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Twenty-Four

KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 16, 1816

Davina Hasket,

I’ve received no correspondence from Mr. Summers. What have you done? At least assure me that the house is still standing and your reputation remains in the same tarnished but more or less intact state as I left it.

Assure Mother that I am well. I did encounter several spiders, but they possessed no mystical properties that I could identify. The sheep continues to vex, though. It may have some magical jumping abilities, but I cannot confirm that as I am not overly familiar with the skill set of common livestock.

Warmest Regards,

Xander

P.S. Tell Cee to withhold your pin money as punishment for whatever mess required the intervention of Mr. Summers to sort out.

XANDER

The black-and-white checkered dance floor was overcrowded, people tripping over hems and backing into each other with every turn. My place, long ago defined, was on the sidelines. The violin was out of tune with the rest of the quartet—discordant and disconcerting.

The couples parted for the briefest of moments, and there was Mr. Grayson—Tom, eyes hot on my form. He truly was lovely. I wasn’t certain how I hadn’t noticed before. Even with his brow furrowed and his lips pressed tight together, there was no mistaking the defined cheeks and breathtaking eyes. Long, muscular legs filled out his trousers in a way that left little to the imagination.

A tiny sprite of a lady appeared at his side, drawing his penetrating gaze away from me. I couldn’t hear the words they exchanged, but they slipped onto the dance floor—waltz already in progress. They fit together, her small frame against his masculine one, moving as one.

This was his future, the one I had purchased for him with my absence. He might not have appreciated my leaving now, but he would when he had this.

Beaumont approached from one side, clapping Tom on the shoulder in a jovial gesture of friendship, earning a crooked, boyish smile.

My chest ached at the sight. Even from the edge of the floor, it was clear that Tom was made for this world in a way I wasn’t. With an impossible effort, I ripped my gaze away, finding the floor before me.

A soft breath found my ear and my eyes shot to my side. Tom, clad in what I now noticed was an absolutely revolting red-and-orange waistcoat, caught my hand—how had I missed that waistcoat? Wordlessly, he tugged me onto the floor as couples parted with scandalized gasps.

“We cannot!” I hissed.

“We can.” Surprisingly muscular arms pull me into his space, arranging my arms to his liking.

“People will see!”

The single, formerly discordant, now tuned violin broke into the oppressive silence with a decisive sliced note. “Yes.”

“But—”

“Xander, I won’t allow anything to harm you.” Tom’s arms found my waist and he stepped into me just as the rest of the quartet joined the melody. “I can give you everything you want,” he breathed into my ear as he pulled me even closer. “Everything you’ve ever wanted. It’s all I’ve ever wanted too.” I shuddered at the gravel in his voice, in perfect contrast to the sweet high notes of the quartet.

“How?” I begged, breathless, gasping in his cedar scent through parted lips.

“Trust me.” His hand tightened around my waist, pulling me scandalously closer. That was the moment I realized other couples had joined the dance, swirling around us—paying not even the slightest bit of attention. “You have to let me in. You have to be brave.”

I pulled back, meeting his heated gaze. “Tom, I ? —”

Tom’s lips caught mine, interrupting me. This kiss was soft, sweet… loving. Long fingers traced my cheek when he pulled away. “We’ll make a world of our own, together. All you have to do is love me.”

“Tom…”

His gaze snapped to something behind me. “That is for you,” he said simply.

“What?”

“You’ll have to sort that out for now.”

A rustling sound cut through the sweeping notes of the quartet. I spun, finding nothing. I turned back, only to find an empty space where Tom had been. A hollow clank sounded through the gaming hell ? —

I shot up with a start just as the sun was beginning to kiss the sky. It was the work of several moments to remember where I was and several more before I caught that same rustling sound again.

The fire had died out during the night, leaving an unfamiliar damp nip in the air. Through the cracked window, the sky had lightened to that inky slate shade that promised dawn. The swishing sound returned, but without the firelight, I couldn’t see the source.

Again, it came, and I localized it toward the door.

