Once Upon a Tartan

Nine

Fiona found going into Ballater with the knowledge she wasn’t going to come back for quite a while exciting and a little frightening. She sat in the big coach with Aunt Hester on one side and Aunt Ree on the other, the conversation the kind of cheerful talk adults thought up to distract nervous children.

To keep children from missing their mamas and worrying that their mamas might not come fetch them home from Northumbria after all.

“I want to ride with Uncle Tye.”

Over her head, Fee could feel the aunts exchanging a look that spoke silent, grown-up volumes.

“There’s no harm in that,” Aunt Ree said after a small silence. “You’ll be sitting in the train for most of the day, and your uncle ought to understand you need fresh air as much as he does.”

Aunt Hester didn’t say anything. She had not said much of anything all morning, and this too gave Fee an uneasy feeling. Aunt Hester never made things up, never teased and flirted and charmed like Uncle Ian, Aunt Augusta, and even the servants did.

Aunt Hester rapped on the roof three times, and the coach lumbered to a halt. Halfway across the field to the right, Uncle Tye brought Flying Rowan down to the trot and turned for the coach.

“Don’t pet the horse, Fiona,” Aunt Hester said. “You’ll want to keep your hands clean for when you picnic on the train with your uncle.”

Aunt’s voice was tight, like she was keeping more words back than she was parting with.

When Uncle rode up to the window, Aunt Ree explained the delay, and Fee was enormously pleased to find herself shortly up on Rowan, cantering toward the train station. Uncle was quiet today, too, which made Fee think maybe he was homesick or missing his family.

Rowan, though, was in wonderful form, sailing over three stone walls and a burn in fine style. When Uncle brought the horse down to the walk, Fee figured it was as good a time to ask questions as any.

“Do we have to take the train?”

“If we want to arrive in Northumbria before week’s end, yes, we do. Lest you think the prospect of train travel cheers me, Rowan and I are as enamored of trains as you are.”

E-nam-ored. Fee said the word to herself silently three times, and added it to her list of Words Uncle Says. Often she could tell what the word meant from how Uncle used it, and that saved her having to ask.

When they got to Ballater, Uncle got off the horse and did not let Fee get down immediately. Instead, he found a boy to walk Rowan, and when Fee thought she was going to be scooped off the horse, she was instead directed to climb onto her uncle’s back.

“I won’t get lost, Uncle. You can put me down.”

“I need to check for wires at the telegraph office, and you would so get lost. I’d spend half my morning trying to locate you, the other half rearranging our plans when we missed our train, only to find Rowan was already in Aberdeen along with all your trunks.”

He was striding along as he spoke, sounding quite bothered. Fee resigned herself to being Seen And Not Heard, which was something Uncle Con swore was written in the Bible, though nobody had shown Fee where it said that.

When they got to the telegraph office, Uncle collected his wires and stood outside on the boardwalk, reading them almost as if he’d forgotten his own niece was clinging to his back.

“I’m going to swear, Fiona. You will neither emulate me nor tattle on me.” He kept his voice down.

Emulate meant copy. “I like hearing you swear. You’re good at it. Have we missed our train?”

“We have not, but the damned nursemaid I hired to meet us in Aberdeen has developed some mysterious blasted illness, and we will thus be cast upon each other’s exclusive company for the entire perishing journey.”

From the sound of his voice, that was probably a bad thing—to him.

“Can’t Aunt Hester come with us?”

Because Fee was on his back, she felt him sigh, felt the way his chest heaved and his shoulders dropped. It would have been fun, except Uncle was unhappy. He maneuvered her to her feet, took her hand, and led her to a bench with a marvelous view of the train station’s front porches and coach yard.

“I asked your aunt to come with us, and she declined.”

“Is she mad at you?”

“How ever did you gain that impression?”

“She sat next to me at breakfast instead of you, she would not look at you, and she barely ate anything. She was like this when she first came up from London too.”

Uncle looked pained, which left Fee wanting to do something to help. “I can ask her to come with us.”

“Fiona…” He cast a glance at her, looking, for the first time in Fee’s experience, uncertain and a little weary. Her mama had looked like that a lot before she married Papa. “It’s complicated.”

“Are you e-nam-ored of Aunt Hester?”

“Quite.” His smile wasn’t cheerful at all.

“She is e-nam-ored of you, too. You made her smile, a real smile too, not just for show so I’d leave her alone.”

“I made her very upset with me when I revealed that I wanted to take you away to Northumbria. She regarded it as a betray—” He scrubbed a hand over his face and lifted his gaze as if he were talking to God. “I cannot believe I am discussing my amatory failures with a child.”

Fee did not know what amatory meant, but she knew all too well what failure was.

She patted her uncle’s arm, which was like patting a rock. “I get in trouble all the time. You apologize, and you behave for a while, and you try to do better next time. Everybody makes mistakes, even Aunt Hester. She told me so herself.”

“Thank you for that sage advice.”

“Uncle, you have to at least try.” He was being thickheaded. Aunt Augusta said men were prone to this. Mama had not argued with her over it.

“Child, I cannot make your aunt forgive me, I cannot undo the hurt I’ve done, and I cannot change my father’s mind once it is made up.”

It occurred to Fee that he was Being Impossible, but when she was Being Impossible, it was usually because she was upset, tired, and hungry.

“Uncle, you try to fix what you did wrong not so you can have dessert and get a story before bed. You do it because you’re a good person and you don’t want anybody’s feelings to be hurt.”

He gave her a funny look. “Am I really a good person? I thought you said I was mean.”

She shrugged. “That was just words, because I was in a taking.”

He was quiet, gazing out over all the people and coaches bustling around the yard. “I suspect I use a lot of words, because I am in a taking too.”

Grown-ups were not always very bright. Fee smiled at him encouragingly, because he was trying. Uncle Tye guddled fish and climbed trees and loved to ride his horse really fast, but he also tried to be grown-up all the time.

Which must be hard.

Fee had a cheerful thought. “Do you remember that you beat me at the matching game?”

“I was showing off, which was stupid of me.”

