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“Actually, I believe your timing is rather perfect.” Grace offered him an encouraging smile. “It provided a welcome distraction to Lillias and, I believe, some much needed hope for her future.”

He studied Grace a moment. “And for you?”

For her? “I’m much more interested in the fact that it is connected to our mother than anything else.

” Grace’s top teeth skimmed over her smile as she leaned forward.

“So as we wait for my sister to join us, I’d love to hear how you knew my mother.

Was it only through the fact that you were her solicitor? ”

The wariness he’d carried into the room seemed to dissolve. “We were cousins. She used to spend summers in Scotland before her marriage. She brought you and your sister once, when you were just wee bairns, but that was the last time I saw her.”

“And was that when she … handled the matter of the inheritance?”

He nodded, his sigh heavy with memory. “Aye, it was the last time. She finalized everything then.”

How sweet to know he cared about Mother, the tenderness in his voice undeniable.

It made her want to rush across the Atlantic and claim this inheritance for dear Mr. Barclay as much as herself.

“I barely remember her. A few songs she’d sing, her scent.

” The bridge of Grace’s nose tingled a little. “And her laughter.”

He chuckled. “Aye, she had a braw laugh.”

His sentiments, accent and all these wonderful words! Grace’s fingers curled tightly against her skirt to stop herself from crossing the table and hugging him outright. “And when you saw her last, did she seem happy?”

He tilted his head and narrowed his eyes for only a moment before his smile twitched a little. “Aye, she did. But she was also wise to your father’s … ventures, as they were. I think that’s why she secured this inheritance—for you and your sister. She was a good woman.”

Grace leaned forward, with every intention of taking the man’s hand into a gentle squeeze, but at that moment, the door burst wide and Lillias entered with Mrs. James on her heels, carrying the tea tray.

“Mr. Barclay, what a pleasure.” She swept Grace a glance and approached the table, with Mrs. James stepping around her to place down the tray. “I’m sorry to have kept you, but I hope my sister offered you sufficient welcome.”

“Indeed.” He stood, offering his hand. “Mrs. Dixon.”

Lillias’ smile faltered ever so slightly. “You know my married name?” Her tone held just a hint of surprise, as though she were still trying to decide if that was a compliment or an intrusion.

“The town isn’t large, and people were helpful in directing me to the daughters of Henry P. Ferguson.”

Grace kept her shoulders from cringing a little, which was a huge feat in personal growth. If Mr. Barclay had heard anything from the locals, there was a good chance he knew exactly why a police officer guarded the house.

Lillias turned to Mrs. James and waved her away, following the woman to the door and closing it behind her. Then she turned. “What exactly did the locals have to say?”

He didn’t answer right away. “A great deal, but I’d prefer to hear your story on things, Mrs. Dixon.”

Lillias withered down into a chair and, after a deep breath, told Mr. Barclay of the events from the day before, including a brief mention of Tony’s gambling difficulties and a jab at the fickleness of servants, before she remarked about the police’s insistence that she not leave the house.

“It’s ridiculous to be a captive in my own home,” she finished with an edge.

“But there is still some concern for my safety, so I must comply.”

Or concern for other people’s safety from Lillias, but Grace decided that tidbit of information wouldn’t have been very helpful to Mr. Barclay. He was a stocky fellow. He could probably take care of himself.

Mr. Barclay dipped his head, studying Lillias for a moment longer, before turning back to Grace. “Your mother spoke highly of both of you in her correspondence. She was quite pleased to be the mother of two daughters.”

“It’s so good to hear about her,” Grace offered. “I often imagine what she would think of her daughters all grown up and hope she’d still think highly of us.”

Grace met Lillias’ pained expression and replayed her words. Oh dear, she hadn’t meant that as a criticism of her sister. “And I’m certain she would have loved to know she had such a sweet little grandson.”

“Yes, I had heard of your son’s birth.” Mr. Barclay turned to Lillias. “Despite the tragedy of your situation, Mrs. Dixon, I congratulate you on your son’s safe arrival. I hope he will provide some comfort for ye during this difficult time.”

“Thank you.” Lillias said with less warmth than before, as she stood and placed a sandwich on a plate for Mr. Barclay. “I wasn’t very old when she died, but I don’t recall her mentioning your name.”

“But she did mention Mosslea, did she not?” He took the plate with a nod. “In fact, I remember when you visited as a bairn.”