My heart knocked about in my chest, my breath too light and too quick. The events of the day and the contents of Tom’s letter had left both my body and my head aching.

Another crepitation, the sound of—fabric? fur? against something. It was louder now, more insistent. The instinct to screech, to wake the others, warred with the need to ensure that it—they—did not realize the element of surprise was gone. Was it a bear? Did they have bears in Scotland? Perhaps a wildcat or a brownie? Mother had included both in her repeated diatribes about the perils of the Scottish Lowlands.

Again, I heard it. And then I watched, scream trapped in my paralyzed throat, as the sheet covering the door moved again. For a second, I was almost able to blame the wind, but then I identified a distinctive lump in the fabric.

The sky continued to lightened with every passing moment. The man, spirit, or beast pressed ever more determinedly against the fabric. A sharp snuffling sound rang out in the silent room, punctuated only by the heavy breaths of my companions. A beast—certainly an evil loch creature—come to destroy us all.

Sensing a weakness in the fabric trappings, it shifted its efforts toward the left side of the fabric, reaching ever closer to the edge. Snort, rustle, snort, rustle.

I caught the edge of a horn peeking between the fabric and the door—a sign of the devil if there ever was one. Silently, I shuffled to the end of the bed and reached sightlessly for the iron poker that stood beside the fireplace.

It wasn’t precisely where I thought it was and my fingers met air. I flailed, grabbing out, only to catch metal with the edge of my fingertips—knocking against the tool.

Clang!

The poker smacked against the hearth with an echoing clatter. My heart smacked against my ribcage as Godfrey and Miss McAllen shot up with a curse and a wordless shout. At the same moment, the beast poked its head between the curtain and the door.

Fenella’s beady gaze met mine, something vengeful in the black of her eyes.

“What are ye doing?” Miss McAllen demanded, hair stuck up on one side of her head and smashed down on the other. The side that jutted upright reminded me of the way Gabriel’s had.

“I thought it was a bear. Or a wildcat.” I offered pathetically, leaving the fairy folk out of my list of suppositions.

“Ye thought Fenella was a bear? Ye considered bear before the sheep that’s tied up and determined to shit in here?”

“She didn’t show herself until just now.”

“I promise ye, if it were a bear, a poorly hung sheet wouldnae stop it. Nor a wildcat.”

“I forgot about the sheep!”

“Ye forgot aboot the sheep? Ye didnae do anything except complain aboot the sheep yesterday.”

“I made stew as well!”

“Ye almost cut yer hand off! That’s not making stew, that’s making a mess.”

“Well, I wouldn’t have had to make the stew or clean the sheep shit if you hadn’t fleeced me for years!”

“Well, I wouldnae had to fleece ye if yer brother hadnae left my ma with child and abandoned her!”

The fight seeped out of me in a puddle. “You know?”

“Of course I know. I’m not a bloody idiot. Look at ye! Look at me!”

Godfrey took that moment to sidle out of the room, shooing Fenella out of the hall and back outside before following her in his bare feet. The discomfort of witnessing this conversation was surely greater than the pain of frostbite.

“But I thought... You spoke of your father?—”

“Lending his seed didnae make that man a father.”

“But…”

“It was the least yer family could do. When Pa died, Ma and I had nothing. And yer family had—has—everything. Ye owed us.”

“Did he know?” I asked, my voice small.

“What?”

“Did Gabriel know?”

Something about my question softened her a little and her shoulders shrank. “I dinnae believe so. Ma never said, but she was proud—she wouldnae write him.”

Relief flooded me in a way I couldn’t explain. It wouldn’t have been at all out of character for Gabriel to have had a child and not have told us. But I couldn’t have thought he would lie to Cee about it—and knowing her, she had certainly asked outright.

“Why didn’t you write?”

“And say what? My mother was yer brother’s grass widow? I’m his natural daughter? I’ve no proof. How was I to know we’d look alike? And why did ye not say anything when ye realized?”

“Astonishingly, they do not discuss how to have those conversations at Eaton.”