How somebody could be stupid and win was a puzzle for another day. “You won a favor from me.”

“Fiona Flynn, I cannot ask you to manipulate your aunt into accompanying us to Northumbria, when the woman has made it plain she never wants to set eyes on me again.”

“Then don’t ask me.” Fiona Flynn. She was a MacGregor of clan MacGregor, but Fiona Flynn sounded like the name of a brave Scottish girl who could befriend lions.

Uncle said nothing, which was likely more thickheadedness. When the coach pulled into the yard and the ladies got out, Fee hopped off the bench and darted directly to Aunt Hester’s side. Grown-ups could be exceedingly silly, just as Fee’s mama had often told her.

Hester caught sight of Spathfoy sitting by himself on a bench, looking somehow alone amid all the noise and activity of the yard. She should be glad he was going. Glad he was making it easy to write him off as another deceptive, self-absorbed, useless man with no ability to govern his urges.

Except that would not wash.

She had no ability to govern her urges, at least where he was concerned, and that would have been a sufficiently daunting realization in itself. It was made worse by the sneaking sense Spathfoy had honestly sought to improve his niece’s circumstances by taking her south, and his father—may the marquess develop a permanent bilious stomach—had somehow cornered his son into kidnapping Fee.

“Aunt!” Fiona barreled into Hester’s side. The child had been a bundle of energy all morning, and the ride on her uncle’s horse had only made her more excited.

“Calm down, Fiona. The train isn’t leaving for half an hour at least.”

And for that entire half hour, Hester wanted to hug the girl tight and tell her how much she was loved, and how badly she’d be missed by her Scottish relations—which would hardly make Fiona’s departure any easier.

“Aunt, I’ve changed my mind.”

Fiona was swinging Hester’s hand as Spathfoy led his horse away to be loaded on the train. Rowan seemed to comprehend what lay before him at the same time Fiona had made her announcement, because the horse planted his front feet and showed every intention of rearing up on his hind legs.

“Fiona, you have to go. We’ve discussed this. It might be a long visit, but it won’t be forever.”

Hester watched as Spathfoy spoke sharply to a porter who’d produced a stout driving whip. The earl turned to his horse and began to scratch the beast’s withers.

“Aunt!” Fiona jerked on Hester’s hand in the most irritating fashion. “I’m not going, and you can’t make me.”

The dratted child had all but bellowed this announcement to the entire train yard. Hester had the mean thought that perhaps Spathfoy could come guddle his niece’s nerves the way he was soothing his horse.

“Child, what is this racket?” Aunt Ree came bobbing through the crowd. “My ears will not recover from such an assault.”

“The nursemaid Uncle hired to travel on with us from Aberdeen has fallen ill,” Fiona said. “I’m not going with just Uncle.”

Aunt Ree shot Hester a frown. “Child, you adore your uncle.”

Fiona’s expression turned mulish, making her look very much like her uncle Ian in a stubborn mood. “Uncle is a man.”

Through all the other emotions roiling through Hester—anger, sadness, confusion, and not a little self-castigation—she heard what her niece wasn’t saying.

“He has sisters, Fee. You tell him you have to use the necessary, and he’ll find a nice lady to assist you.”

Fiona dropped Hester’s hand and crossed her arms over her middle. “Nice ladies are strangers. I’m not going to the necessary with a stranger. And what if I get sick on the train and have to change my dress? Lots of people get sick on trains. Uncle won’t even think to have a spare dress or pinny with him.”

Aunt Ree looked thoughtful. “The child has a point.”

“Perhaps Spathfoy will delay his departure.” Even as she said it, Hester knew Spathfoy was not going to do that. His arrangements were made; the marquess was probably tapping his booted foot on the platform at Newcastle that very minute.

“Rowan is scared.” Fiona made this observation very softly, and for a moment, Hester, Lady Ariadne, and Fiona all turned to watch as Spathfoy swung onto his horse bareback. The animal was dancing about, raising and lowering his head while he put one hoof on the ramp into the livestock car, then backed away.

This scenario continued until the horse was brave enough to put both front hoofs on the ramp and then stand for a moment, quivering, head down, while Spathfoy sat serenely on the beast’s back. The earl might have been taking tea for all the calm in his posture.

“Uncle is telling him not to be afraid. He’s a very brave horse, really. He’s just young.” Fiona herself sounded young, and Hester was reminded of what it had been like to come north by herself just weeks earlier. Her mother hadn’t spared her even a lady’s maid, meaning Hester had earned looks that varied from pitying to curious to contemptuous.

Fiona had known so much upheaval in the past year…

Rowan put all four feet on the ramp, then seemed to realize what he was committing to, and gave a little rear and spin. His rider waited a moment then aimed the horse back at the ramp.

Watching the earl’s patience with his horse, Hester came to a realization: Spathfoy was not a bad man. He had erred in not announcing his purpose before becoming a guest in their home; nonetheless, his decision in that regard meant Fiona was not being carried off by a stranger, but rather by a man she had some liking and trust for.

Understanding the man’s failings was not the same as forgiving them.

Fee grabbed Hester’s hand again. “Rowan’s going to go up the ramp soon. Uncle’s wearing him down. Pretty soon he’ll feel silly about making such a fuss, and he’ll go right up.” Fiona sounded so hopeful, as if the horse’s troubles were her own. “Won’t you come with us, Aunt? You don’t have to stay very long, just until Uncle Con comes to visit with Aunt Julia. You’d like to see them too, wouldn’t you?”

“I would.” The words were out without Hester meaning to speak them aloud.

Aunt Ree thumped her cane. “Well, that’s settled then, and here’s Ian with Augusta to see you off.”

Hester turned a frown on Aunt Ree for jumping to conclusions just as Fiona started squealing and clapping her hands, and the horse—the horse Spathfoy was so patient with—scooted up the ramp into the rail car, forcing the earl to lean right down against the animal’s mane lest he suffer an injury to his head.

“I will not stay long with you, Fiona.” Hester tried to sound very stern, but the idea of seeing the child safely south was creating an odd lightness where all those roiling sentiments had been. If nothing else, making the journey would allow Hester to give Quinworth a piece of her mind. “I have nothing packed, and I doubt you’ll want me to linger while you’re learning to ride your pony.”

