Page 18

Seventeen

KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 15, 1816

Dav,

I have arrived in Scotland. Please assure Mother that I am well. Also, please send a new pair of hessians. Possibly two. The cordwainer has my sizing.

Warmest Regards,

Xander

XANDER

The carriage made excellent time as it trundled away from the wreckage I’d made of Tom Grayson’s life. Guilt, it seemed, was trundling along with me. It hadn’t lessened in the slightest over miles of rolling hills, wet moors, and continued even as we lumbered through the peak district. The guilt, and perhaps a bit of longing.

For a few brief moments, I’d had what everyone else took for granted—an illicit moment in a darkened corner, a sensual tryst in a moonlit garden, a sweet flirtation over a pastry.

And it had been easy, so easy, when his lips met mine, tasting of scotch and freedom, to forget the consequences. They were distant, vague, inconsequential things that didn’t bear consideration with long fingers running through my hair and sliding down my waist, and a hot groan caressing my ears. Entirely amorphous, right up until the moment Lord Grayson’s voice cut through the haze of affection and lust.

I shook away the memory and pulled back the curtain. The hills had increased in frequency and size, and shifted from rolling, gently sloping things to ragged craigs in the last day or so. The most recent coaching inn, I had been assured, would be the last before we reached Kilmarnock Abbey.

The view was scenic. A pretty little cerulean pond—certainly not the precise shade of Tom’s eyes—the far bank dotted by a small copse of beech, oak, pine, and ash trees. The path ahead, though, was unkempt. More grass than gravel. As we continued, a house came into view. Nestled pleasantly among the trees, it had surely once been an impressive manor. Now, it had fallen victim to age. Half-dead vines crawled and dug into the lines of mortar, threatening to reclaim the tan brick facade for nature. The windows that weren’t yet boarded up were broken or cracked. It was unfortunate that such a well-situated property had been so poorly cared for.

We turned, following the pond’s bank, and my stomach dropped. Surely—certainly not. It couldn’t possibly be?—

The carriage shuddered to a halt, and I released a sigh of relief. We’d made a wrong turn. Any moment now it would lurch forward and turn back to the main road. Perhaps they needed to consult a map or?—

I caught the sound of a disgruntled bleat from ahead. Sheep?

“Godfrey?” I called out the window.

“Yes, Your Grace?”

“Please tell me that we’re lost.”

“Wishing I could.” There was a wariness in his tone I didn’t like.

“We’re trapped by the sheep, right? That is why we’re not back on the road?”

With an unsteady hand, I opened the door. I stepped out on shaky legs, only to feel the unmistakable sinking, slipping sensation—and scent—of a boot meeting feces. My eyes slid shut for a moment before I could brave a look.

I wasn’t an expert in sheep by any means, but the bleat I heard from just beyond the carriage was striking in its similarity to human laughter.

Bracing against the open carriage, I made a valiant effort to scrape the dung off my hessian and into the grass as Godfrey spilled out of his seat and over to my side with a distressed cry for the leather.

Ignoring his fussing, I called out to the driver. He, in turn, vaulted off the seat and rounded the carriage.

“I cannae get ye closer than this, Yer Grace, not without upsetting Fenella something fierce.” He was tall, with a medium build and thinning hair, though what was left of it was an overgrown reddish blond. His nose was hooked and his blue eyes were clear and too small, and a thick beard, the same shade as the hair on his head, covered his jaw.

“Fenella?”

“The sheep,” he clarified, as if that made the comment less absurd.

“The sheep is named Fenella?”

“Yes, Yer Grace.”

“And you cannot upset her?”

“No.”

“Listen…”

“Lochlan Ramsay,” he supplied.

“Mr. Ramsay?—”

“Lock, if ye please.”

I sighed, tightening my hands into fists at my sides. This was a new start, and I couldn’t—wouldn’t—let my feelings be so obvious here. “Listen, Loch?—”

“Lock—Loch is my wee cousin.”

Too short fingernails bit into my palms. “Those sound exactly the—never mind. Lock, there must be some sort of mistake. This is not Kilmarnock Abbey.”

