Page 4 of Most Ardently (Return to Culloden Moor #5)
4
HAZARDS AHEAD
* * *
L ouis Condiff stood at the window of his assigned chamber, watching daylight fade over the Scottish moors. The view from Brigadunn stretched out before him in rolling hills to the horizon, an old stone bridge off to the north, and a distant loch shimmering like polished silver to the southwest. Yet he found himself unable to appreciate it fully. His thoughts remained fixed on the letter that had brought him here, with its heavy hints of matchmaking.
A knock interrupted his brooding.
“Enter,” he called, and adjusted his posture.
The white-haired Stanley Winters, Duke of Rochester, stepped into the room with his usual confident stride. His peacock-blue coat would have looked ridiculous on anyone else, but His Grace wore it with the confidence of a king.
“Condiff,” the duke said with a grin. “Or should I say, Astley? I can never recall which you prefer.”
“Either will suffice, Your Grace,” Louis replied, gesturing for the duke to enter. “Though I admit I am still growing accustomed to the latter.”
Stanley strode deeper into the room, examining the furnishings with casual interest. “Heavy old things, are they not? Ashmoore keeps his country estate decidedly Scottish.”
“It suits the place. Pray tell, what brings you to my door? I thought the gathering in the library was not for another hour.”
“It is not.” The man settled himself into a chair without invitation, stretching his long legs before him. “I came to warn you.”
Louis raised a brow. “Warn me? Of what, precisely?”
“Mercy.” His Grace's smile turned knowing. “She has assembled quite the collection of eligible young ladies for your perusal. I overheard her speaking with Lady Northwick. Your cousin appears determined to see you suitably matched before the week is out.”
Louis sighed and took the chair opposite his friend. “I suspected as much. Her letter was full of convenient mentions of young ladies who would be in attendance.”
“And you came despite all that?”
“She is my cousin,” Louis said simply. “And Connor has been generous with his support since my inheritance. I could hardly refuse.”
His Grace studied him for a moment, his expression uncharacteristically serious. “You know, Astley, a title such as yours practically requires a wealthy wife. Sad but true.”
Louis frowned. “I am aware of the mathematics involved.”
“Of course you are. Forgive me.” Stanley smirked. “Most men would consider your position enviable. A new title, entrée into the finest circles, and a justifiable reason to pursue an heiress.” His eyes narrowed. “But you are not interested, I see. And am I wrong to guess it has nothing to do with sewing wild oats?”
Louis stared at his hands, considering how to articulate the restlessness that had plagued him since inheriting the barony. The sense that he was playing a role in someone else's story.
“I wish to define myself before I invite another to share my life,” he said finally. “The title came to me through chance, not merit. I would prefer to establish myself on my own terms first.”
His Grace nodded slowly. “You wish to be worthy of your good fortune.”
“Something like that.”
The Duke of Rochester rose and adjusted his cuffs. “Since you dared enter the lioness’ den, I suggest you find your worth quickly. Mercy has planned a full schedule of activities designed to showcase the talents of her assembled candidates over the next four days. Ash and Blair knew what they were doing inviting your cousin to host this party.”
Louis groaned. “How lucky for us all.”
“Indeed.” Stanley grinned. “I shall see you in the library for drinks. Until then, steel yourself, Baron Astley. The hunt begins tomorrow night, and you are decidedly the fox.”
After the duke departed, Louis returned to the window, his mood more unsettled than before. The fading light and shadows painted the landscape in somber stripes. In the distance, the silhouette of a small kirkyard stood at the estate's edge. All so moody. All so…Scottish.
He would need to navigate the social hazards Mercy had prepared, to be polite without encouraging false hopes. But just how did one go about that?
* * *
Violet knelt before her father's headstone and ignored the damp of the grass seeping through her skirts. The kirkyard lay quiet save for the rustle of wind through the yew trees and the distant call of a rook. In the distance, Brigadunn manor stood as an example of all her family had once had and lost. A mockery of what might have been had Dermott Cottsweather possessed better luck in gambling.
“I have failed you, father,” she whispered, tracing the weathered inscription with trembling fingers. “I have failed Iris as well. The journals are gone, sold with the books. And without them, I have no way to find the treasure, no way to help her.”
Tears blurred her vision as she continued her one-sided conversation with the dead. How many times had she sat at his knee, listening to tales of hidden Jacobite gold? How many times had he promised that one day, when the time was right, they would unravel the clues together?