“Two ponies, and you can watch while Uncle teaches me!” As unhappy as she’d been a moment earlier, Fiona was in transports of delight now. “We’ll picnic on the train, and we’ll play cards, and Uncle can read to us. We shall have a great adventure.”

Ian joined them on the platform, Augusta on his arm. “What has my niece kiting about like a spring lamb in clover?”

Aunt Ree smiled beatifically. “There’s been a little change in plans. Our dear Hester has agreed to provide escort to Spathfoy and Fiona on their journey. It seems the nursemaid cannot join them in Aberdeen. We’ll send a bag along for you on the very next train, Hester.”

Ian’s brows crashed down. “The nursemaid can’t join them? We’ve a house full of nursemaid—”

“Ian.” Augusta spoke softly and leaned closer to her husband. “We cannot spare your son’s staff on such short notice.”

Ian studied his wife’s countenance for a moment. “Of course we can’t, not when the lad might be coming down with a cold. Hester, does this plan truly have your consent? You need not stay in Northumbria for long.”

Hester wanted to hug him, right there in the train yard, for his protectiveness. While the womenfolk were happy to consign Hester to Spathfoy’s continued company, Ian alone hesitated.

“If I go with them today, it will make Fiona’s transition easier and allow us a spy in the marquess’s camp for a time, won’t it?”

Dark brows rose. “That it will. Your Scottish heritage is showing, lass. Mind you write often, and here.” He extracted a missive from his pocket. “Fee is to put that in Con’s own hands. He’ll be coming to call on his niece and her relations, with Julia in tow, within the week, and the letter contains as much as I know of the situation.”

Fee piped up from her place at Ian’s side. “I had a letter from Mama. She wrote from Paris again.”

Ian glanced at his niece. “Are you sure it’s from Paris? They’re not supposed to be in France now.”

“She’s right, Ian.” Hester watched as Spathfoy made a proper fuss over his brave beast, who was now in the livestock car, gazing down the ramp uncertainly. “I saw the letter myself. It was from Paris.”

“Which explains why certain wires are not meriting any replies. Wife, remind me to stop by the telegraph office once we’ve seen Fiona and Hester off.”

And with no more ado than that, Hester soon found herself in a private compartment with Fiona and Spathfoy, watching as the child waved madly out the window while the train pulled away from the station, and Spathfoy kept a dignified silence at his niece’s side.

Tye had just completed a lengthy discussion with his horse about the need to develop fortitude regarding train travel—they’d be coming back to Ballater; on that point, Tye was already quite determined—when Balfour informed him Hester was accompanying Fiona to Northumbria. Hester would make the journey with them, and stay long enough to see the child settled in.

Balfour’s tone had carried a distinct sense of, “Don’t be fookin’ this up, too, laddie.”

Tye sat back and regarded a woman he was sure would rather be anywhere than in a private compartment, knee to knee with him. He’d kept his powder dry until Fiona was asleep with her head on a pillow and her feet in her aunt’s lap.

“Why did you change your mind, Hester? This journey cannot be something you contemplate willingly.”

She didn’t even turn her head, but answered while the scenery hurtled by beyond the window. “Fiona guddled me. Don’t expect me to stay long in Northumbria.”

“I do not understand.”

Now she did look at him, her expression one of bleak humor. “She tickled my sympathies, and I would likely have told her to go to blazes with her big green eyes and pleading looks, but I do not trust your father to treat her well, Spathfoy.”

Tye didn’t either, not now that he’d met the child. “You don’t trust me, then, to see to her well-being?”

She averted her eyes again, which Tye felt somewhere in the middle of his chest as a desolating loss.

“Your father has not treated you well, Spathfoy, to send you out to do his dirty work. If Quinworth had come himself, if he’d even bothered to make Fee’s acquaintance, Ian would have made sure the marquess got a fair hearing with Mary Fran and had a decent relationship with Fiona. Instead, Quinworth puts you up to high-handed legal tactics and base subterfuge. I ask again, what hold has he over you that you’d undertake such doings?”

She asked, but her tone was bored.

“I will not disrespect my father by answering that, Hester, and the subterfuge, as you call it, was mine. I fully intended to collect the child the morning after I met her, and be on my way, but then Lady Ariadne offered me hospitality, and it struck me I ought to familiarize myself with Fiona’s circumstances, and then…”

The Deeside scenery was beautiful. No wonder Her Majesty had chosen the Highlands for the private castle she shared with her handsome prince.

“Then, Tiberius?”

In for a penny… “Then I met you.” Met his own personal tempest ready to rage him into submission over the well-being of a child she wasn’t even related to.

Silence, while they passed through Scotland’s beautiful countryside. When they reached Aberdeen, the wisdom of having Hester accompany them became apparent. Fiona needed to use the necessary, she needed to fidget, she needed to cling and whine and generally carry on like a fretful child while Tye oversaw the transfer of their trunks—and his nervous horse—for the next leg of the journey.

And fortunately, they had no more transfers to make before reaching Newcastle. This left Tye hours to regard the woman he still hoped to marry, and to consider his options.

First and foremost, he hoped she was pregnant with his—their—child. She would marry him if that were the case, he was certain of it. Even Balfour would encourage the match if a child were involved.

Second, Tye could strive mightily to convince his father to return Fiona to her family in Aberdeenshire, and forget whatever crotchet had prompted this wild start in the first place. This option had dubious chances of success. The marquess was not one to back down once he’d taken a position.

Not ever.

The third option was the one Hester had suggested: to find some means of compelling his lordship to reconsider his schemes. Tye had been reluctant to speculate regarding what leverage he could find to put the light of sweet reason in his father’s eye.

Such machinations seemed disrespectful. Almost as disrespectful as presenting oneself as a guest when one intended to comport oneself as anything but.

Fiona sighed in her sleep, her second protracted nap of the day. “Shall we wake her?”

Hester brushed the child’s hair back off her forehead, the gesture tender and, to Tye, unsettling. “To what purpose?”

