“Both things can be true at the same time. Do you have any brothers? Sisters?”
“Nae.”
“And the father—of your child—where is he?”
“I dinnae want to talk aboot him.” Her arms folded across her chest as she turned to the window.
I was honestly astonished I’d gotten as much information out of her as I had, so I left her to her sulk until we arrived at Kilmarnock.
With great relief, I noticed that Fenella had seemingly moved on to greener pastures as we pulled up around the pond.
Kilmarnock looked no more impressive for a night’s rest—if anything, it seemed to have disintegrated further.
Miss McAllen’s gaze widened at the sight of the ruin.
“Didn’t realize the extent of your efforts, I take it?”
She said nothing, but ripped her eyes from the abbey and, instead, focused on a loose thread on her glove, picking at it.
“Nothing to say?”
“I dinnae know what ye want me to say.”
“Nothing at all.” I sighed and spilled out of the carriage to hand her out.
When I turned toward the house, I realized that in my haste to leave the wreckage of my scheme behind, I’d neglected to shut the door—or it had abandoned the pretense of its function entirely and collapsed in on itself; either way I regretted my return.
“Come,” I insisted, leaving Miss McAllen to trail after me up the drive. Weeds sprang up amid the gravel and there was something irresistible about stepping on as many as possible, grinding my foot with every step.
Finally, I reached the open doorway. Whether a breeze or time had blown it in, I had no notion, but the door hung in pathetic resignation halfway swaying back and forth—surrendering to its inevitable demise.
I stepped inside and turned to the drawing room to find that the breeze must have blown the coverings off a table. It, at least, seemed to be in acceptable shape at first glance. The sheet was piled on the floor, gnawed to holes by something I didn’t wish to contemplate further.
“Christ…” Miss McAllen muttered behind me.
“Precisely.”
I turned and made my way down the hall. Nearly half of the floorboards creaked with each step, a depressing symphony as our parade marched on. Yellowed wallpaper hung in moth-eaten sheets, clinging desperately to relevance.
“Are you certain you wish to stay here tonight, Your Grace?” Godfrey called out from near the door, his voice filled with trepidation.
“Wish to? No. Will? Yes.”
“I believe I shall wait out here for the gentleman with the beds—he assured me they would be delivered before nightfall.” I’d be damn lucky if Godfrey didn’t give notice.
I strode forward, past a music room, an office, and a dining room—all in a similar state to the drawing room.
Just as the weary exhaustion settled into my bones, I heard it. A familiar, wretched bleat.
Before understanding could make itself known, I felt the familiar squish under my boot.
I bit my lips together, holding back every curse I knew as I tipped my head to the ceiling—darkened with a depressingly suspicious stain.
“Yer Grace?”
I turned slowly on my heels, facing her. “Yes, Miss McAllen?” I spit between gritted teeth.
“I think ye stepped in something.”
