A fond note tinged his voice that had me biting back a smile.
“And the rest of these?” I asked, lifting up the stack in reference.
“All true, every last one.” He said it with a hint of pride in the curl of his lip.
“She’s a bit of a hellion then. The night at the club was nothing, it seems.”
“An absolute menace,” he agreed before turning back to his paperwork.
Dismissed, I returned to my own. Page after page, I unraveled a tiny bit of the mystery that was Alexander Hasket. Charitable landlord, deliberate landowner, caring brother, and doting son—his heedfulness was written in these pages.
And then I found it. On a page buried near the bottom of my original stack was an address. An address in Scotland. My heart tripped before rushing to catch up for the misstep.
It was wrong. It was entirely inappropriate. Kit would be furious. But God himself couldn’t have stopped me from carefully folding the parchment into fourths—quiet as a mouse—and slipping it into my pocket.
Trembling, I returned to my sorting with a renewed vigor it didn’t warrant, soot fingerprints littering the pages.
At last, around the time my back began to make a serious protest, Kit suggested we clean up and dine at a nearby pub.
Hours that felt like weeks later, I returned to my apartments with a pleasantly full belly and a promise to limit myself to no more than three glasses of scotch and assist at the offices again tomorrow.
I had no intention of keeping either promise, of course, and once I locked the door behind me, I slid down to the floor and pulled the parchment from my pocket—thankfully unharmed for my efforts.
Several glasses of scotch later, I fell into bed, entirely forgetting about the letter I’d written and addressed—abandoned atop my writing desk.
Nineteen
KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 15, 1816
Xander,
I am wonderful. Thank you for asking after me in your last letter. The devastation of missing your sister is etched in every line.
Mother is fretting that you’ve been replaced by a changeling and they wrote your letter. I tried to explain that you’re far too old and unfortunate looking for a fairy to bother with, but she would have none of it. When I reminded her that a changeling would have written a more informative and polite letter she was soothed.
I hope you like the hessians I’ve selected. I agonized over the choice. I am curious though, why did you not pack any?
Best Wishes,
Davina
XANDER
Timeand the grief of his passing usually left me feeling rather wistful when I thought of Gabriel. But Christ the man had made a damn mess of everything he touched.
Years ago, he’d returned from Scotland with the deed to Kilmarnock and handed it off to me with a grin. I’d discovered after his passing that the acquisition hadn’t been strictly aboveboard—instead the estate was won in an ill-considered card game. A practice I was astonished to learn was legal. Apparently, he’d had an even more eventful time in Scotland than he’d let on.
The woman before me was Gabriel in a delicate feminine frame—sharp jaw, heavyset brow, pale skin, straight nose—an exact match for his before it’d been broken in a tavern brawl. And she was staring at me as if I’d grown a second head.
Slowly, she made to shut the door in my face—a fair reaction to my slack-jawed stare.
“Wait—”
“Oh, are ye intending to speak, then?” She even sounded like him, voice low and throaty.
“I—” This wasn’t the time, nor the place. I brushed away my astonishment for the moment. “I’m looking for a Mr. Douglas McAllen.”
Her eyes widened, and she made to slam the door in my face. Instinctively, I nudged my boot against the frame—a choice I regretted immediately when door met boot with shockingstrength. Biting back a curse, I caught the door and pushed it back open.
