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“Griffin, my boy, come join us!” Ian called cheerfully, waving his wine glass.

Shaking his head, Griffin led his family toward the table. “Ye certainly ken how to put on a spread. Did ye bring the entire dining room?”

The Duke was seated in his wheeled chair at the head of the table, wearing a blue knitted scarf which looked suspiciously similar to the one Bull had been working on a week ago, and looking positively delighted with life. His white hair was windblown, his cheeks were ruddy from the sun, and he wore a big smile. “What’s the good of being a duke, eh, if ye dinnae make outrageous demands? Ye’ll learn soon enough.”

The two older men chuckled. It wasn’t the first time Duncan had hinted strongly that Griffin was going to be his choice as an heir, and as always, the idea was a little difficult to swallow.

Griffin wasn’t going to be the Duke of Peasgoode. He was going to expose the traitor and help bring Blackrose one step closer to justice. Then he was going to go back to his almost empty house with his wonderful children, and try to find a new job, and forget this remarkable interlude ever happened.

Numbly, he held Felicity’s chair for her, releasing her hand for the first time that day. He traded banter and quips with Ian, all the while his heart felt leaden and his brain fuzzy.

“Have Bull and Marcia returned?” Felicity was asking, craning her head about.

Duncan reached over and patted her hand. “Dinnae fash, dear lady. Yer neighbor—I still dinnae understand why she’s here—took them to look at the Goesunder Bridge. Have ye seen it?” When Felicity indicated she hadn’t, the Duke beamed. “It’s one of our local landmarks, ye might say. The river is flowing fast and furious today, thanks to last week’s storms, but that just makes the bridge more impressive. Stands twenty feet tall, ye ken, and the only way to cross for ten miles in either direction.”

Rupert, of course, asked an engineering question, which Ian jumped in to answer. Griffin relaxed when he saw three familiar forms hurrying from the direction of the river. He went out to meet them halfway.

“Sufficiently impressed?” he asked as Mrs. Mac waved cheerfully.

“Papa, look!” Marcia was waving a fishing pole. “I didn’t catch anything this time, but I’m going to come back tomorrow! Ian says there’s trout and all sorts of interesting stuff in there.”

Griffin ducked to stay out of the way of the wildly gyrating pole tip. “Stuff?” he repeated blandly.

Bull shoved his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “She’s picking up on all the right vocabulary, aye?” He grinned wickedly. “We’ll make a fine country squire out of her yet—”

His teasing was cut off with a yelp as Marcia swung at him. “Keep it up, Bull, and you’ll find a trout under your pillow!”

“I doubt ye’ll catch a single fish.”

As Marcia lunged at him, swinging the fishing pole, Griffin hid his chuckle with a muffled cough. Tutting, Mrs. Mac reached out and snatched the pole from his daughter’s hands as she passed.

“The Goesunder Bridge was impressive, but you’re going to have to learn to hook the worm yourself, eh?” As the lass pouted, the housekeeper cheerfully shoved the fishing pole into the pocket of her apron, feeding it down until the tip disappeared. “And you can dig them up yourself, as well.”

Before it escalated into an argument, Griffin intervened. “Are ye coming to the picnic, Mrs. Mac?”

“Don’t be silly.” The woman beamed. “Or as they say here, dinnae fash. I’m fitting in, eh?”

“Apparently,” he drily replied. “But the question stands.”

“I have to return these fishing poles and the three trout to the kitchens.” She patted her apron pocket. “Someone’s going to eat well tonight, even if it’s only your new pussy, eh?”

As she scurried toward the estate, Griffin gestured for the children to follow him to the table.

“Excellent!” Duncan declared as they arrived. “Sit, sit! We can begin!” But as they settled in and the footmen stepped forward, the Duke lifted a hand. “Wait! Ian, what was it I was supposed to ask?”

“Oh, yes.” The secretary delicately dabbed at his lips, then replaced his goblet. “Griffin, we wondered if your charming family might like to lead us in prayer?”

Griffin managed not to gape. “What?”

“The prayer yer father taught ye,” Duncan prompted. “The one ye taught yer children.” He clasped his hands together. “Why no’ bless the food, aye?”

Panic-stricken, Griffin exchanged looks with Felicity, then Bull. “Um…fine. Aye. We can…we can do that?”

He swallowed thickly, then clasped his hands. His family followed suit.

“Heavenly Father,” he began, at the same time Bull intoned, “Dear Lord,” and Rupert blurted “Hey, Jesus!”

They all snapped their mouths shut. Felicity, who had raised her pressed palms in front of her face—likely to hide the laughter her shaking shoulders betrayed—suggested in a strangled voice, “Why not go one at a time? As we do at home?”