“They teach ye how to complain aboot sheep?”

“There was some discussion on the management of livestock,” I replied with a shrug. “Miss McAllen… I?—”

“Sorcha.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I think ye can call me Sorcha now.”

“Sorcha, I—you have to know that he would have done the right thing. He wasn’t a good man—not really—but he would’ve at least seen you cared for.”

“Ye just said he wasnae a good man.”

“He had a code. It was one of his own making. But it was a code. Honestly, he’d be proud that you managed to take so much and keep the ruse up for so long.”

“Did he—do I—are there any others?” Her eyes were wide and her expression wavered between nervous and hopeful.

“Not that I’m aware of. But I didn’t know of you either. I have a sister about your age—Gabriel was much older than us—you remind me of her.”

“The brows?”

I nodded. “And everything else. She once invested in a whiskey distillery run by pirates.”

A little chuckle escaped her. “I think I’d like her.”

My foot ached as I rose and moved to sit on the bed beside her. “She’d like you too. My mother as well.”

“I assume—yer duke—so my grandfather…”

“Gone. But you wouldn’t have liked him. Mother was the only one who did—and even her I’m not certain. Gabriel hated him.”

“And my father? What happened to him?” There was a guarded vulnerability in her expression, the furrow of her brow, the curve of her lips, the hollow look to her gaze.

“Gabriel was killed in a gambling scheme gone wrong. His murder was just recently solved by his late wife.”

“So he did marry.”

“Yes, Celine. I think you would like her too.”

“And they never had bairn, ye said?”

“No, they were never blessed.”

Her gaze fell to her fingers, picking at a cuticle. “So it’s me then, just me.”

My heart clenched painfully in my chest. “Not just you. You’ve an aunt, Davina, and a grandmother. And there’s me, I suppose.”

Dark eyes found mine, brow lifted. “I dinnae even know yer name.”

“Alexander—Xander. My name is Alexander Hasket, but I prefer Xander.”

“Xander. So yer my uncle?”

“I suppose I am. Never been an uncle before. I’m not certain I’ll be any good at it.”

“Davina disnae have any bairn?”

“Davina is determined to never marry.”

“I hate to be the one to tell ye this, but marriage isnae a requirement for bairn.” She gestured toward the curve of her belly with a sardonic smile.

“Speaking of, the father?”

“As I said, lending seed disnae make a man a father.” There was something wry in her tone.

“Who is he?”

“Just a boy, vicar’s son. Said he’d marry me an’ take care of me and I wouldnae have to worry about money again. But he was a liar.”

“The vicar’s son? Where does he live?”

“What are ye going to do?”

“Force him to take responsibility, obviously.”

“I dinnae wish to marry him. He wasnae kind.”

“What do you wish to do then?”

She blinked at me, seemingly startled by the question. “Hadnea gotten that far. I planned to fleece ye until the babe was born and then forevermore until yer solicitor wrote. Then I was just hoping to fleece ye until the bairn arrived and I could move somewhere new—claim to be a widow. But then ye arrived.”

“I’m left with the absurd desire to apologize for upsetting your plans even though your plan was to steal from me until I died.”

“Ye should. It was a good plan.”

“It actually was. Much more well considered than most of Dav’s.”

“Thank ye.”

“We should discuss this further, but I find myself famished. And Godfrey’s probably prepared to turn in his notice again by now.”

“Cannae say I blame him,” she retorted, rising from the pallet and padding toward the kitchen, leaving me to retrieve Godfrey from the jaws of Fenella.

Lock arrived just after breakfast—a more successful endeavor on my behalf than supper had been—with a gentleman.

The ruddy cheeked man was a master builder. Burly, with hair the color of mahogany and dull grey eyes, he lifted one peppered brow at the sight of the place.

Silently, he stalked through the first floor of the house, making notations in a ledger here and there. I was left to trail after him, sharing befuddled looks with Godfrey as we struggled to read his countenance.