Lillias poured him a cup of tea next, her porcelain brow creasing in thought. “I—I think I have vague memories of the place.”

“Well, I hope you will have a future of many more,” Mr. Barclay continued with a smile, a glint twinkling in his eyes. He turned to include Grace in the conversation. “Mosslea is not just any estate. It’s a piece of your family’s history. Your mother was deeply proud of it.”

“I’m anxious to know more about it.” Grace smiled, happy for the distraction from Lillias’ current situation. “Is it near the mountains? Or a loch? I’ve heard lochs are a plenty in Scotland.”

“As are mountains, my lady. And sheep. And heather and thistles.” He chuckled, and Grace could almost picture wind-tossed hillsides, the sound of bagpipes drifting through the air.

“Mosslea has been in your mother’s family for five generations.

When the previous owner, Alastair Blair, passed away unexpectedly, your mother became the next blood relative in line.

Upon her death, the inheritance defaulted to the two of you.

Your mother wished to ensure the estate remained in the family and hoped to provide any needed security, knowing how difficult financial freedom can be for women of the day. ”

“Her foresight does her immense credit.” Lillias squeezed her hands together in her lap, but Grace’s mind clung to a certain phrase Mr. Barclay had mentioned.

Unexpected passing?

“May I ask—how did Mr. Blair die?”

Lillias’ humorless laugh interrupted Mr. Barclay’s answer.

“Grace, what a question! What does it matter how the former owner died? That isn’t our business.

” She turned to Mr. Barclay. “Please forgive my younger sister, she has a tendency to dramatize situations.” She lowered her voice, as if the next words were a confession. “She reads fiction.”

Why on earth would she say that as if it were a bad thing?

“I do,” Grace said, leaning forward with a touch of pride, “and I feel it’s prepared me quite well for my life thus far.”

Lillias rolled her eyes, but Mr. Barclay’s lips twitched as though suppressing a smile. “I’m keen on a good piece of fiction now and again.” His expression sobered. “But sadly, Laird Blair drowned in the loch by the castle after an evening picnic with his wife.”

Lillias gasped. “Dear heavens, how horrid.”

Drowned? After an evening picnic? Grace’s whole body perked to attention. Not such a common death for men as more violent demises like being shot or stabbed. She cringed at the memory of Tony’s lifeless blood and almost regretted her earlier quip about the massive number of lochs in Scotland.

Had Mr. Blair’s death been a tragic accident like poor Ophelia’s, or Hardy’s Eustacia Vye?

Grace’s mind was suddenly spinning—why did fictional women so often choose drowning as their end?

Or had he died a hero in rescuing another, like Dickens’ James Steerforth?

Or worse—had he been forced into that loch, his death a darker affair than mere misfortune?

The cool chill of an unanswered mystery swooped through Grace with familiar relish. Not that she relished anyone’s death, but she adored the thrilling pursuit of finding answers. And there were a great many unanswered questions piling up right before her.

“Did you know Mr. Blair personally?” Grace asked, choosing a question nearer the one she really wished to ask: Do you have any reason to believe Mr. Blair was murdered?

“Indeed.” Mr. Barclay took another drink of tea.

“I oversaw his finances until recently when he transferred oversight to someone else at his wife’s insistence.

But the stewardship of the estate has long been in the Barclay family.

We’ve always served in its legal matters, ensuring its rightful legacy and proper support for those who live within the village of Angloss.

Laird Blair’s tenure at Mosslea was not long, but he left a lucrative and positive legacy, which has benefited Angloss and the surrounding areas. ”

There was a deep-set passion in Mr. Barclay’s words, a love for his people and land. A very good thing, unless turned in a not-so-good direction. “I can tell the estate means a great deal to you.”

“It does. Generations of my family have lived in Angloss. ‘Tis our family home and worthy of our protection from anyone who would see it harmed. I’ve seen what happens when places like Mosslea fall into the wrong hands. It’s more than a piece of land.

It’s a home to those who live and work there—a part of their identity.

Your mother understood that, and I believe you will too.

” He straightened, his gaze intensifying as he shifted focus from Grace to Lillias.

“Which is why I must emphasize the urgency of acting quickly. The will’s stipulations leave little room for delay.

If the inheritance isn’t claimed within the month, the estate will go to auction. ”

“Auction?” Lillias cried. “For someone else to buy?”