“She saved him,” Myrtle added solemnly, stepping forward.
Arran regarded the three McQuoid musketeers with measured wariness. “I am merely pointing out she is a stranger to us. It would be wise to be guarded—”
“You are the absolute worst, Arran,” Fleur shot back. “You weren’t always the worst.”
“No,” Andromena said thoughtfully. “That was Dallin.”
On that point, they weren’t wrong.
“Andromena, Fleur,” Myrtle—always the family peacekeeper—interjected, “please check on Campbell for Lucy, and bring word of any change.”
Immediately promoted to criers on Miss LeBeau’s behalf, the pair sprinted down the hall, slippered feet pounding just as they had in childhood.
Arran returned to his post.
“What exactly do you think you’re doing, big brother?” Myrtle demanded behind him.
He arched an eyebrow.
“Oh, more brooding silence,” she muttered. “Let me be clear. Since your last voyage—”
Arran tensed.
Myrtle knew more than she should about the hell Linnie had endured.
“It left you jaded,” she said, carefully avoiding the details. “But I will not allow you to treat Campbell’s bride-to-be with anything less than kindness and respect. Can you manage that?”
Arran flashed a thin half-smile. “You know me and ladies.” He tugged one of her dark brown ringlets. “I’m only ever—”
“On your best behavior,” she finished with a scowl. “I’m going to check on Campbell. And stop stalking Miss LeBeau’s door—you’ll run her off. She’s skittish enough. We barely convinced her to stay.”
They had to convince her to stay?
Arran froze. Another warning bell rang in his head.
With utter confidence he would obey, Myrtle gathered her skirts and hurried away.
The moment she vanished Arran turned back to Miss LeBeau’s door.
A skittish guest. A mysterious connection. A near tragedy.
Myrtle had revealed far more than she realized.
He intended to remain as long as necessary, until she stepped out of—
The maids who had brought steaming buckets earlier began filing out of the chamber. They had entered with solemnity befitting Campbell’s state.
Now they left smiling. Laughing softly.
As they passed, Arran caught fragments.
“…a most wonderful lady…”
“…Mr. Smith found himself a true treasure…”
They floated by without curtsying, too absorbed in praising Lucy LeBeau, Campbell’s secret betrothed.
Everyone, it seemed—except Arran—had forgotten Campbell’s precarious state.
