“Thank you so very much for coming. We spoke on the phone. I’m Francis Baker, secretary to His Grace, David Dudgeon, the Duke of Edinburgh,” she said, gesturing to the man before the fireplace. He was an average-looking dude in an ugly but expensive suit, and he stared at Portia and Tavish like they were a strange substance spilled on the last open seat in a crowded subway car. He didn’t bother to stand, and looked away dismissively before Ms. Baker was even done with the introduction.

Portia had planned to be gracious, inoffensive, bland. To simply usher Tav through the meeting. But if that was how David wanted to play it, she could do genteel bitchiness, too.

“Hello, I’m Portia Hobbs, assistant to His Actual Grace, Tavish McKenzie, the Duke of Edinburgh,” Portia responded, gesturing toward Tav. David curled his lip in response.

“I’m Leslie, David’s sister,” the other woman said. She curtsied as well, and then glanced back and forth between Tavish and David. Little worry lines creased the space between her dark brows, though she tried to smile.

“Pleased to meet you,” Tavish said, walking over to the seat. He reached out to shake David’s hand and the man simply regarded him for a moment, then grabbed Tav’s hand and began executing some strange maneuver that didn’t resemble a handshake at all. If he had tried it on a weaker man, perhaps he would have taken him off guard and shaken him like a rag doll. Instead, Tavish stood unmoved as David gritted his teeth and tugged harder.

“You okay, mate?” Tavish asked, laughter in his voice.

“I’m not your mate,” David said, releasing his grip and wiping his hand on the leg of his pants as he sank back down into his seat.

“That’s right. You’re his cousin,” Portia said. “Distant cousin.”

“Supposedly,” David muttered.

“Shall we be seated?” Ms. Baker asked so politely that of course it wasn’t a request but a demand.

Portia and Tavish took their seats, the sound of the crackling fireplace exacerbating the tension in the air.

“Before we begin,” David said, and then looked at Ms. Baker. She reluctantly pulled out a plastic case and opened it to reveal a small glass tube and some cotton swabs.

“No point in beating around the bush,” David said. “It’s a paternity test. If you’d be so kind as to swab your mouth.”

Tav stiffened and Portia laid her hand on his knee.

“Mr. McKenzie, excuse me, His Grace, would be happy to take the test.” Tav’s knee flexed beneath her hand and she squeezed a bit. “I’m assuming you took one as well? After all, your claim to the title is much more tenuous.”

Portia took great satisfaction at the way David’s mouth opened and shut silently for a few seconds before slamming into a thin blanched line.

“My family’s bloodline is pure and undiluted,” he said after gathering his composure, barely able to look at Portia. “I didn’t have anything to prove.”

“Given the noted high rate of adultery and other unsavory behavior in the aristocratic ranks, a DNA test should have been carried out if that’s so important to you, but we’ll cross that bridge if we come to it.” Portia took the cotton swab from Francis and turned to Tavish. “Open your mouth please.”

Tavish’s brow furrowed. “I’m no—”

“Your Grace, do you really not want to do this? It’s the fastest way to make sure that certain people know their place—and yours. But you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

He gave a reluctant nod and took the swab, swiping quickly in his mouth and then dropping it into Francis’s gloved, outstretched hand.

Portia glanced at Tavish, who glared at the floor. David was trying to be insulting, but only because he was already fighting a losing battle.

Portia whipped her head in the direction of their hosts. “Now, we were invited for what I assumed would be tea and a discussion of the new and exciting discovery of Mr. McKenzie’s lineage. Yet we haven’t even been offered refreshment. Is this some modern form of hospitality or is Mr. Dudgeon always so rude to guests?”

Leslie gasped and David frowned, but Ms. Baker jumped up from her seat.

“I’ll see to it,” she said, hurrying away with her sample.

Portia hoped having an American remind them of the rules of respectability would rightfully shame them.

“Well, we’re not in the habit of offering refreshment to possible charlatans,” David said, dashing Portia’s hopes for civility.

“Mr. McKenzie?” Leslie cut in. “You make weaponry?”

“I do. Bodotria Armory makes some of the finest swords in modern Scotland.”

“Replicas, I suppose,” David said.

“No, they’re very real,” Tavish said.

“And very sharp,” Portia added. She felt something on her knee and realized Tavish was now giving her the same message she had given him earlier.

Easy there.

She doubted he’d felt the same shocking heat spread through his body at her touch, though.

“Who exactly are you again, Ms. Hobbs?” David was looking at her with that same skeptical look people often gave her when she exerted her knowledge, or ability to speak properly, in their presence. The problem was, she didn’t exactly know the answer to the question anymore. Apprentice? Consultant? Squire?