Eventually, he crept up the stairs, studying each one closely before placing weight on it and stepping over others entirely. I followed his path with careful consideration, praying they would hold my weight. When we reached the landing, I was left to follow him aimlessly from room to room. Six bedrooms, two with separate sitting areas for the lord and lady, lined the hall. Each oaken door was carved in a simple but elegant design of vines—those seemed to have held up well, though they were overtaken by cobwebs.

The furnishings had fared worse. At some point, the roof had clearly leaked in several places overtop beds and carpeting, leaving the scent of mildew caked into the very plaster. Sounds of skittering followed from room to room and I struggled not to give the sound consideration.

Paint and wallpaper peeled and chipped in equal measure in every room we ventured into. Most of the windowpanes, too, were cracked, some of them completely overcome by long-dead vines outside. Floorboards creaked ominously with every step, protesting the weight after so many years of disuse.

I followed the man as he carefully measured his steps down the servants’ staircase and into their quarters. Those rooms were slightly better, having no visible water damage, though much of the bedding was ravaged by insects and time.

When we finally circled back to the kitchen, Lock, Sorcha, and Godfrey all perked up with interest.

“Not good,” the builder muttered.

I bit back an obviously and instead asked, “But it can be fixed? Right?”

“I dinnae have the time.”

“But you know someone who does?” My hands danced as I filled in his sentence.

“No.”

“But you can make time for the right price?” I wasn’t delusional, I knew the house wouldn’t be fixed quickly or affordably, but not at all? It was unfathomable. If there was one thing in the world I knew, it was that everyone had a price. Everyone.

“No.”

“But—”

“No, lad.”

Panic began to rise in my chest, settling there, tightening, shoving out everything, until nothing was left but terror. I could feel my gestures tightening, shifting from smooth flowing motions to harsh jerking ones.

“What do you propose I do then?”

“Move.”

“Move?”

“Aye, move.”

“I cannot— That is not— I’m not moving.”

“Didnae say ye have to. Just said that ye should.”

“Why can you not help?”

“Nae just me. Everyone is working on Dalkeith.”

“Dalkeith?”

“Palace,” Lock filled in. “The duke is having it remodeled.”

Which duke? I was a duke. What good was having a damn title if I couldn’t throw it around on occasion? If it could not get me what I wanted as I wanted it?

“What am I to do?” I repeated inanely.

The man shrugged. “Dinnae ken. But ye’ll not find good help.” With that, he set off, out through the door and into the yard. I heard Fenella bleat him a greeting from her place tied up to a different—hopefully sturdier—tree.

Sorcha had the decency to look chagrined. Godfrey’s expression remained stoic, while Lock seemed to waiver between disinterest and amusement. I wasn’t entirely certain what the man was still doing here. But, given his ready assistance, I wasn’t willing to begrudge his presence.

My chest was knotted painfully tight, each breath a struggle on both inhale and exhale.

In silence, we sat around the scarred table. I was waiting for someone to pipe up with an idea—presumably that was everyone else’s design as well. The morning’s breakfast settled like a rock in my belly, plopped there like a lead cannonball, sinking down, down, down.

At last, I could stand the silence no longer. “Any suggestions?”

“No, lad,” Lock retorted. Sorcha shook her head, at least feigning a contrite expression.

“You and I return to London?” Godfrey supplied.

“I cannot, you know I cannot.”

“I know no such thing.”

Before I could change the subject, I heard the familiar sound of hoofbeats through the open—broken—window.

My stomach twisted warily. There was no indication that it was bad news, none except the dearth of good news in recent days.

No sooner had I stepped out the front curtain than a carriage rounded the corner. It was an older model, but well cared for, and I did not recognize it.

I waited for it to drive past the wreckage of my life, but instead it turned around the pond. The driver stopped short, avoiding Fenella’s irritated bleat.

Something settled deep in my spine, an awareness, perhaps a recognition. Whatever it was, it felt like hope.

When the door opened, I wasn’t surprised to meet with Prussian eyes and the teasing smirk of Tom Grayson.