“So she isn’t keeping you up half the night when you’re obviously fatigued from looking after her the livelong day.”

“I’ll manage.”

With two words, she might as well have kicked Tye out of the compartment, so vast was the indifference she conveyed. She put him in mind of his mother after a particularly vexing donnybrook with his father.

“Hester, I am not your enemy.”

“No, you are not.” She studied him for a moment in the dim light of the compartment. “You are not my friend, either.”

The hope he’d been guarding for a hundred miles curled up under his heart with a weary whimper.

But it did not die. He was nowhere near ready to allow it to die.

They arrived to Quinworth well after dark, though even by torchlight, Hester could see the place was imposing. The facade was a vast expanse of pale blond stone, the same shade as Alnwick Castle, but modernized to boast many windows, and terraces abundantly graced with flowers.

Fiona would delight in exploring the place.

“Is she still asleep?” Hester kept her voice down, lest the child slumbering in Spathfoy’s arms waken.

“Out like a candle.”

“I can take her.”

“Get out of the coach, Hester. She’s too heavy for you, and you’re dead on your feet.”

He sounded amused and so damnably patient, Hester had no choice but to comply. A liveried, gloved footman assisted her from the carriage and stood by while Spathfoy managed to maneuver himself and his burden out of the coach.

“Has a room been prepared for the child?” Spathfoy’s voice was soft in the gloom.

The footman kept his eyes front. “In the nursery wing, my lord. There’s a room for the child’s nurse as well.”

“Miss Daniels is not the child’s nurse, but rather, my guest. Please inform Mrs. Hitchins that Lady Dora’s room is to be given over to Miss Daniels’s use, and have a truckle bed put there as well for the child.”

The footman snapped a bow. “Pardon for my mistake, and I’ll see to it at once, my lord. I’m to tell you there’s refreshment awaiting you in the library, my lord.”

Hester glanced at Spathfoy to see if all these obsequies were making his head spin, but he appeared quite at home.

He was home. She surveyed again the enormous edifice before them, and realized how humble Fiona’s household in the Highlands must have seemed by comparison.

“Miss Daniels, are you coming?”

She was Miss Daniels now, not Hester. That was to be expected. She moved along at his side while footmen and porters swarmed the coach, unloading boxes and trunks and yelling at one another to have a care with that bag.

This was Tye’s welcome home—three “my lords” and a tray in the library.

This was Fiona’s welcome as well. Hester was not at all pleased, not for the child, and not for the son of the house who’d been sent north to retrieve the child. She followed Spathfoy through an enormous, soaring foyer, down a lighted hallway, and into a cavernous library.

“We’ll need to give the servants some time to make up Dora’s bed for you,” he said as he laid Fiona on a leather couch, then rearranged the blanket she’d been wrapped in. “And you should eat something.”

“Does it strike you as odd that the marquess is not on hand to greet his long-lost granddaughter?”

Spathfoy straightened but continued to regard the sleeping child. “His lordship is an early riser. He and Fiona will have plenty of time to greet each other tomorrow. May I fix you a plate?”

He crossed to a sideboard where Hester spied a veritable feast. “Is this how the help indicate they’re pleased to see you?” Beef, chicken, and ham slices were arranged on one tray, several kinds of cheese on another; hulled strawberries were piled high in a crystal bowl; and various pastries and tea cakes with all the fixings sat on a second tray.

No chocolate cakes, though.

“Pleased to see me? I haven’t a clue. This is how they indicate they wish to continue in my father’s employment. As I recall, you like a deal of butter with your scones.”

She let him do this, let him prepare her some sustenance, just as she’d let him manage all the details of getting them safely half the length of the kingdom. He was good at it, in part because people seemed naturally to heed him, but also because he had the knack of anticipating which detail was about to need attention—like putting a truckle bed for Fee in Hester’s room.

She accepted a plate from him, piled high with good food. “Thank you, Spathfoy, but you’ve served me far more than I can hope to consume.”

“We’ll share, then. Will you pour?”

She ought to balk. She ought to shove the plate at him, fix herself a more modest serving, and find a single chair on which to seat herself.

But it was late, they were both exhausted, and the remaining sofa looked comfortable. “I’ll pour. I should also make up a little something for Fiona if she should wake in the night.”

“Ring for the kitchen—one pull is the kitchen, two is the servants’ hall, which will get you a footman.”

He began to put away food at a prodigious rate, while Hester savored a fortifying cup of tea. She’d just realized she’d poured none for him, when he looked up. “You’re not going to join me?”

“In a minute.” She passed him a cup of tea, which he drained and held out to her for more.

This little late-night meal held an intimacy. Hester watched Spathfoy eat with his fingers, while the fire—a wood fire, no less—snapped and crackled softly.

“How long will you stay, Hester?”

She could divine nothing from his question, not hope, not impatience. “I don’t know. Not long. A few days, maybe a span of weeks. Are you in a hurry to see me off the property?”

He paused with a rolled-up piece of ham halfway to his mouth. “You are tired, and this was not at all how you expected your day to unfold. Have I thanked you? I’m not sure how I would have managed both Fiona and Rowan in Aberdeen. One of them would have gotten loose and come to mischief if you hadn’t been on hand.”

“You’re very patient with your horse.” He was patient under other circumstances, too, but she pushed that awareness to the back of her weary mind.

“I’m not patient so much as determined. I get it from both my father and my mother. Eat something before I demolish the entire plate.” He held it out to her, an offering of ham, beef, strawberries, and two buttered scones.

And of peace. He had not allowed her to pick a fight, and she was grateful for his forbearance. “Will you check on Rowan before you turn in?”

“I probably should, but I’ll see you and Fiona up to your room first. The layout of the house isn’t complicated. I’ll give you a tour tomorrow, and you’ll catch on in a couple of days. Go ahead and eat the strawberries, Hester. They’ll go to waste if you don’t.”

Hester. She liked it when he called her Hester rather than Miss Daniels. They were not friends, but it was as he’d said: they were not enemies either.

She ate every last strawberry on the plate.

