Chapter 9
The Ladies’ Marriage Prospects Bulletin
Friendship among ladies is most commendable, so long as it does not encourage confidences which ought never be spoken aloud. Resist whispering with a friend too often in company, for whispers invite suspicion, and suspicion breeds scandal.
Gavan stood at the edge of the verdant lawn, far enough away from the clusters of laughing guests that no one would mistake his watchfulness for participation. From this vantage point, the party unfolded like a well-rehearsed play. All the actors in fine costumes issuing their polished lines.
And at the center of it all was Ava.
He watched her with practiced disinterest, at least, that’s what he told himself, as she floated between conversations, parasol in hand, laughter bubbling at all the right moments.
She had a way of making everyone feel as though they’d been singled out, like the sun had briefly shifted just to shine on them.
No wonder Ferguson gravitated toward her like a moth to flame.
The damnable cad.
And there he was now, the phony beaux, Lachlan Ferguson, leaning far too close to Ava beneath the shade of an oak, saying something that made her laugh. Not her polite hostess laugh, but the softer one, the one she didn’t hand out freely.
Gavan’s fists flexed, itching to call the man out.
This was precisely the problem. Ferguson worked his charm like a tradesman with a well-honed tool, practiced and effortless. And Ava, for all her intelligence, had a dangerous fondness for charming trouble.
He turned his gaze to Moira, who stood a few paces away speaking animatedly with Mrs. Worton.
Oblivious. Too trusting by half. The sweet lass was so eager for a match after her season in London had been fruitless.
And he couldn’t blame her. Every young lady seemed to have marriage on the mind, except for Ava.
If Ferguson weren’t in the picture, he’d let them all go about their nuptial business, but that self-absorbed man… He couldn’t let this stand.
The conversation with Ava had already churned through his mind a hundred times, her dismissive smile still needling him. She didn’t believe him about Ferguson. Of course, she didn’t, she never believed him until it was too late.
But this time, he’d make her see.
Men like Ferguson fed on admiration, and when it stopped coming, they moved on without a backward glance.
Moira couldn’t afford that kind of ruin.
No, if he wanted to protect his cousin, he needed more than whispers. He needed proof.
His jaw set as the first thoughts of a plan began to take shape.
Ferguson’s charm might win over ballrooms and drawing rooms, but Gavan had learned long ago that charm rarely survived scrutiny.
He’d dig. Quietly. Speak to the right people, those who weren’t swayed by a winning smile.
Men who played cards with Ferguson. Servants who saw what their masters preferred to remain hidden.
Those who spoke when brandy loosened their tongues.
And when he had what he needed, he’d lay it out plainly, before Ava, before Moira, before anyone else got swept into the handsome disaster that was Lachlan Ferguson.
The soft trill of Ava’s laughter drifted across the lawn again. He forced himself not to look.
He couldn’t afford to think about her, not now. This wasn’t about her.
At least, that’s what he told himself.
The plan sharpened in his mind with every passing minute, and yet his feet were already moving before he’d thoroughly thought it through.
Lachlan Ferguson was still beneath the oak, his posture lazy, his expression practiced, a man perfectly at home wherever he landed. Ava had drifted on to another cluster of guests, leaving Ferguson alone with a glass of champagne and an air of self-satisfaction that set Gavan’s teeth on edge.
“Ferguson.”
Lachlan turned at the sound of his name, all easy charm and disarming smiles. “Lord Darkwood,” he said warmly, as though they were old friends. “I was just thinking how rare it is to see ye at one of these gatherings. Lady Ava throws a splendid party, doesn’t she?”
Gavan ignored the bait. “Ye seem to be enjoying yourself.”
“Should I no’?” Lachlan took a casual sip of his drink. “Good company, good champagne… one can hardly complain.”
“Ye make a habit of finding yourself in good company, dinna ye?” Gavan’s voice was steady, deceptively mild.
Lachlan chuckled, but there was the faintest tightening around his eyes. “Is that an observation or an accusation?”
“Just an observation.” Gavan let the words settle, then added, “I look after my cousin. And I dinna take kindly to men who waste her time.”
The pause that followed was almost imperceptible, but Gavan didn’t miss it. Ferguson’s grin widened, all teeth now. “Then ye’ve nothing to worry about. I dinna waste time.”
“Good.” Gavan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Because I’ll be watching.”
It wasn’t a threat, not exactly. But Ferguson’s eyes flickered, a shadow passing through them before the charm returned in full force.
“I would no’ expect anything less,” he said smoothly. “Ye seem the protective sort.”
“I am,” Gavan replied flatly, then left him standing there, still smiling but with his fingers drumming against his glass.
By the time he returned to the edge of the lawn, his plan had fully formed. And he was proud of himself for not knocking the sense into the man.
He needed more than instincts. He needed information, and for that, he knew exactly who to call on.
Malcolm Gordon.
An old friend and one of the Crown’s most efficient investigators, Malcolm had a knack for uncovering the things people wanted buried, debts, affairs, past misdeeds. If there were skeletons in Ferguson’s closet, Malcolm would find them.
Gavan would send a letter tonight. Discreet, direct. And when Malcolm replied, Gavan would finally have the proof he needed.
The kind of proof Ava couldn’t laugh off.
The kind Moira couldn’t ignore.
He adjusted his cuffs, watching Ferguson slip back into conversation as though their exchange had never happened.
Let him enjoy himself, Gavan thought grimly. It wouldn’t last.
