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“Oh, there you are,” his grandmother said, brushing off her fingers. “I thought you had gone off to the West Indies.”

His head snapped back. “Why would I do that?”

“Your ribald wanderlust,” she said while topping up her tea. “I know how unpredictable you are, so it is only predictable to predict your unpredictability.”

Frederick snorted. “Your whimsy knows no bounds. Good morning, Miss Bradford. I hope you enjoyed a somewhat decent sleep, what with the thunderstorm last night.”

To his continued surprise she met his eyes. “There were some rather tense moments but I persevered. How did you fare, Your Grace?”

He sat and reached for the folded newspaper. “Never slept a wink. I spent my time with a book and solitude.”

“What book?” Gemma asked.

“Troilus and Criseyde,” he said, meeting her eyes again. His gaze locked with hers until they both turned away. “It seems the worst tragedies have the most romantic heroes.”

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his grandmother’s shrewd rheumy gaze shifting between them. “Did something happen last night of which I am not aware?”

“No,” they both blurted out simultaneously.

She reached for the milk boat. “I see. You two seem committed to playing tricks on an old woman and sending her to her grave with an unsolved mystery.”

“Please,” Frederick shook out the paper and ran his eyes over the words in front of him. “You are no closer to your grave than you were twenty years ago. And there is no mystery of which you are not aware, Grandmother. You are the Oracle of Delphi.”

“If only I were so fortunate,” she said. “I would rather gain knowledge through foresight instead of rumors, whispers, and tidbits of this and that. That would make it so much easier on my poor brain.”

“Once again, your brain is sharper than a two-edged dagger,” he said. “Why else do I hoard your nuggets of time-earned wisdom like a dragon hoards its gold?”

“Good, good,” Vivian replied. “Which is why I must insist that you apologize for whatever dunderheaded thing you did last night and promise not to do it again.”

Hands stalled, Frederick asked, “why do you think I did something wrong?”

The elderly woman reached for her cane and rose to her feet. Before excusing herself she tapped his shoulder and added, “because I have known you from before you knew yourself, son. Your emotions are not as hidden as you think they are. Now, sort this out quickly because I want to have lunch with Lady Donahue and Dame Yardly in peace.”

Before leaving, the Dowager eyed them knowingly with a tart smirk.

When her footsteps stopped echoing, Frederick sighed, dropped the paper and rubbed his eyes.

“She is right about last night. I wronged you. I should not have touched you, knowing what I know about you.”

Gemma kept her eyes down, and he wondered if her earlier bravery had begun to dwindle.

“I do not…” she bit her lip. “I do not blame you. Can we put it behind us and pretend it did not happen?”

For some reason, hedespisedthat suggestion.

He took a careful sip of the scorching coffee and set the cup down as his mind spun in a dozen different directions. “Miss Bradford?—”

“Pardon me, Your Grace,” a footman bowed. “The nun has returned. She says is it urgent.”

Not moving his eyes from Gemma, he ordered, “send her away.”

“I have tried, Your Grace,” the footman replied, “But she will not leave of her own accord.”

“Devil and damn, I do not have time for this.” Frederick groaned while pushing away from the table. “Send her to my study. I will try to send her away as quickly as she arrived.”

Striding away from the breakfast room he entered his study. His prior irritation only grew when he saw the nun there, her lined face placid.

“Sister Agnes,” he said curtly. “May I ask why are you here when I explicitly told you to never again set foot on my property?”