“When we cut our hair, we stuff it in netting,” Simone explained matter-of-factly from his left side. “I suppose it’s less expensive than buying hats and lace and tiaras.”
Iona’s lips twitched. She wouldn’t have to say a word all evening with Simone sitting across from her. Winifred was an evil planner.
As if summoned from Iona’s thoughts, Winifred clinked her silverware against her crystal wine glass and called, “Quiet everyone.”
While the soup was served, Iona glanced down the table to find the older lady had elected to sit at the right hand of the marquess on the opposite end.
“Rainford is about to tell us of the missing children,” Winifred announced.
Missing children? Iona waited for explanation.
“The description did not give age,” Rainford corrected. “I have telegraphed friends in Edinburgh for more details. Young heiresses is all I know, and that they’re Malcolms. So we thought you should know.”
Iona chilled but pretended interest in her soup.
“Surely there is more, my lord,” Winifred demanded. “Heiress and Malcolm are often synonymous.”
“My informant only mentions blond and blue-eyed daughters of the Earl of Craigmore.”
Iona’s stomach rebelled against the little soup she’d imbibed. Still, even in her fear, she noticed the error. Her stepfather—or Arthur—didn’t even know what color their eyes were.
The marquess continued. “I thought Ives might be interested in the reward of ten thousand pounds.”
Ten thousand pounds? The entire house, land, and contents of Craigmore weren’t worth ten thousand pounds. She was an heiress in title only.
Iona longed to sink lower in her chair as every head turned in the earl’s direction. Instead, she sipped her water and watched the Earl of Ives and Wystan like everyone else.
Her host merely shrugged. “Blond, blue-eyed, and female describes almost every Malcolm in existence.”
Which was why, when they first set out, Isobel had dyed her hair black and Iona had trimmed hers short enough to cover with a cap and pretend she was a boy. It had grown out a little since then, but no sun touched it under her old-fashioned bonnets, leaving it mostly light brown.
She and Isobel didn’t have to change eye colors. They had their father’s golden-brown instead of their mother’s blue. So, maybe the old goat had remembered his wife had blue eyes and assumed her daughters did also.
“Were they abducted? Is there a ransom note?” the earl asked. “Are they old enough to run off with suitors? Is Craigmore a drunkard to lose his daughters?”
“Oh, the famed Ives cynicism,” one of the gentlemen at mid-table said. “If they’re Malcolms, won’t the Malcolm genealogy tell us more?”
“Not ours,” Mrs. Merriweather, the loyal librarian, said serenely. “Craigmore is a Highland estate. They’ve established their own library, although I can write Lady Abbott and inquire.”
How long would it take for all the pieces of the puzzle to fall in place? Worse yet, where could she run when they did?
And a reward? That had to be the American’s doing. She should have killed him when she had the chance, but she’d not thought him much of a threat then.
“If you would write, Mrs. Merriweather, that would be appreciated,” Ives said with his usual indifference. “I do not like the thought of two innocents in the hands of scoundrels. But if they’ve merely run off with suitors, I want no part in it.”
Iona sensed a whiff of interest, but the earl truly was cynical and not particularly worried.
“Your own mother ran off, did she not?” Rainford inquired. “Malcolm women are known to be headstrong.”
Iona had known the earl had a Malcolm mother but had not considered the ramifications. No wonder he wasn’t too concerned about the missing heiresses. She almost smiled at his confidence that they could take care of themselves.
“Only because so many men are weak,” Winifred retorted. “If you find those children, I insist that you bring them here, where we can assure they’re safe. Children do not normally run away without reason.”
“They may have been abducted,” the marquess insisted. “We don’t know yet.”
Ignoring any suggestion that a Malcolm might be abducted, Simone spoke. “Has anyone inquired of the ladies at the School of Malcolms? Edinburgh is much closer to Craigmore than here.”
“I’ve wired Max and his librarian wife for more information,” the marquess said. “They’ll inquire at the school.”
So much for hiding in plain sight, Iona thought, mind racing. Could she disappear into the company and hope whoever searched here wouldn’t notice her? Surely, they’d be looking for twins?
“But you rode for Wystan instead of finding out the details—why?” the earl asked, finishing his soup.
“Rain’s sisters were on the way,” one of the other gentlemen answered.
Beside Iona, the earl snorted inelegantly. In his starched white shirt and formal attire, he looked the part of imposing earl—or what Iona imagined one should be. Her stepfather did not count.
“Do you hide your sisters from your friends or protect your friends from your sisters?” Ives asked in amusement.
“Both, most likely,” Rainford admitted in resignation. “My youngest sister wishes to have a séance. I trust that will not be the evening’s entertainment here?”
“We have ghosts,” Mary Mike declared. A tall, tastefully tailored lady in her thirties, her dark hair more brutally cut than Iona’s, she did not often speak. “The original keep is six hundred years old. It’s unavoidable.”
“But the old ones mostly wink in and out,” Simone said reassuringly. “Only Ceridwen still speaks, and that’s only in emergencies. Really, after millennia of human habitation, the world is an ocean of spirits. Hunting for just one is foolish.”
“Malcolms have come to Wystan for centuries to ensure the safety of their childbirth and in hopes the infant will be born with the spirit of their ancestors,” Grace, the spinner, said with odd formality.
Lady Alice wasn’t a Malcolm. Iona glanced in her direction, but the lady sipped her wine with a jaded air of disinterest.
“Oh yes, Ives, that’s how the legend says your great-grandfather finally sired a son,” Mrs. Merriweather chirped. “Your great-grandmother wrote that a spirit entered her,
