the privacy of those small lives.
“She reads old love letters before retiring and hopes her former swains will visit her in her dreams.”
Ariadne’s habit sounded daft, put into words like that. Daft and lonely.
And he had nothing to say to this, so a silence fell while Hester felt fatigue of both body and spirit seeping into her bones.
Spathfoy stretched out long, long legs and crossed them at the ankles. “At least she has love letters. Are you growing chilled, Miss Daniels? I can offer my coat, or return you to the house.”
Hester rose. The idea of being enveloped in the warmth and fragrance of his clothing was more disturbing than any slight chill in the evening air. “No thank you, my lord. I’ll see myself in, and my thanks, too, for your company at dinner. Breakfast is on the sideboard in the same dining parlor no later than first light.”
He got to his feet. “My thanks as well, Miss Daniels. Pleasant dreams.”
She might have tarried, might have reminded him to ring for anything he needed, and added admonitions that Highland hospitality meant their home was his for the duration of his stay, but she left him among the roses and shadows. Reminding Lady Ariadne to close her curtains was a far more urgent and worthy mission.
Tye hadn’t lied. A stroll after dinner was one of his personal habits. He’d acquired this habit in defense of his peace of mind when the alternative had been port and cigars with his father—a domestic ritual that invariably degenerated into vituperation of the Commons, the Prince Consort, his lordship’s own marchioness, or the fairer sex at large.
And seeing Flying Rowan properly bedded down was also part of Tye’s routine, though it served nicely to allow for discreet reconnaissance of Matthew Daniels’s outbuildings and grounds as well.
If the stables and gardens were any indication, Daniels was no slacker.
“Unlike you.”
Rowan flicked an elegant black ear as his owner approached. The horse stood in a loose box bedded in ample, fragrant oat straw. A full bucket of clean water hung on the wall, and the gelding’s coat showed signs of a thorough grooming after his exertions earlier in the day.
“Don’t get too comfortable here, horse. The poor of the parish—of which there are more than a few—could use a hearty stew.”
Rowan wuffled and turned large, luminous eyes on Tye.
“Shameless beggar.” Tye let himself into the stall and produced a lump of sugar from his coat pocket. “Does it trouble you, horse, that you have no love letters to read by your bedside of a night?”
Rowan dispatched the lump of sugar and used a big roman nose to gently nudge at Tye’s pocket.
“You have no love letters, do you? Neither do I, thank The Almighty. Don’t beg.” He tapped the horse’s nose. “It’s ungentlemanly.” Tye scratched the beast’s withers, also part of his end-of-day ritual with the horse. “Quinworth reads old letters. One almost pities him when one finds him in such a state. Swilling whisky and chasing it with sentiment.”
The horse groaned and shivered all over. When Tye dropped his hand, the gelding craned its neck to pin Tye with another pointed look.
“You have no dignity, horse.” Tye moved around and started scratching from the horse’s other side. “And Quinworth has too much. The old boy has me neatly boxed in, make no mistake. If I don’t retrieve my darling niece, there will be hell to pay.”
And for just a moment, Tye let himself wonder if the ends truly justified the means. A childhood served out on Quinworth’s terms was not exactly a guarantee of happiness—far from it.
He slung an arm over the horse’s withers and leaned in, resting his weight against the animal for a moment. Fiona would be better off being acknowledged by her paternal family, and she would want for nothing money could buy.
And that should be an end to it.
“We’ll be heading back south before too much longer. Enjoy your Scottish holiday while you can.”
Tye let himself out of the stall, made certain the door was securely latched, took a tour of the rest of the stalls to inspect for the same measure, and ambled out into the starry night.
A light was burning on the first floor in the wing opposite Miss Ariadne’s, and the rest of the house, for the most part, was dark. The light wasn’t in Tye’s room—he’d been graced with a corner chamber of stately proportions—which meant it was possibly Miss Daniels burning late-night oil.
Did she, too, read love letters in hopes of inspiring amorous dreams?
He thought not. She didn’t strike him as a woman who’d received many love letters, much less as a lady who’d treasure the ones she’d been sent.
“Serviette on your lap, Fee.” Hester passed the child two sections of an orange. “And you’ll not be haring off this morning. If you need to stretch your legs, we’ll take a walk down to the burn.”
“May we picnic?”
Aunt Ariadne turned the handle of the teapot so it faced Hester. “It’s a lovely day for a ramble, my dears. I’m sure his lordship would appreciate a chance to see some of our views, too.”
Hester did not wrinkle her nose at this suggestion, because Fee was watching her too closely, even as the child also made short work of the orange sections.
“Perhaps his lordship would like to rest up from his journey,” Hester suggested. “Write some letters assuring his loved ones of his safe arrival.”
And perhaps his lordship didn’t intend to stay long enough to make even that exercise worth his time. The inn had sent out one small trunk and a traveling bag, which Hester took as encouraging.
A man traveling that light usually did not intend to tarry.
Aunt Ariadne watched as Hester filled their teacups. “Did you sleep well, my dear?”
“Oh, of course.”
Except she hadn’t. Hester had heard his lordship in the chamber next to hers, heard the sound of his wardrobe closing, heard him stirring on the balcony next to hers, heard him opening and closing the drawers to the escritoire in his room.
He wasn’t particularly loud, but he was
“Good morning, Lady Ariadne.” As if conjured from Hester’s thoughts, Spathfoy paused in the doorway to the dining parlor. “Miss Daniels, Miss Fiona. A lovely morning made lovelier still by present company.”
He advanced into the room, and Hester gave him a look informing him that she wasn’t charmed by his expansive good will. Last night, over a few too many glasses of wine, she’d exerted herself to tolerate his company out of simple good manners, but in the broad light of day, he needed to know she was not about to let down her guard again.
“Good morning, Uncle.” Fee beamed up at him over sticky fingers and a sticky chin. “Do you want to share my orange?”
“I’ll pass, thank you.” He moved along the sideboard, piling eggs, bacon, ham, and toast on his plate. “But a spot of tea wouldn’t go amiss. I must say, it has been quite some time since I’ve enjoyed my matutinal repast in such jejune company.”
He took a seat at Ariadne’s elbow while Hester wiped off Fee’s chin.
Fee spoke around Hester’s dampened serviette. “Your tootinal what?”
“His morning meal,” Hester translated. “In the company of one so young.”
“Is that English?”
Hester almost replied that such a lofty expression was very definitely
“Maybe his lordship was offering me a compliment on my youthful good looks, for which I would have to thank him. You must accompany the ladies on their rambles this morning, Spathfoy. They’re planning a picnic by the burn, which is a lovely spot. After traveling all day yesterday, you might want to work out a few of the kinks. Sitting on a train can be such an ordeal.”
“I didn’t, actually.” He paused before he took up his knife and fork, which left Hester a moment to stare at his
