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Lilias’s hand landed on Rowena’s shoulder and gave it a light squeeze. “What is it, lass?”

“Nothing. I’m ready for that bath.” She stood, leaving the letter to “Julia” unfinished, and followed Lilias from the room.

Please, Lord. Please let Catherine come soon.
She needed a friend in the worst way.

Eighteen

T
he housekeeper’s parlor was warm from the fire crackling in the hearth, the conversation filled with laughter. The upper staff were lingering over their sweet—and why not, with the masters all out for another evening in Brighton? They had no urgent tasks awaiting them, no guests to see to. Lilias enjoyed the moments of peace and smiled along with the others over Mrs. Granger’s tale of the six-year-old lad who had gone into a tantrum during the tour that afternoon.

Davis laughed at the housekeeper’s description, going so far as to toss back his head.

“It wasn’t funny,” Mrs. Granger said, though she smiled. The woman smiled a full three hundred percent more than had the housekeeper at Castle Kynn. But then, she wasn’t in service to Douglas Kinnaird. It surely made all the difference in the world. “I knew Her Grace was in the gallery, and I cannot tell you how I feared his mum wouldn’t get him calm by then and he’d end up ripping right down the hallway and stomping on her toes, so unhappy was he to be there.”

More laughter twined around the table, and Mr. Child sent his sparkling gaze toward Lilias. “She’s a curious one, isn’t she? I swear every time I turn about, Her Grace is studying some new stone or mantel as if it contains the keys to paradise.”

Lilias returned the smile. In part at thought of Rowena . . . and in part because the butler put her in mind, in some way she couldn’t quite name, of her Cowan. “She was as a girl, aye. But having never been away from home much, she soon learned all the secrets there were to learn in the castle. Must be a bit of an adventure for her, having someplace new to discover.” Away from the iron fist of the Kinnaird—and the threatening shadow of Malcolm.

“Such a sweet young woman.” This came from the dowager duchess’s lady’s maid, Lapham. She toyed with one of the berries that she had proclaimed herself too full to eat, swirling it about in the cream. “It’s no wonder His Grace decided so quickly to wed her. Something about that hesitant demeanor of hers that just makes a body want to pull her close and pat her head.”

Mr. Child snorted a laugh. “Yes, Lappy, I’m certain His Grace wants to
pat her head
. Exactly the response of a young man when faced with a lovely young lady.”

Lapham slapped at the butler with her napkin—something no one ever would have dared do to McDonnell in Castle Kynn.

Mrs. Granger chuckled. “I’ve certainly been praising the Lord this month that His Grace fell for someone like Her Grace and not one of the many debutantes who have visited over the years and measured the whole place as if fitting it for new drapes.”

Mr. Child looked to the ceiling. “This from the woman who sobbed for a week straight when she heard that the Baroness of Berkeley was betrothed to the Duke of Stafford.”

Lifting her chin, Mrs. Granger obviously fought back a grin. “Well, I didn’t know at the time that Her Grace was waiting for him in the Highlands, did I? Only that the most charming young lady who had ever stayed at Midwynd had got away. That one would have kept us on our toes.”

“That one would have given me a heart attack.” Mr. Child splayed a hand over his chest in illustration. “And His Grace was wise enough to know it and take pity on me. Far better that he chose Her Grace.”

Perhaps it was that perpetual amusement in the butler’s eyes that reminded Lilias of her late husband. The way he could be so serious when facing the under staff or the masters or the public, but was so quick to turn a jest behind closed doors.

“It was her eyes that got him.” Davis raised his glass in salute. “If I hear him reference ‘those silver eyes’ one more time . . .”

Lilias smiled into the laughter. She’d always thought Rowena’s eyes beautiful—but at the castle, where Douglas shared the feature, no big to-do had ever been made over them.

“Ach, no. ’Twas the accent,” Mr. Child said in a fair imitation of it, his gaze drifting for only a split second to Lilias. “There’s nothing like a Highland burr, aye?”

Would it not have been so obvious, she would have pressed a hand to test her cheeks and see if they were as hot as they felt.

Mrs. Granger grinned at her. “I daresay—”

“Mr. Child! Come quick!” One of the footmen—there was a matching pair of them, twins, and Lilias hadn’t yet learned how to tell them apart—burst into the parlor. Was it excitement or horror on his face? “Humphrey has returned—Old Abbott caught him sneaking round the back, trying to get in.”

Because the others all leapt to their feet, Lilias did too, though she hadn’t a clue who Humphrey might be. She turned to Lapham, who was the closest to her. “Who is—?”

“The footman who ransacked the duke’s room while we were away and then took off.” Lapham tossed her napkin to the table and scurried out with the rest of them.

Lilias followed, though more slowly. From the thunderclouds in everyone’s faces, they took it as personally as the duke had that one of their own had betrayed Nottingham.

And they said only Scots had such allegiance to their clan.

The group spilled into the kitchen, where the aging steward held a protesting young man in a chair by the scruff of his neck.

Mr. Child headed straight for his office. “I’ll ring the constable.”

“I’ve rope to hold him until he gets here.” The other twin footman—or the same one?—bent to tie the lad’s legs to those of the chair, amidst some colorful cursing from the captive.

Old Abbott looked about to box the boy’s ears. “Watch your tongue, you fiend, there are females present.”

As if a thieving traitor had such sensibilities—and he proved it by spitting on the floor, in the direction of Mrs. Granger. “Let me go, ye ol’ badger. I’ll not talk—not to you, not to no constable, not to no one.”