Hale Flynn understood politics. Unlike many of his peers, he understood that the role of the British monarchy was changing. Having a Sovereign with a strong familial orientation at a time when the realm was steering its way past shoals that had caused revolutions elsewhere was not necessarily a bad thing.

He understood horses and respected them for their elegance, utility, and sheer, brute strength.

He understood his place in the world, his title being a symbol of stability and tradition in a society where progress was touted on every street corner while bewilderment lurked in the heart of the common man.

He did not, however, understand his own family.

“Why the hell you put up with that idiot gelding is beyond me, Spathfoy. The blighter’s going to toss you in your last ditch one of these days.”

Though hopefully, not until Spathfoy had done his duty to the succession.

Quinworth’s son eyed him balefully across the horse’s back. “I continue to work with Flying Rowan because he’s up to my weight, he tries hard, and he alerts me to ill-tempered, titled lords lurking in the saddle room when I’m trying to groom my beast for a morning ride.”

“Do I employ half the stableboys in Northumbria so you can groom your own horse?”

Spathfoy went back to brushing his mount. “I’ve retrieved your granddaughter from her relatives in Aberdeenshire, my lord. I continue to believe your designs on the child are ill-advised, and hope you’ll rethink them when you meet her.”

Ill-advised was one of Spathfoy’s adroit euphemisms—he had many, when he wanted to trot them out. “Is she simple?”

The brush paused on the horse’s glossy quarters. “She is not simple. She is delightful. She has a gift for languages and arithmetic, she’s full of life and curiosity, and she’s going to be every bit as pretty as my sisters. She’s looking forward to meeting her grandpapa, because that good fellow will provide her a pony and a pet rabbit.”

“Spathfoy, has your horse tossed you on your head since last I saw you?”

“If he has, perhaps it has brought me to my senses. May I assume we’re riding out together?”

“You may.” If nothing else, Quinworth intended to get to the bottom of his son’s mutterings about ponies and rabbits.

Gordie had been the son Quinworth could understand. The boy had been lazy but likable; the man had been charming, with a venal streak, though probably nothing worse than most younger sons of titled families. The army had seemed a better solution than the church, letters, or the diplomatic service.

Quinworth tapped his riding crop against his boot, which made Spathfoy’s horse flinch. “I don’t suppose you ran into your mother when you were larking around Scotland?”

Spathfoy—who had two inches of height on his father—settled a saddle pad onto the horse’s back. “I was not larking around Scotland. I was snatching a child from the arms of her loving family, for what purpose I do not know—except my father allowed as how, did I accomplish this bit of piracy, my sisters would be permitted to marry where they pleased, and Joan would be sent to live in Paris for at least one year. Or do I recall the purpose for my travels amiss?”

The boy had an aggravating knack for making every pronouncement sound like a sermon. He was going to give tremendous speeches in the Lords one day, though Quinworth wouldn’t be around to hear them.

“You do not recall anything amiss. So you did not see her ladyship?”

“Aberdeenshire being a good distance from Edinburgh, I did not.”

He placed a saddle on the horse’s back, then slid it back into place. The animal stood quietly, though it was likely plotting more mischief once the girth was fastened. Quinworth considered asking if her ladyship was still using her son’s estate outside Edinburgh, but somebody had returned a letter he’d sent there not two weeks past, so he held his tongue.

And slapped his crop against his boot.

“For Christ’s sake.” Spathfoy hissed the imprecation as his gelding danced sideways. “If you’re going to torment an animal, at least find one of your own to pick on.”

“My apologies.” He moved away, lest the gelding start kicking and stomping in the cross ties. Spathfoy spoke to the horse soothingly in Gaelic, of all the heathen languages. Quinworth had tried to learn it decades ago, when pleasing his new wife had been the sole compass of his existence.

He’d been a fool. Likely he was still a fool. He walked off, bellowing for his hunter and slapping his crop against his boot.

“You must be my granddaughter.”

Hester looked up from her eggs and toast to see a tall, older gentleman with graying hair and stern blue eyes standing in the door of the breakfast parlor. The resemblance to Tye was faint, mostly in his bearing and perhaps a little around the eyes.

“Make your curtsy, Fee.” Hester spoke quietly, and leavened the command with a smile. Any other relative of Fee’s—any other Scottish relative, and even Spathfoy—would have known to brace themselves for a hug from the child.

Fiona got out of her chair and curtsied prettily before her grandfather.

“Well done, child. And who would you be?” He barked the question at Hester, making her feel about eight years old and caught snitching tea cakes from the larder.

“That’s my aunt Hester. She came with us.”

Hester expected his lordship to reprimand Fee for speaking out of turn, but the man instead narrowed his eyes on Hester herself.

“If you’re the nurse, then you’ve presumed to dine at the family table for the last time, my girl. You wait outside the door for Miss Fiona to complete her meal, then escort her back upstairs for her lessons.”

He jerked his chin at the two footmen standing by the sideboard, as if to indicate Hester was to be removed bodily, but at least one of them had been on hand the previous evening.

“I am Fiona’s step-aunt, Lord Quinworth. My father was Baron Altsax, and I’ve accompanied Fiona here to ease her transition to your household. It is not my privilege to serve as her nurse.”

She could not give the man the cut direct under his own roof, so she went back to munching well-buttered toast. If this was the fare served to Tiberius with his morning meal, no wonder he’d chosen to absent himself.

“Can I sit down now?” Fiona aimed the question at her grandfather.

“May I.” He sounded exactly like Tye when he offered that admonition.

“May I sit down? My porridge will get cold.”

Something passed over the older man’s features, surprise, possibly, or fleeting humor. “Sit.”

Hester did not engage the man in conversation, though she studied him. He quizzed Fiona in French and then German, and Hester herself was surprised when the girl answered creditably well in both languages.

“When I go to Balmoral, we sometimes speak German when we play.”

“You go to Balmoral?”

“We’re neighbors.” Fee studied her porridge for a moment, as if pondering whether his lordship might need an explanation of the term. “Her Majesty comes to Aberdeenshire for only a few months every year, though. Do you like raisins?” She eyed the scone sporting an abundance of raisins on his lordship’s plate.

