And, he thought with no little bitterness, he was now one of them.
But the girl had made her way around him and was quickly making her escape. “Iamthe duke,” he bit out, perhaps more sternly than he should have, considering the anger that his ruminations dredged up.
Another squeak from the girl as she turned back to face him and dropped into a curtsy so low he thought she might lose her balance entirely and topple face-first into the fresh snow. “Yer Grace,” she gasped, “I’m sorry, I am. I dinnae ken ’twas you.”
“Dinnae fash yerself,” he grumbled, waving her to standing. Would he ever get used to the fawning obsequiousness that such a title brought with it? Surely not. It was no wonder those who possessed titles and wealth thought so highly of themselves.
For a moment he remembered one particular lord, and how cruelly he’d dealt with Iain when Iain had dared to look at his daughter, had dared tolovehis daughter.Seraphina.
But no matter it seemed the lass had risen from the dead—a fact that he could not seem to wrap his head around—he would not lower himself to think of her father and all the heartache that man had caused, all at the altar of his own self-importance.
“But perhaps you might now tell me who sent the letter,” he said.
Whatever reaction he might have expected from her, it certainly wasn’t the sudden sadness in her wide brown eyes.
“My gran,” she said, her voice going quiet. “Mrs. Mary Campbell.”
He sucked in a sharp breath, the cold air like needles in his lungs. Yet another ghost rising from the graveyard of his past. He tried to swallow back the memories that surfaced, but they were barbed and rough with age, and tore at his throat, refusing to budge.
Mrs. Mary Campbell. He had known her well. Housekeeper to Seraphina’s father, Lord Farrow, the woman had been kind to Iain when others had not, taking him under her wing, securing him a position in Lord Farrow’s stables so he might support himself, protecting him from those who would make him suffer for his father’s mistakes and scandalous death. She had been a kind of mother figure at a time when he’d needed it most, and he had trusted her implicitly. So much so that, when he had been presented with tangible proof that Seraphina had left him to go off on those travels she had always dreamed of, only Mrs. Campbell’s mournful testimony that she had indeed seen Seraphina leave with her own eyes had made him finally accept the truth.
And now here she was, writing to him, telling him that Seraphina had not died. That she was alive.He crushed the missive in his grip.
The girl standing before him stared solemnly up at him. “You recall my gran then?”
“Aye,” he managed, his voice gone hoarse. He cleared his throat, fighting for composure. “And where is Mrs. Campbell now?”
Again that sadness in her eyes. “Gone to her Maker,” she whispered.
He sucked in a sharp breath at the unexpected news. Mrs. Campbell was gone? “I am sorry for your loss,” he managed. “The world is a dimmer place for it.” And he meant it, down to his bones. Though he had not seen Mrs. Campbell since the day Seraphina had left him, that did not mean he did not mourn this news of her passing.
But apparently the world had been dimmer for a wee bit longer than he had assumed.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” the girl said, dipping her head in acknowledgment. “But ’tis nae a new grief. Gran has been gone these ten years now.”
He gaped at her. “Ten years,” he breathed. “Did she write this from the grave then?”
Her cheeks, already rosy from the cold, darkened. “Nae. That is, she passed nae long after she wrote that note to you and she did nae have the time to post it before she died. And then ’twas bundled in a box with her other things when her rooms were cleared. My family did not discover it until some months ago.”
She was growing more agitated by the moment under his incredulous stare. With enormous will he schooled his features to a calm he did not feel.
“Dinnae worry, lass. What is done is done.”
But she seemed not to hear him. She took the edges of her shawl in her hands and twisted them as if she wouldstrangle the life out of the frayed ends. “We knew she must nae be resting easy with unfinished business. We set out to find you.” She let loose a bark of nervous laughter, made all the sharper for the hush of the snow-draped landscape. “Imagine our surprise to learn our gran was acquainted with a duke of all people. It was why I came in person, to make certain we were not mistaken.”
The reminder of his title was potent enough to banish his shock. “Yes, well,” he muttered. “I wasnae a duke when she knew me.”
But the return of reality had other realizations becoming clearer as well. He looked down at the crumpled missive in his fist with new eyes, taking in the yellowed edges and stains that he had missed when first reading it, all indicators of age and wear. To think Mrs. Campbell had been in possession of this information all along, had meant to give it to him some decade past. He ground his back teeth together. All but for fate, that fickle, wanton creature.
The granddaughter dipped into a quick curtsy. “Your pardon, Your Grace, but I must go; ’tis a fair way to travel before nightfall.”
He looked about at the snow-laden landscape, then back to the thin shawl held tightly about the lass’s narrow shoulders, and nearly cursed. Damnation, he had kept the girl here quizzing her, and she had been freezing in her no-doubt worn shoes.
“You will come back to Balgair with me,” he said gruffly. “I’ll ready a carriage to bring you wherever you need to go.”
He thought for a moment she would refuse. There was nothing like the pride of a Scottish Highland woman, after all. But in the end she must have been colder than even herealized. Cheeks flaming—all the more violent for the blue beginning to paint her lips and nose—she nodded and followed him back to the castle.
In no time he had the girl settled in a carriage, a hot brick at her feet and her purse heavier by a good quantity of coins. As the conveyance rumbled down the drive, creating deep gouges in the fresh snow, he turned away, heading back inside the house. All the while his mind was spinning and whirling like a child’s toy with all he had learned, not the least of which was the inconceivable fact that Seraphina was not dead, but alive and well.
