Cameron had stood by, troubled and angry, unable to stop any of it. Until the day he’d returned from Harrow at the close of a term and realized he’d grown bigger and stronger than his father. He’d entered the house to hear eleven-year-old Mac’s terrified screams and found his father about to break Mac’s fingers. Cameron had wrested his father from Mac and thrown the man against the wall.

After their father had taken himself out of the room, roaring, Mac had looked up from the beautiful pictures he’d drawn, bravely trying to blink back tears. “Damn good toss, Cam,” he’d said, wiping his eyes. “Would ye teach me?”

Cameron had vowed that Daniel would never know fear like that. Daniel might run a bit wild, but that was a small price for Cameron to pay for Daniel’s happiness. Cameron would be damned if he’d become the kind of monster who would think nothing of breaking his own son’s fingers.

He got himself downstairs and to the main wing of the house in time to hear strains of music coming from the ballroom. Scottish music, a reel. Hart Mackenzie always made sure that, along with the popular German waltzes and polkas, his hired musicians played plenty of Scottish dances. No one was allowed to forget that the Mackenzies were Scottish first, the entire branch of their clan nearly wiped out in ’45, except for young Malcolm Mackenzie who survived to marry and rebuild the family. He’d kept the title of duke bestowed on the family in the 1300s but lived in a hovel on the grounds that had once housed Malcolm and his four brothers, all but Malcolm gone under English guns. Hart Mackenzie enjoyed stuffing the Mackenzies’ current prosperity down English throats.

As Cameron strode toward the ballroom, Phyllida Chase glided down the hall from the guest wing, fashionably late as usual. Intent on adjusting her gloves, she didn’t see Cameron until she nearly ran into him.

“Do get out of the way, Cam,” she said in a cool voice.

Cameron didn’t move. “Give Mrs. Douglas back her letters,” he said. “She’s done you no harm.”

Phyllida gave her glove one last tug. “Gracious, are you her champion now?”

“I find all blackmailers disgusting.” Yes, Ainsley had asked Cameron not to interfere, but he refused to stand by while Phyllida plied her extortion. “Give her the damn letters and leave her alone, and I’ll think about not having Hart throw you out.”

“Hart won’t throw me out. He’s trying to cultivate my husband’s support. If you hadn’t been so thickheaded as to give Mrs. Douglas back that page, she’d have been able to come up with the price.”

“Give her the letters, or I will make your life hell.”

Phyllida’s eyes flickered, but damned if she didn’t return a stubborn look. “I doubt you could make it any more hell than it already is, my lord Cam. I’m selling Mrs. Douglas the letters because I need the money. As simple as that.”

“For what, your gambling debts? Your husband is rich. Go to him.”

“It has nothing to do with gambling, and it is my own business.”

Damn the woman. “If I give you the money you need, will you cease troubling Mrs. Douglas?”

Phyllida’s worried look dissolved into a smile. “My, my, you are smitten, aren’t you?”

“How much do you want?”

Phyllida wet her lips. “Fifteen hundred wouldn’t go amiss.”

“Fifteen hundred, and you return the letters and let it go.”

Phyllida made a show of considering, but Cameron could see her salivating at the prospect of fifteen hundred guineas in her hands. “Fair enough.”

“Good. Fetch the letters.”

“My dear Cameron, I don’t have them with me. I’m not that foolish. I’ll have to send for them.”

“No money until I see them.”

Phyllida pouted. “Now, that’s not fair.”

“I’m not interested in fair. I’m interested in you leaving Mrs. Douglas the hell alone.”

“Goodness, what do you see in that little termagant? Very well, but have Mrs. Douglas give the money to me.”

“Why?” Cameron narrowed his eyes in suspicion.

“Because I don’t trust you. Mrs. Douglas is a paid toady, but at least she’s an honest toady. She will make a fair exchange without doing anything underhanded.”

“You had better not be underhanded,” Cameron said. “If you try anything, I’ll throttle those letters out of you. Understand?”

Phyllida smiled. “That’s what I’ve always loved about you, Cam. You’re not afraid to be forceful.”

“Just give her the letters,” Cameron growled and walked away from her, not missing her delighted laughter behind him.

The fiddles and drums were loud inside the ballroom. Some English guests grimaced or openly mocked the music, but the Scottish guests had formed circles to dance in Highland delight.

In the center of the ballroom Isabella and Mac led a circle. Although Isabella was English born and bred, she had taken to all things Scottish with a vengeance.

In Mackenzie plaid, her red hair twined with roses, Isabella swayed in the circle. Next to her was Mac, who was a damn good dancer. He led the wide circle in and out, feet moving in quick rhythm, but his eyes were for Isabella.

The look Mac gave Isabella when he looped his arm around her waist to turn her was so damn loving. Mac and Isabella had struggled a long time for their happy ending, and Cameron was glad to see them have it.