pleased with Spathfoy. I trust you are?” Such an innocent question, but Aunt speared Hester with a look that brooked no prevarication.
“He has been everything that is gentlemanly, and I am not in the least disappointed.” Though she was puzzled. He’d denied himself pleasures with her she’d freely offered, and she was at a loss to understand his reasons.
“Then that is an end to it. He’ll go on his way, you’ll wish him well, and everybody’s spirits will be the better for his holiday here. Shall I ring for tea?”
Hester assented, not at all deceived. Aunt Ariadne was matchmaking, pretending any entanglement with Spathfoy was a casual frolic, easily put aside, when for Hester it might not be any such thing—as Lady Ariadne likely knew.
As she sipped her tea and listened to Aunt’s parlor Gaelic, Hester realized what was bothering her. Not propriety, not her reputation—Spathfoy would die before he’d gossip about a woman of his acquaintance—but rather an alarming mixture of doubt and hope.
Hope, because the man who’d shown her such consideration last night, not only in his attentions but also his reticence, was a man she could respect as greatly as she desired him. She might even—only in the privacy of her mind could she admit this—
Like him a very great deal.
But the serpent in her garden, the doubt, was that initially, she’d thought she could like Jasper a very great deal as well.
“The Earl of Spathfoy to see you, Laird.”
Ian looked up from his ledgers in surprise. “In this bloody downpour?”
The footman’s lips quirked. “His lordship is dripping in the foyer, my lord. We’ve taken his greatcoat to the kitchen to hang before the fire.”
“Show him in, then. Her ladyship is not to be disturbed.”
Ian rose from his desk and peered out at the rain pelting the library’s mullioned windows. A peat fire burned in the hearth, which served only to reinforce a sense of premature autumnal gloom.
“His lordship, the Earl of Spathfoy, my lord.” The footman withdrew, closing the library door quietly.
“Spathfoy, welcome.” Ian extended a hand, finding Spathfoy’s grip cold but firm. “You’ll need a wee dram to ward off the chill.”
“My thanks, though you might want to save your whisky when you hear why I’m calling upon you.”
“Anybody going about in such a deluge needs at least a tot.” A tot of common sense, perhaps, though Spathfoy’s features were so utterly composed, Ian poured the man a drink with a sense of foreboding.
“To your health.” They drank in silence, Ian sizing up his guest and assuming Spathfoy was sizing up his host. “You’ve the look of a man with something serious on his mind. My royal neighbor frowns on dueling, and while I’ve the sense you could hold your own in a bare-knuckle round, my countess frowns on violence in the house. This leaves a man few options outside of unrelenting civility.”
While Ian watched a bead of moisture trickle from Spathfoy’s hair onto his collar, Spathfoy grimaced and stared at his drink. “Civility.”
“Shall we sit? The fire’s throwing out a little heat, thank God. And do I assume her ladyship’s presence will not be needed for this tete-a-tete?”
Ian moved to the sofa, while Spathfoy lowered himself to a wing chair. The man’s boots squeaked, which more than anything announced that Spathfoy’s errand was not a social call. No English gentleman would jeopardize the welfare of his favorite riding boots had he any alternative.
“No, we will not need to bother her ladyship.” Spathfoy fell silent then met Ian’s gaze with a glacial green stare. “Fiona is my niece.”
“She’s my niece too, and a lovely little girl if I do say so myself.”
“I’m to bring her back to England with me.”
A shaft of pain lanced Ian’s chest, pain for the child mostly, at being ripped from her home and family—if Spathfoy had his way. So many Scottish children had been uprooted at the behest of English convenience. The clearances had gone on since time out of mind, into Ian’s infancy, but his own niece…
And pain for Hester and Ariadne, who had cobbled together a household around the child’s routines and joie de vivre. Ian had done likewise almost since Fiona’s birth.
And then there was Mary Frances’s pain, should her own child be lost to her. This pain was too great to contemplate at any length.
“And why will you be taking Fiona from the only family to love her?”
Spathfoy rose and braced one arm on the mantel. “You’re not going to argue?”
“Answer the question.” Ian kept his seat, the better to watch his guest.
“Familial duty. The marquess has said it should be so, and I’m the logical one to retrieve the girl.” Spathfoy contemplated the fire as if he’d prefer leaping into it to this familial duty.
“What aren’t you telling me, Spathfoy? Quinworth forgets about the girl for years, all but denies her patrimony, and now he wants to reave her away from home the first time her mother isn’t on hand to go with her. Even an English marquess wouldn’t take that queer a start without some provocation.”
“I wish to hell I knew what the old man’s game was.” Spathfoy threw himself back into the chair. “When I came up here, I thought I’d simply collect the child, leave a bank draft with her mother, have a brandy with Altsax, and promise them they could visit her while she was with us. Altsax has a title, and nobody winters up here if they have a choice.”
“I winter
Torn.
“I know that, Balfour. I know now that Fiona is well cared for here, and I know her mother and stepfather aren’t on hand to prevent me from taking the child. I did not know these things when I left England.”
“So your own dear papa is not showing you all his cards, and you’re his son and heir. How can you speak for his intentions toward Fiona?”
Spathfoy ran a hand through his damp hair, suggesting Ian’s question had hit a tender spot. “My father has assured me it was Gordie’s express wish, conveyed in his last will and testament, that any of Gordie’s children be raised by Gordie’s surviving family. My father would not lie about such a thing.”
Ian had read law. There was lying, and then there were the English versions of the truth, which were many, varied, and often grossly inaccurate without being what English barristers would call lies. “Have you
The knuckles on Spathfoy’s hand, the hand holding his drink, were white. “I would not insult my father by demanding such a thing.”
“Ah, but he’d insult you by sending you up here to steal a child without giving you the lay of the land. He’d insult me by sending you to do it without contacting me first as head of Fiona’s family and the man who has been writing to the marquess regularly regarding the child, and he’d insult Lady Mary Frances by failing to extend an invitation to the child’s mother to visit the almighty Flynn family seat with her daughter.”
Ian did not raise his voice, though the urge to shout and break things—Spathfoy’s handsome head included —was nigh overpowering.
“Let me be clear, Balfour.” Spathfoy didn’t shout either. “I am not borrowing Fiona for the rest of the summer. I am taking her to place her in the sole care and custody of the Marquess of Quinworth, her paternal grandfather. That is the purpose of my visit.”
“You will be sure Quinworth’s affairs are in order when you head south, won’t you?” Ian took a sip of his drink, needing spirits to calm his heart as it pounded slowly against his ribs.
“Quinworth’s affairs are always in order.” Spathfoy replied with such assurance, Ian concluded it was Spathfoy’s responsibility to ensure those affairs remained in order.
“That’s just fine then, for Mary Fran will kill your father, Spathfoy. Altsax will load and reload her gun for her if necessary. Fiona’s mother would consider it worth her life to keep Fee safe from Gordie’s family, and particularly from her grandfather. More whisky?”
Spathfoy had the sense to cast a wary glance at Ian’s offer of more drink. The threat to Quinworth’s life if