“It so happens I do. Hand on your lap, girl. I do not encourage pilfering at table, particularly not before the servants.”

“He talks like Uncle Tye.” This last was directed to Hester.

“I know. This is your uncle’s father, which I suppose explains many of Spathfoy’s unfortunate tendencies.” Hester realized what she’d said as she was putting the last bite of eggs into her mouth. The marquess was staring at her, glaring at her more like, and he’d put down his scone.

“Explain yourself, woman. And be quick about it.”

Fiona was looking raptly at Hester—and a little scared. Hester chose her words, though there was no disguising certain ugly truths, no matter how large and varied one’s vocabulary was.

“I have low expectations of a man who will ignore his granddaughter for years, then have her snatched away without the least courtesy to her family, your lordship. Such a man has little sensibility for the feelings of others, as demonstrated by his willingness to enlist his own son in this misguided adventure, and to enforce his high-handed whims without even writing to the belted earl who has provided for the girl’s every need for the entirety of her life.”

She expected to be tossed from the room, never to see Fiona again.

She expected a dressing down at the least.

She expected Quinworth to raise his voice to her—her own father had done so before the servants on many an occasion.

The marquess let out a bark of laughter. “You remind me of my marchioness. This is intended as a compliment. Pass the teapot and finish your toast.”

His lordship went back to interrogating Fiona, while he obliterated his breakfast. The questions ran the gamut from English history, to geography, to animal husbandry.

“I’m told you’re in want of a pony.”

Fiona stopped fidgeting. “I am not to have a pony just yet. I’m to be a great strappin’ beauty, and I will outgrow my ponies too quickly if I start riding them now.”

Her grandfather peered over at her. “This is sound reasoning, which unfortunately did not occur to me when I was nigh beggared keeping your aunties mounted practically from the cradle. Would you like to see the stables?”

“Yes, please, Grandpapa.”

His lordship scowled at his empty plate. “I suppose I am your grandpapa at that. Miss Daniels, good day. Where shall I send Miss Fiona when we’re done with our inspection?”

“I believe I’m in Lady Dora’s room, your lordship. Though I might explore the library for a book.” She should have asked for permission to use the library, but had the sense her manners would be lost on his lordship.

“Hmph.” He rose and did not bow to her. “Come along, Granddaughter.”

Fee bolted out of her chair, seized her grandfather’s hand, and dragged him from the room.

Hester had just finished her toast and poured herself a final cup of tea when Spathfoy came in, looking windblown and bemused.

“Did I, or did I not, just see my father being led by the hand around his own stables?”

“By a small child chattering a mile a minute? You did. Tea, Tiberius?”

He paused at the sideboard, but it was too late to correct the familiar address.

“Please. Would you like anything more to eat, and was Quinworth at least civil?”

“Nothing more, thank you. To Fiona, he was quite civil, if a little imposing. I don’t like him, though. He’s not only arrogant, he’s…”

“My mother said he was impossible on more than one occasion. Even his cronies call him a throwback.” Spathfoy took the seat beside Hester that Fiona had vacated. “Did you sleep well?”

“I slept very well. Yourself?” He was a good host, she concluded with some surprise. That had to be his mother’s influence.

“Well enough. I thought to ride out with his lordship this morning—Rowan needed to settle his nerves over a few fences—though Quinworth and I were arguing before we’d reached the end of the lane.”

“About?” She did not want to encourage his confidences, but the footmen had left when his lordship had departed, so she did not change the topic.

“I should have looked in on my mother when I was in Scotland. What sort of son am I, to pass right through Edinburgh and not take the time to see to her and to the estate I’ve turned over for her use?”

“Your father can’t hop a train to check in on his wife?”

“Hopping is not within his lordship’s gift. He seldom goes anywhere anymore, just rides the length and breadth of the shire in all manner of weather.” He fell silent and tucked into his breakfast while Hester tried to fathom a marriage where a man did not care enough to visit his wife, but could castigate his son for the same shortcoming.

The longer she contemplated this conundrum, the more clearly she understood why Tiberius Flynn might not have been eager to plight his troth to anybody, ever.

And yet he had offered marriage to her.

A week went by during which the hope Tye stubbornly nurtured for a future with Hester Daniels was severely buffeted. After the first day’s outing to the stables, the marquess virtually ignored his granddaughter. The pony procured for Fiona—a rotund little slug cheekily named Albert—could not fly over fences as Rowan could, and thus his hairy company was not sufficient to distract Fiona from increasingly severe bouts of homesickness.

Connor MacGregor called with his wife Julia, and gave Tye such broodingly thoughtful looks as to make Tye wonder if Fiona ought to be put under guard, but before he took his leave, the man brought a smile to Fiona’s face and promised to visit her again soon.

Which meant Fiona loudly and frequently missed dear Uncle Con and Aunt Julia in addition to Uncle Ian, her parents, Aunt Augusta, the dratted baby, and Aunt Ree.

In utter desperation, Tye bribed his sister Joan to show Fiona some painting basics while he cornered Hester in the library, which had become her haunt of choice.

“It’s a pretty day, Hester Daniels. Will you ride out with me?”

She set her book aside and regarded him with an expression he was seeing on her face more and more frequently. Not a scowl, but a knitted-brow, considering, unsmiling look. “Yes, I will ride out with you. Give me time to change, and I’ll meet you in the stables. Fiona will be busy with Joan for quite some time, if even half of her questions are to be addressed.”

He wanted to offer her his hand, to assist her to her feet, to wing his arm at her as if she needed escort to her own quarters, but he didn’t. He kept his hands to himself and settled for a whiff of lemons as she sailed past him.

At the stables, he fared little better. Hester used the lady’s mounting block to climb aboard a mare Tye’s sisters kept as a guest horse. As the horses ambled out of the stable yard, Hester maintained an aggravatingly serene silence.

“I’ve been arguing with his lordship.” As conversational gambits went, Tye considered that among his worst—though commendably honest.

“I heard you. When I retire after dinner, or Joan and I are strolling the gardens while Fiona goes on a mad tear, Quinworth raises his voice at you.”