“But it is, Yer Grace.”

“Then there is another Kilmarnock Abbey—like there are numerous Lochlans.”

“Afraid there’s only the one, Yer Grace.”

“Is there a Kilmartin? Or a Limarnock perhaps?”

“No, just Kilmarnock.”

“Which is just behind this ramshackle ruin…” I gestured at the crumbling architecture before me.

“No, Yer Grace.”

“You mean to tell me that this—” My hands flung up from my sides, gesticulating wildly toward the entirety of our surroundings, from the collapsing hut to the recalcitrant sheep. A tightness grew in my chest, leaving little room for air. “Is my inheritance.”

“No, Yer Grace.”

“What do you mean?” I was shrill. I could hear it, recognize it, but I couldn’t stop it for anything.

“The sheep doesnae come with the property. She’s just a bit stubborn. It’s best to let her do as she wishes.”

“Your Grace, if I may,” Godfrey cut in. “Perhaps the interior is not…”

“Disintegrating?”

“Precisely. And I should like to get to work on this boot right away.”

While I appreciated the sentiment—and ordinarily would have agreed—I rather thought the boot was the least of my concerns at the moment.

Warily, I stepped around the carriage—carefully searching for more gifts from Fenella. She made another sound of amusement—if sheep were capable of such a thing— as I rounded her slowly.

“Is there no staff?” I called back to Lock.

“Did ye hire a staff?”

“Most assuredly, I did. I’ve been paying a housekeeper, butler, gardener, stable boy, and several maids since I took over management.”

Lock caught us as we approached the door—shockingly still attached to the frame. It was worn, with several layers of peeling paint in shades of blue, red, and white.

“I dinnae ken who ye were paying, but no one’s worked here in a decade, perhaps longer.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Which word was confusing, Yer Grace?”

“The order of them was the concern.” I was flailing now. The shameful display of my agitation that I couldn’t have contained for anything was accompanied by a dramatic twisting of my brow. “You mean to say I’ve been fleeced? For years?”

“Seems as much.”

“And a Mr. Douglas McAllen? Can you take me to him?”

“Dinnae ken a Douglas McAllen.”

“He’s a steward—based out of Edinburgh,” I said with a desperate note in my voice.

“I can take ye to Edinburgh. But I dinnae ken a Douglas McAllen—as I said.”

“But your boot, Your Grace!”

“Godfrey… one more word about the damned boot and you’re sleeping here tonight. Lock, I have an address.”

The man shrugged. “Horses need to rest a while. Then we can head off.”

A sigh broke free. With no other occupation for the next hour or so, I forced myself to turn the knob.

I was relieved to meet with the overpowering scent of age, rather than something more revolting. The movement of the door distributed dust and soot into a swirling, perilous cloud of irritants.

It was slow to settle, but eventually it dissipated to reveal an entry hall. Straight ahead was a set of stairs. Certainly, they were once fine, but the ornate railing leaned threateningly in places. The stairs, a quality mahogany, were intact by all appearances at least.

One side opened to a drawing room—the wallpapering was yellowed and moth-eaten, peeling at some edges, hanging off the wall in others. Outlines of rectangles marked where paintings had once hung. It seemed unlikely that they had been properly stored—such a waste.

The furnishings had, at least, been covered by a sheet, but they hadn’t been saved from the ravages of time. Now that the dust had dispersed, I caught the scent of rot and feces—though I expected the latter was from my boot.

With a sigh, I bent awkwardly to pull it off, unwilling to risk sitting on the covered settee or chairs. Wordlessly, I handed it to Godfrey, who pinched it before wandering back outside.

“Godfrey?”

“I can say with absolute certainty that anything I find in there will not be an improvement on lake water and the polish I brought with me, Your Grace.”

I followed him out, unable to face any more horrors. Instead, I plopped on the stoop and let my head fall to my hands.

“Yer Grace?” Lock asked.

“Just see to the horses, if you please,” I retorted into the gravel beneath my one booted and one stockinged foot.

Without additional commentary, he sidestepped me, footsteps quieting as he went.

