Lynetta nattered on about her upcoming nuptials, and when she had exhausted that, she began to give Margot all the gossip from around Norwood Park. Mr. Franklin Carvey now held Miss Viola Darfield in great esteem, but Mr. James Carvey could not pay his debts, and his father was seeking a military commission for him.

“It’s a wonder it’s taken this long to note his debts,” Margot muttered, leaning to her right as Quint poured more wine.

Lynetta laughed at the memory. “Do you remember winning ten pounds from him? I was quite pleased you were the victor that night. He seemed rather pompous to me, so very sure of his abilities. Oh, Margot, how diverting it was! And you, always teasing the poor man. How I miss you.”

Margot smiled thinly. It all seemed so frivolous to her now—all that flirting and gambling. She’d been more concerned with her insular society than anything else. What a shallow existence she’d had.

She stole a look at Arran, who was listening politely to Mr. Beauly. She thought of how he presided over Balhaire and his clan. Of the many needs and responsibilities of overseeing all those Mackenzies and their prosperity. How did he abide her? How had she preferred this—this trifling existence? She felt oddly ashamed.

“You can’t tear your eyes from him!” Lynetta said, nudging Margot. “I scarcely blame you. He’s quite...robust.” She giggled. “Why is it that the gentlemen in the north of England are lacking in such health and vigor? I’ve never seen a gentleman as virile as your husband. Not even can I say it of my own fiancé, Mr. Fitzgerald.”

“As I recall, you seemed to think Mr. Dermid Mackenzie was...virile,” Margot teased her.

“Why on earth would you bring him to mind?” Lynetta said, sounding quite appalled. “He’s a thief!”

Something twitched deep in Margot. “I beg your pardon?”

“Have you not heard?” Lynetta whispered. “Shortly after you left, they arrested him. They said he stole from Lord Norwood.”

Now Margot’s gut twisted uncomfortably. “That can’t possibly be true,” she said. “I’m certain I would have heard of it.” She had never paid Dermid Mackenzie much heed, particularly since he’d been sent to keep watch over her—but he’d never been anything but polite and respectful. Margot didn’t believe he’d stolen a thing—Arran’s men did not steal. “Who accused him?”

Lynetta shrugged. “I don’t know. They say he took something of great value and he was taken away in shackles.”

Margot began to feel queasy, the wine mixing with a sickening, anxious feeling.

“What is it?” Lynetta asked. “You look ill.”

“Nothing. The partridge, I think,” Margot said, and pressed a hand to her belly. “Where did they take him?”

“Oh, I’ve not the slightest idea,” Lynetta said breezily.

“But—”