“He maintains the lungs need exercise the same as the rest of the body.”

This, of all things, provoked a smile. “Like you and your swearing.”

“Not at all like—” He fell silent for a moment. “Viewed from a certain perspective, there is a rough parallel. His lordship is adamant that Fiona remain here at Quinworth.”

“Did you really think you’d change his mind, Tiberius?”

He was in pathetic damned straits, because just hearing his name on her lips warmed his heart, even in the context of that gentle, hopeless question.

“I have changed his mind on other matters, though it’s usually a Herculean labor. I am convinced you have the right of it, though. He has brought Fiona here for a purpose, to make some point, though I’ve yet to divine what it might be.”

“Fiona does not keep to her own bedroom at night, you know.”

Yes, he did know. Fiona had told him her bedroom up on the third floor was cold, lonely, and plain. She dutifully went to bed up there each night, waited until the household was quiet, then stole into Hester’s rooms and spent the rest of the night on a sofa.

“I am aware of this, and dreading the day you depart for parts north.”

She fiddled with her reins, then fiddled with the drape of her habit. “I should leave soon. I fear the longer I stay now, the worse it will be when I do go.”

“Worse—for Fiona?”

She nodded and said nothing further. An image came to Tye’s mind, of him and Fiona waving good-bye to Hester at the train station in Newcastle, of Fiona bursting into tears, and Tye not knowing how he’d comfort the child while dealing with his own upset.

Hester turned a faint smile on him. “Shall we let them stretch their legs?”

“Of course. If we trot to the edge of the trees, we’ll come to the sheep meadows. The mare is a solid performer over fences if you get her to a decent spot.”

“Lead on, Tiberius.”

He set a reasonable pace over stone walls, stiles, hedges, and two streams, with Hester and the mare following three lengths behind. She was a natural equestrienne, one who didn’t overmanage her horse, but rather let the beast have a say in how the ride went on. When they came down to the walk two miles later, Hester’s cheeks were flushed, and her smile was closer to the bright benediction he’d had from her in Scotland.

“That was marvelous, Tiberius. I can see why your father enjoys riding his acres so much. Was he the one who taught you to ride?”

“He tried, but my mother had to intervene. She has more patience, which is a valuable commodity where little boys and ponies are concerned.” He turned Rowan up an old cart track, unable to make small talk when he might never enjoy another ride in Hester’s company. “I don’t want you to leave,” he informed her. “Not until you know if there are consequences from my visit north.”

Her gaze went to the green hills around them, to the sheep in the next meadow, to the gray stone wall undulating up the acclivity to their right. “That will be at least another week yet, Tiberius, and I don’t know if I can bear to remain here that much longer. Fiona cries, and I can offer her no comfort. Your father barely says two words to her when he comes up from the stables for breakfast, and your day is much taken up with estate matters. My heart—”

She lapsed into damnable silence.

“My heart too, Hester.” He nudged Rowan back to the walk, the pleasure of the shared ride swallowed up in the pain of the parting she was determined to bring about.

“Where is that ray of perpetual sunshine known as my niece?” Lady Joan paused in the door of the breakfast parlor to fire her question at Hester. In their brief acquaintance, Hester had realized a tendency to use military analogies where Lady Joan was concerned. She was strikingly tall for a woman, brisk, and bold. Her walk took her places swiftly and directly, her laugh charmed, and her penetrating green eyes were the antithesis of the term “dreamy artist.”

“Fee has gone to collect some flowers for her uncle’s office. I expect she’s waiting for her grandpapa to come in from his ride as well.”

Joan took a seat across from Hester, setting down a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and toast. “She’ll have a long wait. I swear his lordship has cast my mother aside for the company of his horse.”

Hester tried not to let her surprise at such a comment show. “He cast her aside?”

“Or maybe they cast each other aside.” Joan closed paint-stained fingers around the teapot handle. “I will ask Mama about this before I decamp for Paris this fall.”

“Tiber—Spathfoy said you were longing to live there.”

“Hah.” Lady Joan sprinkled salt on her eggs. “Longing is such a polite word. I am desperate to go there, mad to live there, ready to commit rash acts and so forth. Fortunately, Tye has convinced his lordship to allow it.”

“The marquess was quite set against the notion?” This was shameless prying, but Joan didn’t seem to regard it as such, and Hester was willing to exploit any avenue to gain insight into the man who’d turned her—Fiona’s—life upside down.

Joan picked up a point of buttered toast and considered it. “I suspect Papa is contrary as a means of gaining Mama’s notice, and she’s indifferent as a means of maintaining his. The four of us children have learned to navigate between the two, though I must admit this is part of what makes Paris attractive.”

“You want to get away from your family?” And this was the milieu in which Fiona was to be raised?

“I adore my siblings.” Joan tore off a bite of toast with straight, white teeth. “And when I was younger, Mama and Papa were alternately squalling like cats and cooing like doves. I shudder to think what manner of husband Papa would have found for us if Tye hadn’t intervened.”

Hester’s breakfast started a quiet, uncomfortable rebellion in her vitals. “I beg your pardon?”

“Papa was grumbling about it even yesterday: he promised if Tye brought Fiona to Quinworth, then Mary Ellen, Dora, and I might have our choice of husbands—within reason. Fiona’s here, and my sisters and I are breathing a collective sigh of relief. My year in Paris was part of the bargain as well, though I suspect Tye is footing the bill rather than Papa. More tea?”

“Please.” Hester pushed her cup and saucer across the table only to realize the cup was more than half-full. “Just a touch.”

Joan topped up the teacup and went back to studying her toast. “When I was a girl, we were happy. I cannot pinpoint exactly what changed, but there doesn’t seem to be any changing it back. Is Tye going to marry you?”

Hester took as long as she could with a sip of tea. “He has offered. I have declined.”

Joan beamed a toothy smile at her. “Oh, that’s lovely. Tye adores a challenge, positively thrives on it, which is fortunate, since running the marquessate is nothing but a challenge. May I ask why you turned him down? He dotes on you and our mutual niece ceaselessly, and though he’s my brother, I’m enough of an artist to pronounce him quite luscious.”