“You will if you know what’s good for you.” Mrs. Granger huffed—and made a show of stepping directly on the spittle on the floor. “To think that we fed you, clothed you, accepted you as one of our own. Didn’t His Grace even send extra home to your family last Christmas, when he heard your mum hadn’t enough for a goose?”

The lad’s eyes burned—but not with the life most of them here boasted. No, it was a dark fire in them. One Lilias had seen often enough to recognize. He sneered. “Oh, yes, a fine Christmas goose they bought too. Surely that kept them from wanting all the rest of the year. All thanks to the duke’s eternal generosity.”

This time Old Abbott
did
deliver a cuff to the lad’s ear. “You’ll speak with more respect of your betters, boy. And it isn’t his title that makes him so—it’s his common decency. Something
you
are surely lacking. To stoop to thievery—”

“I didn’t steal
nothing
. And well you know it.” Yet it wasn’t disappointment now in his gaze, or shame. Certainly not shame. ’Twas . . . victory.

“And did you come back to try to remedy that?” With her hands on her hips, the tall housekeeper struck an imposing figure indeed. “Or are you daft enough that you meant to beg your job back?”

He didn’t shift, didn’t lift his chin, didn’t try to square his shoulders—which were now rolled back, his wrists being bound behind the chair. Yet somehow defiance settled upon him like a cloak. “Humphrey Umstot doesn’t
beg
.”

Old Abbott folded his arms over his chest. “Then why are you here? To find whatever it was you were looking for before?”

Humphrey didn’t answer. Didn’t twitch. Just curled his lips up in a mean little smile that curdled the cream in Lilias’s stomach.

Trouble had come to call. And she hadn’t a clue how to protect Rowena from it this time.

Brice had no idea how he’d managed to lose his wife this time. He’d been determined to keep her hand firmly on his arm all evening, but for when they were in their seats. And he certainly hadn’t needed the whisper from his mother or sister to tell him to do so—though they’d taken it upon themselves to give said whisper anyway. As if he couldn’t see for himself that the usual Brighton and Hove visitors and residents hadn’t received Rowena all that warmly.

Jealousy, Mother had said with a nod.

Pure viciousness, Ella had pronounced.

Some combination thereof, he had decided. And he would have been happy to have stayed home of an evening instead of taking part in the usual post-Season engagements that had peppered their autumns and winters in the past.

But Rowena had vehemently objected, had insisted that their routine wouldn’t be disturbed for her sake. That Ella ought to get to enjoy this first year she could take part in such events.

If Rowena would stand as straight and speak so boldly with silk on her shoulders and jewels around her throat as she had that morning in her day dress and old, worn shoes, then no young lady in Sussex would ever dare speak ill of her.

Dash it all, where
was
she? He’d only stepped out for a minute, to find the lavatory. And Ella had given him a nod to assure him she would take over the watch. So why was he seeing Ella’s brilliant red head without the soft brown curls that should have been by her side? It was one thing for Ella to lose herself every time she took a turn but quite another for her to lose his wife when Ella herself hadn’t so much as budged from the aisle between the two blocks of chairs set up for the recital.

“The best soprano I’ve heard since Collette Sabatini was touring England twenty years ago,” an older gentleman said as Brice brushed past.

“At the Royal Pavilion,” a lady was saying to a different group, swishing her fan in front of her face. “Tomorrow.”

A flash of light on fair blond hair caught his eye. Made him freeze. It couldn’t be—could it? He only knew two blondes of that shade, and Brook wouldn’t just show up at a random soiree in Brighton without notice. But surely,
surely
Lady Pratt wasn’t so audacious.

Of course she was—he knew she was. But if she were in town, he would have heard. He paid people to keep him abreast of such things.

A lady in a peacock green dress shifted out of the way, proving that yes, indeed, it was Catherine, Lady Pratt, on the arm of her brother. Dash it all—and they were talking to Rowena. He sidestepped the people in the aisle, nearly tripped over a chair, but he managed to keep his smile in place. His face clear. His posture casual as he approached. Though it took every ounce of willpower he possessed to keep his gait easy and relaxed as he joined their cheery little group and claimed his wife’s hand.

“There you are, darling. Lady Pratt, Lord Rushworth, good evening—I didn’t realize you were in the area.” He smiled, but they weren’t either of them stupid enough to believe he meant it. And Rowena obviously realized it too, given the way she stiffened.

Rushworth nodded a muted greeting. “Evening, Duke.”

Lady Pratt gave one of her sickeningly sweet smiles. “We just arrived in Brighton yesterday, desperate to get away from all the nonsense over that maid—I’m sure you understand. I, of course, wrote you to let you know that the primary suspect had fled, and . . . well, when I wrote your direction upon the envelope, I thought Brighton would be just the thing to clear it all from my mind.”

She was good—he’d give her that. The perfect intonation to convey both regret over the maid and weariness with it all. Her back remained straight, her fingers didn’t grip her brother’s arm too hard. The only indication of her true purpose that he could note was the way her attention drifted, for just a moment, to the diamond-and-ruby collar necklace Rowena wore.

None of the gems were large enough to be the Fire Eyes. She had never seen them, but surely her parents had told her of their size when they instilled in her the idea that they were hers by rights. He pulled Rowena a few inches closer to his side. “Have we received a letter from Lady Pratt, darling? I don’t recall seeing one—though I have been praying that the tragedy at Delmore would be quickly resolved.”