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Nineteen

KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 15, 1816

Xander,

I am wonderful. Thank you for asking after me in your last letter. The devastation of missing your sister is etched in every line.

Mother is fretting that you’ve been replaced by a changeling and they wrote your letter. I tried to explain that you’re far too old and unfortunate looking for a fairy to bother with, but she would have none of it. When I reminded her that a changeling would have written a more informative and polite letter she was soothed.

I hope you like the hessians I’ve selected. I agonized over the choice. I am curious though, why did you not pack any?

Best Wishes,

Davina

XANDER

Time and the grief of his passing usually left me feeling rather wistful when I thought of Gabriel. But Christ the man had made a damn mess of everything he touched.

Years ago, he’d returned from Scotland with the deed to Kilmarnock and handed it off to me with a grin. I’d discovered after his passing that the acquisition hadn’t been strictly aboveboard—instead the estate was won in an ill-considered card game. A practice I was astonished to learn was legal. Apparently, he’d had an even more eventful time in Scotland than he’d let on.

The woman before me was Gabriel in a delicate feminine frame—sharp jaw, heavyset brow, pale skin, straight nose—an exact match for his before it’d been broken in a tavern brawl. And she was staring at me as if I’d grown a second head.

Slowly, she made to shut the door in my face—a fair reaction to my slack-jawed stare.

“Wait—”

“Oh, are ye intending to speak, then?” She even sounded like him, voice low and throaty.

“I—” This wasn’t the time, nor the place. I brushed away my astonishment for the moment. “I’m looking for a Mr. Douglas McAllen.”

Her eyes widened, and she made to slam the door in my face. Instinctively, I nudged my boot against the frame—a choice I regretted immediately when door met boot with shocking strength. Biting back a curse, I caught the door and pushed it back open.

“Mr. McAllen. Now, if you please.”

She even narrowed her eyes in irritation the same way my brother had. “Leave, or I’ll call the constable.”

“By all means, I expect the constable will be very interested to learn of my situation with Mr. McAllen.” I gestured inanely toward the place a constable would stand should one exist.

“Mr. McAllen isnae home.”

“I’ll wait.”

“Dinnae expect him for quite some time.”

“I’ve quite literally nowhere else to go.”

Slowly, she opened the door with a wary glance up and down the street. “Fine, but I warned ye.”

I stepped forward, backing her in before she turned and led me down a hall and up the stairs to a little drawing room. It was decorated in rich jewel tones and decent—though not opulent—furnishings. I had a strong suspicion that my payments went here instead of Kilmarnock.

Without waiting for direction, I claimed one of the wingback chairs near the fireplace. Quietly, she took the opposite, her eyes finding her boots beneath the hem of her dove-grey dress.

“Your name?”

“Sorcha.” Her gaze never left the brown leather boots—the juxtaposition of brown against grey irked me more than I liked. “Ye must be Mr. Hart.”

I merely hummed.

“He will be surprised to find ye here. I ken Mr. McAllen was waiting for ye to write when yer employer planned to visit.”

“Was he?”

“I just said as much.”

“Indeed.”

Her feet swished back and forth against the carpeting. “He’s been awaiting yer letter.”

“I’m certain he has.”

“Is there a reason ye didnae write?”

I stretched my feet out in front of me, grasping the chair arms to keep from my usual overwrought gestures. “Shall we dispense with the ruse?”

“I beg yer pardon?”

“There’s no Mr. McAllen—I wouldn’t be surprised if there never has been.”

“No—he’ll be back, just not for some time.”

“Of course. You should know, though, Mr. Hart was injured and has been indisposed. That is why he hasn’t written to announce my arrival.”

“What?” Her head finally shot up, her gaze meeting mine.

“I’m Alexander Hasket—I expect that name is familiar to you.”

Suddenly, Sorcha’s eyes turned sharp and assessing. They dragged along my form before finally catching on my brows—dark and overgrown just as hers were.

“Yer Grace, I?—”

“Swindled me out of truly astonishing sums? Yes.”

“I didnae?—”

“Mean to? I find that difficult to believe.”

“I—”

“What I am struggling to understand is why?”

Her lips curled into a familiar smile, equal parts bitter and wry—the same one Gabriel always wore around father. I’d hated it on him and I hated it now.

“Truly? Ye dinnae know why?”

“Fine, I know why. But you could have written—if I had known of you—you would’ve been cared for. I didn’t know you existed.”