But he had died before that day arrived, leaving behind only stories and riddles.
“If you can send any guidance, any miracle,” she pleaded softly, “now would be the time.”
The wind picked up, sending dry leaves skittering and laughing across the graves. Violet wiped her eyes and focused once more on the headstone, reading the familiar words her father had requested for his memorial: If ye'd join his treasured soul, look high within the lord's repose.
She had always assumed it was a religious reference. The soul ascending to heaven, to the Lord God's embrace. But now, seeing it through the lens of desperation, something…shifted, like a peg finally finding its hole.
“Lord,” she murmured, “not Lord . It is not capitalized.”
Her heart quickened. Not the Lord God, but a lord . A nobleman. And repose —not eternal rest, but where one sleeps. A bedchamber!
“Look high within the lord's repose,” she repeated, her excitement building. “The master bedchamber at Brigadunn!”
It fit perfectly with her father’s fascination with the old estate. With his conviction that the treasure was somehow connected to the grand house neighboring their more modest home.
Violet climbed to her feet, her hope restored. A gasping flower revived by the rain. This was not the end of her quest but the beginning! She had a starting point now, a direction. All she needed was to get inside Brigadunn.
The party! The grand gathering Lord and Lady Ashmoore were hosting would be a perfect opportunity. Her mother had declined their invitation, citing the fact that they would be in Edinburgh, visiting one of Violet’s sisters, but it was a lie, of course. Even their Sunday best wasn’t fine enough to attend a country party that included a number of London’s gentry. Her mother had urged her to attend without her, but Violet had refused, even though it might result in her winning the attention of a suitable match. But now…
Now, the gathering represented opportunity of a different sort. Not as a guest, but as a servant. Mercy Grey, Lady Ashmoore’s friend who was playing the role of hostess, had been hiring additional staff for the event—Violet had overheard as much in the village.
Her mind raced with possibilities. She would need to move quickly. The party began tomorrow, and preparations would already be underway. But if she presented herself as experienced and capable, perhaps they would overlook the late application.
Violet touched her father's headstone one last time. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I shall not fail again.”
The journey back to Durrafair was quick, her steps light. Her mother would be waiting, worried by her long absence. She would need a convincing explanation for what would come next.
At the edge of their property, Violet paused to compose herself. The lie she was about to tell weighed on her conscience, but she saw no alternative. Iris’ safety depended on her success.
She entered the house and found her mother plying her needle beside the fire.
“There you are,” her mother said, obviously relieved. “I was beginning to worry.”
“Forgive me,” Violet said, removing her shawl. “I was visiting Father's grave and lost track of time.”
Her mother's expression softened. “I will go with you the next time.”
“Excellent.” Violet took a steadying breath. “Mother, I have been thinking about the Ashmoores' invitation.”
“The party?” Her mother's brow lifted hopefully. “You have reconsidered?”
Violet nodded. “I see I was hasty to decline. It would be an opportunity to renew connections. To remind people of our family's place here.”
“And perhaps an opportunity to have a bit of fun? To spend some time with other young people instead of just your mother?” The woman was already praying for something more, Violet could tell. “What has changed your mind?”
Violet forced a smile. “Father would have wanted me to go.”
“I see. By all means, go.”
“Then it is settled,” Violet said, relief washing through her. “I shall leave in the morning. I shan’t wake you. Early enough that no one will notice that I walked.”
That night, as her mother slept, Violet packed a small bundle—not the blue silk she had mentioned, but practical clothing suitable for a maid. She would not arrive at Brigadunn's front door but at its servants' entrance, seeking employment rather than entertainment.
Her path was clear now. Find entry to the house, locate the master bedchamber, and find the Jacobite treasure. Surely, Lord Ashmoore would allow her to keep a small portion as a reward for locating it. And a small reward to the Earl would mean a world of difference for the Cottsweather family. Especially for Iris.
As dawn began to break, Violet slipped from the house. The walk to Brigadunn was not long, though each step felt somehow significant. The morning mist clung to the moors and shrouded the grand manor until she was nearly upon it.
Rounding the final bend in the road, Violet caught her first glimpse of activity at the servants' entrance. Carts delivering supplies, maids hurrying to and fro, an army of footmen carrying trunks from carriages into the house.
This was it—perhaps her only chance to save her sister. She would not waste it.