I could feel the tightness of sorrow and frustration welling in my chest, but they refused to provide the relief of a sob. Instead, my breath was harsh and jagged.

For years, Scotland had been my escape. This promised magical estate away from everything and everyone who knew me. A place I could begin anew, if need be. I funneled money into the estate every month—extra in the winters for firewood, more for the gardener in spring and summer. Ten years of pounds and shillings—all sent in the hope that this, Kilmarnock, would be there when I needed it.

Much as I loathed the way I left London—the devastation I’d made of Tom’s life—I had been excited to start anew, hopeful even. In Scotland, I could be someone other than the fussy, too-particular dandy with the ton ’s worst-kept secret.

Instead, I’d been swindled—Hell, it sounded as though even Gabriel may have been swindled if this place had been empty for more than a decade. My late brother was many things, but easily taken in was not one of them.

Perhaps it had been a cruel joke—Gabe certainly wasn’t above such things, nor was he unwilling to wait for years for a payoff. But this… His schemes usually resulted in a flush pocket—not my devastation. Father might have been responsible as well, but his punishments were more direct and efficient.

But I wasn’t even certain Father had been aware of this acquisition. I was but two and ten when Gabe had returned from Scotland and handed over the paperwork with a conspiratorial grin. No… he’d assured me that it was a place I could go beyond Father’s reach.

A furious maaahah followed by Godfrey’s answering screech drew my gaze from the ground. The man skittered around Fenella, spinning so he was always facing her. Once he rounded her, he backed slowly toward me.

The sheep was large, at least ten stone, with large, curved horns, a black face, and formerly white wool. It seemed primarily content to munch on the foliage lining the front drive—only expressing irritation when someone came too close. I couldn’t blame Godfrey for his wary steps.

Once he arrived before me, he spun around and presented the boot proudly. I had to admit he was skilled with a boot brush. I let him help me into it and pull me to my feet.

Together, we passed the sheep, giving her careful consideration, before reaching the carriage.

“Can we be off?” I asked Lock.

He nodded. “Horses are fine to get to the city. We can change there if ye want to return tonight.”

“I assure you, I do not. Roxburgh Street, please.”

Without waiting for a response, I poured myself back into the carriage, fortunately missing Fenella’s gift in the process. With a quick knock on the roof, we set off again, back toward the path and civilization.

I let my head rest against the glass window as I watched the scenic cragged landscape pass with something like dread.

Time passed in a daze, and before long we turned onto cobblestone streets. My stomach had thoroughly twisted in on itself by the time we stopped in front of an unassuming stone house. Its three stories were oddly arranged, with two sets of three windows to the right of the door and a third row with a single window—unaligned with the rest—above them. A mismatched drainage pipe ran vertically along one side. There were three smaller windows randomly dotted above the black door and a bar of windows in the black-painted attic as well. Nothing of symmetry or style to be found in the facade.

Godfrey opened the door and I stepped out, checking for surprises before planting my feet. Ten steps were all that stood between me and the man who’d seemingly been swindling me for years. I hadn’t considered the possibility that he would not be in residence—I hadn’t the slightest idea of what to do in that event.

I was no stranger to the anxious knot in my chest, but the cause was entirely new. The steps were worn and dipped in the middle with use. At last, I reached the door and knocked before I had a chance to panic first.

It took a moment, perhaps two, just enough for my heart to begin to pound and my fingers to twitch with the urge to fidget.

And then it swung open.

The girl was young, certainly not twenty, with a sturdy, feminine frame—just barely rounded with child. Her eyes and hair were a rich deep brown. And her brow…

There was no mistaking a Hasket brow. Grandfather’s was white and overgrown in bushy bristles. Father’s had been a dark, thick shock before finally streaking with grey a few years before he passed. Davina’s chocolate arch required more manicuring than she would admit to. My own heavy black lines plagued me. And Gabriel—Gabriel’s had been a lighter walnut brown, but still heavy and unforgettable.

This girl—this was Gabriel’s daughter. I would stake my life on it.

“Can I help ye?”