“Why should ye? I’m no one to ye.”

My stomach dropped and realization crashed over me. She didn’t know. Of course she didn’t—how could she?

“I—forgive me. I thought—assumed. I thought you would know.” My fingers itched with the urge to explain. They always worked faster than my words.

“Ken what?”

“Nothing, never mind.” I waved away my previous comment, desperate to avoid this conversation. “Where is your mother?”

“Dead.” Her expression, her affect was flat. There was something impossibly sad in that. Not to mention how much more difficult it would be to explain my relation to this woman.

“I am sorry for your loss.”

Shrewd eyes narrowed at me once again. “Why did ye not ask after my pa?”

“I—no reason.”

“Or my husband—I’m with child as ye can clearly see.”

“Do you have a husband?” My curiosity suddenly peaked. I didn’t know if a husband would make everything more or less complicated, but it was certainly her best hope to avoid scandal.

“No, but ye dinnae know that. Why would ye have cared for me? Because I’m with child?”

“Yes,” I supplied with no real thought beyond moving past that topic. “Can we return to the reason you’ve been fleecing me?”

“Should’ve thought that would be obvious. I needed the coin.”

“How long?”

“Me or Mam?”

“Your mother, too, then?”

Miss McAllen nodded.

My hand slipped free from where it was clutching the armrest to pinch the bridge of my nose. “Both, I suppose.”

“Seven years, or near as much. Ma started after Pa died. I only continued the practice.”

So she had a father. Perhaps I was wrong and she just bore a striking resemblance to my brother. There were other overdrawn brows in the world, other ladies with striking jawlines and chestnut hair and eyes. Just because this one happened to be around the right age to have coincided with my brother’s visit didn’t mean she was his.

“And the money? Is there any left at all?”

And then she dipped her chin in the same defiant manner Gabriel always used when father was lecturing him. Something twisted in my belly at the sight—whether it was longing at the mannerism or chafing at the unfamiliar sensation of relating to my father was impossible to tell.

“No,” she replied sharply. That was a yes then.

“How much?”

“Are ye right in the head? I just said there wasnae any left.”

“You’ll have to forgive me if I do not take your word for it. Besides, I’ve been sending extra for improvements before my arrival. And clearly Will let you know I was intending to visit—you’ve been squirreling it away.”

Her glare was pure Gabriel. She may have had a father—but he wasn’t blood.

“Yer daft.”

“And you’re a thief.”

Strong arms crossed high on her chest—overtop her growing belly. My eyes caught on the delicate curve. Gabriel’s grandchild was growing inside her. Something ached in my heart at the realization.

Thief she may be, but she was also my niece. One last living piece of my brother—complicating life even from beyond the grave.

I sighed. “If you return what you still have, and pay back what you stole, I won’t involve the law.”

Her smile was sarcastic and accompanied by an unladylike snort. “If ye think I can pay ye back in this lifetime, yer dimmer than I thought.”

It was an impulse, the one that kept rearing its head—abandoning London for Scotland, seeking refuge in an empty office at a masquerade, kissing Tom Grayson. I knew, even as I made them, that they were poor choices. Ill-considered and ill-conceived, every last one. And this one—this would be even worse. But I could no more have trapped the next sentences behind my lips than I could force my heart to stop beating.

I rose and stepped toward her. “You’re not going to pay me back with shillings and pounds.”

“We’re in agreement, then.”

“You’re going to help me repair the estate.”

Miss McAllen blinked, eyes wide and owlish. “I beg yer pardon.”

“You heard me. And you’re going to help me.”

She stood, mirroring my position with hands on her hips. “I think ye’ll find that I’m not.”

“If you do not wish to give birth on the open sea—which I promise you, you do not—I think you’ll find that you will.”

“They’ll not sentence me to exile.” Dark eyes rolled back.

“You’re correct. They’ll sentence you to death and if you’re very, very lucky, they’ll exile you instead. I’m a duke, remember. The law doesn’t take kindly to crimes against nobility. And the sum you’ve stolen…”

“I cannae help ye. I dinnae know anything aboot fixing up a house.”

“Neither do I. We’ll have to figure it out together.”

Her expression was wary and calculated as her gaze flicked up and down my form. Her eyes caught on my pocket. I had little doubt she’d rob me and disappear as soon as she found an opportunity. “And ye’ll not call the constable.”

