, with Cam supposedly along to keep her out of danger. In reality, most of the time he had been as willing as she to strike out on an adventure.

“The church.”

“What church?”

“The church would have records, wouldn't it? Births, deaths, all that sort of thing. Baptisms. If we look up when she was born, we should be able to find a record for Grace Stewart, if that really was her name.”

“And one for you,” Angela put in.

“It's worth a try.”

They stood up, but before they could leave the inn, they were stopped by the sight of a woman hurrying into the place. It was the middle-aged woman from the goldsmith's shop, and she stopped just inside the door and looked anxiously around her.

“Mrs. Stewart.” Cam moved forward quickly, and Angela was right on his heels.

The woman turned, her face relaxing into a smile. “Mr. Monroe…I was afraid I wouldn't find you here. I haven't a great deal of time, you see. My husband thinks I am visiting my sister Meg. She has been feeling a bit under the weather lately. Is—is there anywhere we can talk?”

“Of course. There's a small private dining room. My wife and I ate there last night. I am certain that the inn- keeper would be happy to let us use it for a few minutes. I will order a little refreshment. Would you like tea?”

“Splendid.” The woman smiled, and Angela could see the former attractiveness of her features.

Mrs. Stewart said nothing else until they were seated at the table in the cozy little room, a pot of tea in front of them. “I am sorry I didn't say anything earlier,” she apologized, with a small smile. “John would have flown
into a snit. Seems silly to me, but that's what his father decreed, and John's not one to ever go against his father. Personally, I've never seen any sign that fathering a brood of children makes one any the wiser. If it did, old Douglas McClung would be a sage, now, wouldn't he?”

Angela had to smile. “I am sure you are right.”

“I never properly introduced myself, did I? Where are my manners? I am Janet Stewart. Was Janet Connally before I married John.” She drew a breath and went on. “Grace Stewart was my best friend.”