“Dotes on me?” He was luscious.

“I cannot recall the last time he invited a guest to this house, and I cannot recall when he last went riding with a lady, even in the stultified confines of Town. He was supposed to spend two days in Aberdeenshire, you know, not two weeks, and at meals, he is forever glancing at you sidelong and pushing his food around on his plate. You’ve put him off his feed, I fear. I never thought I’d live to see it.”

“I never intended to put anybody off their feed.”

“Which is why,” Joan drawled, “your eggs have gotten cold on your plate, hmm?”

Hester glanced down at the omelet congealing before her. “I served myself too large a portion. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off in search of a book. His lordship’s library is truly impressive.”

“Books, bah. You’re hiding from Tye, and I am anxious to see how this little drama plays out. If you see Fiona, tell her to bring me some flowers, and we’ll paint a portrait of them. I refuse to sketch that carrot-pig masquerading as a rabbit one more time.”

“I will pass your message along.”

Hester rose without finishing her tea and made her way to the library, blind to the Quinworth wealth arrayed around her.

Tye had fetched Fiona here to rescue his sisters from the kind of match his parents had made into a living purgatory. This was the leverage his father had over him: three women could look forward to happy adulthoods, provided Fiona was sacrificed to a childhood away from those who loved her.

Hester pushed the library door open, lost in thought.

And Tye had said he honestly believed he’d be improving Fiona’s circumstances, plucking her from penury into a life of guaranteed privilege.

Merciful Saints. That a father would put his son up to such an undertaking was an abomination against the natural order, but again, Hester had to wonder what motivated the marquess.

She did not wander the bookshelves as she had on many occasions. She instead sat at the huge old estate desk by the windows and tried to wrap her mind around the choices Tiberius had faced. Outside the windows, a lovely day was unfolding, full of sunshine and fresh breezes. Inside the library, Hester rummaged for writing implements, intent on sharing the morning’s revelations with Aunt Ariadne, and Ian and Augusta MacGregor as well.

Pen and ink were not difficult to find, but the nib needed trimming, so Hester opened more drawers in search of a penknife, sand, and wax.

She found… documents. A large cache of letters addressed to Deirdre, Lady Quinworth, in a slashing hand that looked very like what she’d seen of Tiberius’s writing.

Why would the lady have left her letters here if she dwelled in Scotland?

Tamping down the clamorings of conscience, Hester opened one letter:

My dearest wife,

The Holland bulbs you planted on the tenth anniversary of Dora’s birth are springing up in profusions and glories, carpeting the hedges in bright colors and sweet aromas. Were you here, I would walk the paths with you. You would tell me which beds need to be divided and which might be left undisturbed for another year. Were you here, we might ride to the river and picnic there among the willows, while I read to you from the wicked French novels you used to hide under our pillows…

God in heaven. Hester folded the letter up with shaking hands. The love letter. She dared not read further, but glanced at the date and found to her shock it was but a few weeks ago.

And this was not a draft. The missive had been through the mails, apparently twice.

“The poor man.” And the drawer was nearly full of such letters. What wrong had he done his lady to merit this treatment? No chance to explain, no chance to make reparation, no hope of forgiveness? She closed that drawer so quickly she nearly pinched her fingers, then opened another.

Still no penknife, but a single, very official-looking document. Her planned correspondence forgotten, Hester started reading.

Thirty minutes later, she was still staring at the Last Will and Testament of Gordon Bierly Adolphus Flynn when the marquess came striding into the room, tapping his riding crop against his boot.

“Miss Daniels. Good day. Spathfoy tells me you might soon be returning to northern climes.” He advanced on the desk, his expression curious. “I’d rather hoped you’d bring the boy up to scratch and do something about that moping child while you were about it. I know not who is the more cast down of late, the man or the girl.”

“I wonder you’d notice such a thing, my lord, while pining for your own lady.”

“I beg your pardon?” He gave his boots a sharp thwack with his infernal crop. That was nothing compared to what Hester would do to him.

She pushed out of the chair and came around the desk to stand directly before Quinworth. “I’ve read Gordie’s will, your lordship. I am certain Tiberius has not been given that privilege.”

“You pried into the private papers of a family who opened their home to you as a guest?” He did not yell; he kept his voice menacingly soft.

“I went looking for a penknife and found some answers, you dratted bully. How could you do this to Tiberius, to Fiona, and to her family? You lied, you manipulated, you misrepresented, you abused the trust of those around you, and the trust placed in you by a son dead and gone and unable to speak for his own wishes.”

“I’m seeing those wishes carried out, Miss Daniels, and I will not be made to answer to the likes of some poor Scottish relation who thinks the hand of the Quinworth heir beneath her. Leave any time you like. I’ll manage my granddaughter and my son without your further interference. Good day.”

He strode out of the room, boots thumping, crop thwacking, making Hester want to call him back so she could tear another strip off of him.

Many, many strips. What he’d done was an unimaginable transgression of the good faith family members owed one another, and Hester dreaded to think of the hurt Tiberius would suffer when he learned of it.

If he learned of it. Hester forced herself to spend long, long minutes pacing the library and thinking through the ramifications of what she’d read. She should not be the one to tell Tiberius what his father had done. She’d take Fiona home, and that would be the end of it. Based on what she’d learned of the marquess—and of the pertinent legalities—this sojourn in the south was over: for her, and for Fiona.

There was no need to write to Aunt Ree or Ian. Hester would have Fiona home before the letters arrived, leaving Tiberius Flynn the rest of his days to be a good son to a miserable father, a protective brother to three adult sisters, and a dutiful son to a mother who would be otherwise homeless.

The library door banged open, and Joan appeared, hectic color in her pale cheeks. “Hester, you must come! Fiona’s down at the stables, and Papa is yelling at her, and there’s a fox—”

“I’m coming.” Fiona would not deal well with an upset, ill-humored marquess, and the marquess would not deal with an exhibition of Fiona’s stubbornness and homesickness now.

But when she got to the stables, what Hester found was worse—far worse—than simple upset or stubbornness.