By the time Gavan returned home, the twilight had deepened into a velvet darkness, the first stars blinking faintly over the hills. But there was no peace in the night, not for him.
He went straight to his study. The fire there had been banked, throwing more shadow than light, but he didn’t bother calling for more candles. The dimness suited his mood.
His desk, however, was lit by a single lamp, enough to illuminate the stacks of correspondence, the ledger of the slowly reducing croft accounts, and the blank sheet of parchment that awaited his hand.
He sat heavily, leaning back in the chair for a long moment before raking a hand through his hair. His reflection ghosted in the window opposite him: tired eyes, set jaw, the weight of too many burdens sitting squarely on his shoulders.
Moira. The estate. And now Ava.
Always Ava.
He dragged his thoughts back to the task at hand, reaching for his pen to write his old friend Malcolm.
If there was anyone who could strip away the glossy veneer of a man like Lachlan Ferguson, it was Malcolm.
Gavan had known him for years, a mate made at university, now one of the Crown’s most capable investigators.
Malcolm had a mind like a steel trap, sharp and relentless, and a network of informants that reached from London clubs to the humblest taverns in the Highlands.
Gavan dipped his pen and began to write, his hand steady even as the words came faster than he expected.
Dear Malcolm,
I find myself in need of your particular expertise.
There is a gentleman named Lachlan Ferguson, the heir to Viscount Glenbrae, who has recently returned from London and is currently staying with his uncle in the Highlands.
I have reason to believe his reputation is not what it appears to be.
Discreetly, I need everything you can find—debts, associations, any broken contracts or engagements of note. The sooner, the better.
This is of a personal nature. My cousin has caught his interest, and I will not see her hurt by a man who treats affection like a game. I trust you’ll treat this with the urgency and confidentiality it deserves.
Yours,
Gavan Douglas, Baron Darkwood
He sanded the letter, sealed it, and rang for a footman. “This needs to go out tonight,” he said curtly.
Once the footman departed, the silence of the study crept back in, heavy and charged. Gavan's mind whirled as he sat at the desk, staring at the dying embers in the hearth.
Putting his frustration into action should have felt like a step forward. But instead, it had only sharpened the ache in his chest.
His thoughts drifted to Ava again. He could still feel the ghost of her hand in his from the dance, hear the cadence of her voice when she challenged him beneath the roses. She was infuriating, brilliant, utterly impossible to ignore.
And dangerously entangled in this mess. Why couldn’t she have a regular female hobby, such as sewing or painting? But then again, if her hobbies weren’t archery, horseback riding, and meddling, would she be the Ava he pretended not to admire?
He exhaled slowly, pressing his palms flat to the desk.
Even as he tried to focus on Malcolm, on Moira, on his duty, the memory of their time in the garden today lingered like an ember refusing to die.
That moment in the shaded path, the parasol tilted over her shoulder, the sunlight catching in her hair, the defiance and something else in her eyes, hadn’t left him.
He hadn’t meant to step closer, hadn’t meant for his gaze to drop to her lips, but it had.
And for one suspended breath, he’d thought, no, wanted.
He shut the thought down as quickly as it came. Thoughts like that would only lead to trouble.
It was easier, safer, to remember the look on her face when she’d pulled herself back together, when she’d cloaked herself again in that perfect, untouchable poise.
It reminded him, painfully, that Ava had always been out of reach.
She’d made him feel that way once before, years ago, when they were younger and he’d thought her smiles meant more than they did. He wouldn’t make that mistake again.
And yet… the way she’d looked at him before Freya’s voice shattered the moment, that had not been nothing.
With a frustrated growl, Gavan forced himself back to the task at hand. Malcolm would find the truth. He had to. And when he did, Gavan would use it to do what needed to be done, protect Moira.
And, perhaps, protect Ava, too.
He sat for a long while after sending the letter, elbows braced on the desk, staring at the dark window. The land beyond was little more than shadow and suggestion, but his mind wouldn’t quiet.
It wasn’t just Moira, or his duty to his uncle, who trusted him with his daughter’s future.
If he was honest, if he dared to say it out loud, this was also about Ava.
He hated how much her name could still undo him.
He hated that Lachlan Ferguson’s easy smile directed at her had felt like a personal affront.
He hated knowing that if Ferguson hurt her, if she became another one of his charming little conquests, Gavan would have to stand by and do nothing, because she wasn’t his to protect.
He clenched his jaw, forcing himself to stand. He’d given Malcolm his task, and that would have to be enough for now.
A soft knock broke through the heavy quiet.
“Come in,” he called.
Moira peeked her head inside, her smile small but genuine. “I just wanted to thank ye,” she said, stepping into the room. “For taking me to the garden party. I know it’s no’ your favorite thing, but it meant a great deal.”
Gavan softened despite himself. “Ye dinna need to thank me for that.”
“I do.” She crossed to his desk, resting her hands lightly on the edge. “It was lovely. Truly.” Her gaze warmed. “And I know ye’ll do what’s best for me. Ye're a good cousin and friend.”
The words cut deeper than she could know, but Gavan nodded anyway.
She smiled, content, and left him to his brooding once more.
When the door closed, the guilt settled heavily in his chest. He was ruining her pretty illusions, undermining the men who’d made her cheeks pink with delight, and doing it behind her back.
It felt like betrayal. But it was also the only way to keep her safe.
He turned back to his desk, staring at the ledgers. When the reply came, when Malcolm dug up whatever truth there was to be found, Gavan would be ready.
Even if Moira never forgave him for it.
Even if Ava didn’t either.