“Ye ken yer history, lass.” Smith nodded with approval. “Ye’re right, there were rumors that the duke had gone mad after the death of his wife. There are mentions of it in the estate manager’s diary and in some written by his family as well, but after his daughter’s death, other than some forgetfulness that most historians now chalk up to Alzheimer’s, the duke seemed to be a changed man. He returned to London and took back the reins of his dukedom.”
“Good for him.” Though Mikah had to wonder if Harry Ashburn hadn’t been happier as he was. Hero’s oldest brother had always been the ambitious sort.
“Have ye seen all ye needed then?” Smith asked, and Kris readily agreed, his cheeks already chapped by the cold winds. “Come inside then. I’ll ha’ some hot tea for ye.”
Kris made a face and the old man’s face fell into pleasant folds as he smiled.
“Dinnae fash yerself, lad. It’ll be mostly whisky anyway.”
Kris cheered up considerably. “I’m in then. Mikes?”
“I would love some. Thank you, Mr. Smith. You’ve been so kind.”
“Oh, I dinnae ken about that, but I do my best.” He patted her hand. “Are ye sure yer well? Ye look a wee bit sad.”
“Well, it was a very sad story, wasn’t it?”
“That it was, lass. That it was.”
They followed Smith back to the castle hand in hand. “Are you all right?” Kris asked softly, wrapping an arm around her shoulder.
“I will be,” she said. “Can we go now?”
“First thing in the morning,” he promised. “I’ll need to call and see if I can change our flight.”
Chapter Forty-Two
“Good evening, my lord.” Smith stopped next to the table of one of his guests in the restaurant that evening to make the greeting. He knew the earl well, though he’d been far friendlier with the earl’s late father. Of course, it was hard not to know one’s neighbors, even when they were fifty-five kilometers away. In an area as sparsely populated as this, they might as well have been right next door. If that hadn’t been enough, he’d have made a point of it otherwise. He had an interest in the goings on the area. “I was pleased to see ye could make it to the auction.”
He had, of course, made it a point to mail a catalog to each of the surrounding households, more as a courtesy than an invitation to most. He’d hoped someone from the Earl of Ballantrae’s household might come, but admitted to himself he hadn’t counted on a showing by the earl himself.
“We’ll all be sorry to see you go,” Ballantrae said politely, “but Mother and I both wish you luck.”
“Aye, it had to be done, ye ken? My time here is almost at an end. But the preservation people will take care of what’s left. They’ve been verra helpful.” Smith studied the earl with a keen eye. Tall and dark, Jace MacAuliffe was the image of his late father in his prime. The earl was in his middle thirties now. Past time to be a father himself. Over the years, he’d come to Cuilean often. As a lad happily playing in the halls while his bonny mother took tea with Smith’s sister.
As an adult, Ballantrae had shown himself a fine example of a Scottish laird. Responsible, patriotic, aristocratic. Never had Smith seen that veneer slip as it had today, and the innkeeper found he couldn’t keep his inquisitiveness to himself. “Did ye win everything you were hoping to? A few memories of your childhood?”
“Something like that,” Ballantrae responded smoothly, taking a sip of his wine.
Smith raised a brow at that. The earl had bid on a curious collection of items throughout the course of the day, some halfheartedly, others fanatically. None of them the playthings of a child. “The music box?”
“As you said, a childhood memory.”
“The jewelry you won?”
“A gift for my mother,” he answered. “You know she always enjoyed those displays.”
Smith frowned. There was more to it than that. Ballantrae had won some jewelry, true, but the auction coordinator told him that the earl had specifically asked after another piece of jewelry, a piece that hadn’t been in the brochure. He’d detailed a ring of diamond and sapphire, certain it should’ve been among the family heirlooms. Smith had never seen any such ring in all his years in the castle and he’d been through the place from top to bottom more than once. Aye, there was something there. “May I sit, my lord?”
“Yes, of course,” his neighbor responded politely, shifting to the side, and as he did so, a cane fell to the floor.
Smith picked it up as he sat and handed it back. “My sympathies on yer injury, lad. Yer mother was in tears when she came with the news.”
“Mother is a worrier,” came the prevarication. Clearly the earl had no desire to speak of it. “What can I help you with, Smith?”
“It’s the portrait, laddie.”
“The portrait?”