“As long as you do not do precisely what you’re contemplating—I won’t call the constable.”

Her glare was penetrating and awash in irritation, brow furrowed, lips curled in a snarl. “How would ye know what I’m contemplating?”

“So you weren’t planning to pick my pocket and run to Lord knows where, forcing me to return to London—destitute—never to be seen again.”

“I hadnae thought quite that far.”

“You would’ve gotten there eventually.”

“Such faith…” The sneer belied the words.

I shrugged. “You… remind me of someone I used to know. It’s what he would’ve done—maybe not the pickpocketing—but he sent more than one gentleman penniless back to wherever they came from, head hung in shame.”

Miss McAllen huffed out an irritated, bitter chuckle. “Can I make an arrangement with him instead?”

“You can try, but you’ll have to ask the devil, himself. Or perhaps he is the devil… No way of knowing.”

“That’s unfortunate. He sounds like much more fun.”

An assessment shared by nearly everyone acquainted with both Gabriel and myself. It had vexed me in my youth—but it had ceased to bother me in the months and years after his demise.

“You’re not wrong—too much fun, perhaps. But, alas, you’ve only me to deal with. And since my estate isn’t in any condition to live in, I’ll need to stay here.”

Overgrown brows shot so high, they hit the treetops. “Oh, no, ye’ll not.”

“Oh, but I will. You’re not leaving my sight until my home is in perfect order.”

“That could be months!”

“A generous estimate, I expect.” At some point, entirely without my notice, I’d lost control of my hands, and they danced about before me, gesturing to nothing in particular. The effort only served to betray my agitation. I clenched my fists at my sides in what was certain to be a futile effort at restraint. “Perhaps you should have considered it before you stole from me!”

She let out an “Agh!” before spinning on her heels in a manner that was so perfectly reminiscent of Davina that I was forced to bite back a laugh. My sister directed that sound to me on such a regular basis that I almost considered it a term of endearment.

I padded down the hall after her—I was serious about not allowing her out of my sight—even if my reasoning hadn’t been the entire truth. We reached the kitchen and she dragged a ceramic cannister across the worktop, pulled off the lid, and snatched a roll of bills from inside.

Miss McAllen thrust her fist toward me with a huff. “Here—ye can go now.”

A quick flip through the bills revealed one hundred pounds. It was a struggle to keep my feelings off my face. The sum was rather impressive and reflected decent—if slightly immoral—sense. I wasn’t fool enough to believe that was all of what she had stowed away. But it was certainly enough for her to live quite comfortably on for some time if she was frugal.

“And the rest?” I demanded with a raised brow.

“That’s all of it.”

“Do you take me for a fool?”

“Yes, if I’m honest.”

“I admire the honesty. But I’m certain you’ve at least double this hidden away.”

There was a judgmental, assessing quality to her gaze and the set of her mouth, her upper lip curled just slightly. “In my room.”

“Lead the way.”

Her steps were heavy as we turned back down the hall and ascended a flight of stairs. She paused outside a rickety door. “Ye cannae come in—a lady’s room is private.”

“You’re no lady.”

“It wouldnae be decent.”

She wasn’t quite as skilled as Davina—scheming and adventuring was in my sister’s very marrow. I suspected this was a muscle Miss McAllen hadn’t had to flex very often. But I knew without a doubt that she planned to escape out the window.

At my nod, she whirled into the room, then shut the door in my face. Quietly, I slipped back down the stairs—fortunately in good repair so there weren’t any loose boards. No sooner had I stepped outside where Godfrey and Lock leaned against the carriage, than I caught the familiar drag of a window opening.

I stepped between the men, leaning against the carriage with my arms crossed. The sensation of being watched crept over me as their curious gazes dug into me. My eyes, however, were fixed on the second-story window farthest from the door.

From my new vantage, I watched as a dove-grey-skirt-covered leg slipped out the window. Then a hand escaped, wrapping around to catch the drainage pipe. Finally, a dark head appeared, focused on the pipe.

“That doesn’t look particularly sturdy…” I called out.

Her attention shot to me with a curse, audible even several feet away.

Two sets of eyes flicked from me to the window and back again, each man utterly befuddled.

Slowly, Miss McAllen tucked back into the window and I stepped back into the house.

“I’ll be a little while,” I called back over my shoulder to the waiting men.

“Seems like it, lad.”