As unpleasant as the encounter had been, he felt a sense of relief. He knew where the money had gone and why – and although he did not like the thought of blackmail going on beneath his nose, or of a long-term member of staff being deceitful, he thought the matter could be put to rest. He would send his man of business to see this Mr Cavin, and if that did not work, he would pay the man a visit himself.
And Dunloch's accounts would all be in order the following month, he was sure of it. He trusted Mrs Simmons and knew she must have been desperate to have done such a thing.
Had the mistake in the accounts not been noticed, he wondered how long the villain would have continued blackmailing her.
It was a good job that the mysterious lady was quite so nosy… Although he would certainly never tell her that.
Chapter Eleven
The following morning, with the lady still not having recovered her memory, they breakfasted together and then James went about his usual business. As he passed the parlour, he heard a gentle melody coming from the piano. He stood in the doorway for a moment, listening, for the piano got very little use. His mother had been the pianist, and despite hours of lessons, his sisters were still no more than basically proficient. He himself had never had the time nor inclination to learn the instrument.
The door was ajar, and he managed to peek in without disturbing it. It was, of course, the mystery woman sitting at the piano, her fingers seeming to effortlessly glide across the keys.
Then she began to sing to herself, and he found he was mesmerised. Her voice was beautiful, soft, and haunting, and he was surprised to find he could have stood there listening for hours.
Not that he had hours to spare, of course. But, in that moment, he forgot about everything else.
The song was a simple one about a lark greeting the morning sun. She had no music or lyrics in front of her, so she clearly had some memory of her life before – otherwise, she surely would not know how to play.
She was such a mystery. He’d gone through so many ideas of who she might be: a lady, a commoner, a spy of some sort,sent to infiltrate his home – although to what end, he did not know. He had never given the government any reason to doubt his abilities as Duke, he was sure. Or his loyalties. He was loyal to King and country, even if his family’s seat happened to be just over the border in Scotland.
But he was English through and through. There was no hint of a Scottish accent, no plaid in his wardrobe, and not even any Scottish ancestors. Just a Scottish castle and a title that had been given to his ancestor and passed down through the family.
She paused in her playing, and he wondered if he’d been spotted. He felt guilty for watching her, then told himself he was being ridiculous. It was his home, after all. And he had regularly found her where she shouldn’t be.
But she did not come over to the door. Instead, she made her way to the window, looking out over the loch and choosing a new song about the Lady of the Lake. He could not remember the last time he had sung or when this house had been filled with the sound of music.
It should have made him angry, for she was certainly distracting him from his work, whether she intended to or not. And what was more important than his ducal duties?
And yet...he could stay a moment longer, surely. After all, she had solved the mystery of his figures, even without knowing who she was. He had confronted his housekeeper, discovered the truth, and now everything was put to rights. He was rather ashamed, really, that he had not noticed the discrepancy himself and had needed it pointed out to him by a woman. But then, he supposed that household ordering was more of a woman’s task. He just liked to think he was kept abreast of everything in his household.
He had settled on the idea that she must be a great lady. Due to her knowledge of castles, for one, and the way she sangand played so beautifully. She was certainly not some lady’s maid who had run amok with her mistress’s boat.
But then why had he not heard of anyone looking for such a daughter? How far had she come? And when would she remember who she was?
???
Penelope had offered to collect some supplies from the local village to have a reason to leave the castle. She was used to doing what she wanted, when she wanted, but she stayed close so as not to raise suspicion. Now, she wanted to stretch her legs and blow away the cobwebs, as well as do a little more investigating into the Duke.
So far, she had deduced that he was responsible with his finances, fair to his staff, and, though a little brusque, a good brother and guardian to his three younger sisters. How she would have liked to meet them and get their opinion, but alas, that was not to be.
What she could do, she thought as she watched the groom saddle a horse for her, was see what his tenants thought of him. Whether they feared him, whether they felt he was reasonable, whether he dealt with their issues in a timely manner.
And then, she thought as she rode into the village, loving the feeling of the wind whipping through her hair – which had been clumsily plaited by her own hand – she wanted to spend the evening testing whether he had a sense of humour. He was a very serious man, and that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. But surely it did not pay to be so serious and brooding all the time? Surely one had to have fun on occasion, else life would be very dull.
The village was only small, far smaller than Amblewood, and it did not take long to locate the apothecary and collect therequested items. With plenty of time before she was expected back at the castle for luncheon, she strolled through the village, leaving her borrowed mare tied up to wait for her.
"Good morning," she said to anyone who met her eye, offering a friendly smile. Since no one knew who she was, there was no reason for them to offer respect automatically or to be scared of her and her family’s influence. She was certainly dressed in finer clothes than most, but other than that, she felt she could blend into the crowd fairly easily.
It was market day, and so she perused the stalls, rather wishing she had some money with her. She saw some beautiful ribbons and oranges which looked irresistible.
But of course, when she had left Amblewood two days earlier – and she could hardly believe it had only been two days, but the Duke had assured her that she could not have been unconscious for very long, considering when the storm had been – to go out on her boat for the morning, she had not brought any coins. She wasn’t going to ask the Duke for money, either. It was not his place to purchase things for her.
"Do you know much about the castle up there?" she asked a fishwife, although she instinctively wrinkled her nose at the smell of the gutted fish before her. She had never particularly liked fish, although, if she had to be around them, she certainly preferred them alive.
"Dunloch?" the woman asked in a broad Scottish accent. "Aye, everyone around here knows Dunloch. Home o’ the Duke of Dunloch, y’see, for the past three generations."
Penelope nodded. It wasn’t that she was uninterested in the castle, for she generally found them quite fascinating. But now she had a more specific topic in mind: the inhabitant of the castle.
