Thank heavens! Just to be certain, Fiona said artlessly, “What of Lord Davies? He has been to Paris, and I’m certain he’s the most sophisticated gentleman I’ve ever seen.”

Murien sent her a fulminating glance, a frown on her pouting lips. “That shows how little you go in public. Once you’ve been to London, as have I, you will know there is little in the way of eligible men to be found in Scotland.”

“You prefer Englishmen?”

“I prefer well-titled, wealthy, handsome, sophisticated men,” Murien said, dissatisfaction radiating from her. “There are none to be found in this backward country. If I had the funds to stay in London, I would take the place by storm. I just know I would.”

This was good news indeed. Had it not been for that depressing thought that perhaps her marriage was in dire straits, Fiona would have been ecstatic. As it was, she barely managed a smile. “That is precisely why I invited you to visit. Malcolm has an old friend from Eton visiting him, and I thought the man would be just the thing for you.”

“A friend of Malcolm’s?” There was just the tiniest hint of a sneer to Murien’s voice.

Fiona stiffened. “Malcolm has many intelligent, well-bred friends. Why, he is personal friends with the Earl of Argyll, and I know not how many times the Earl of Carlysle has invited us to visit his country estate outside of Sterling.”

“Really, Fiona, there is no need to be so argumentative.”

“Yes, well, I think Mr. St. John is excessively well bred and—” Something gripped her arm. Fiona looked down and realized that it was Murien’s hand. “Ow!”

Murien didn’t loosen her hold. “Did you say St. John?”

Fiona nodded, pulling on her arm.

“Black hair? Blue eyes?”

“I don’t know, as I haven’t yet seen him. Murien, my arm—”

Murien released her, eyes ablaze. “But which St. John? Marcus? Never say ’tis the marquis!”

“No, it’s Devon St. John.”

“Devon. That is almost as good! He has no title, but—” Murien leaned closer, oblivious to the fact that the lace of her sleeve was now trailing in her tea plate. “Fiona, do you know who the St. Johns are?”

“No. I mean, Malcolm hinted that they were important, but I’ve never really heard—”

“They are the wealthiest family in all of England—all the world, perhaps!” Murien stood and began to pace about the room, the lace of her blue gown trailing the carpet behind her. Her green eyes gleamed.

“And to think that Devon St. John is here, of all places. I cannot believe—” She whirled back to Fiona. “For how long? How long will he be here?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t really said. I just thought that you might—”

“You don’t know?”

“A week, I think. Perhaps two—”