“Nae just me. Everyone is working on Dalkeith.”
“Dalkeith?”
“Palace,” Lock filled in. “The duke is having it remodeled.”
Which duke?Iwas a duke. What good was having a damn title if I couldn’t throw it around on occasion? If it could not get me what I wanted as I wanted it?
“What am I to do?” I repeated inanely.
The man shrugged. “Dinnae ken. But ye’ll not find good help.” With that, he set off, out through the door and into the yard. I heard Fenella bleat him a greeting from her place tied up to a different—hopefully sturdier—tree.
Sorcha had the decency to look chagrined. Godfrey’s expression remained stoic, while Lock seemed to waiver between disinterest and amusement. I wasn’t entirely certain what the man was still doing here. But, given his ready assistance, I wasn’t willing to begrudge his presence.
My chest was knotted painfully tight, each breath a struggle on both inhale and exhale.
In silence, we sat around the scarred table. I was waiting for someone to pipe up with an idea—presumably that was everyone else’s design as well. The morning’s breakfast settled like a rock in my belly, plopped there like a lead cannonball, sinking down, down, down.
At last, I could stand the silence no longer. “Any suggestions?”
“No, lad,” Lock retorted. Sorcha shook her head, at least feigning a contrite expression.
“You and I return to London?” Godfrey supplied.
“I cannot, you know I cannot.”
“I know no such thing.”
Before I could change the subject, I heard the familiar sound of hoofbeats through the open—broken—window.
My stomach twisted warily. There was no indication that it was bad news, none except the dearth of good news in recent days.
No sooner had I stepped out the front curtain than a carriage rounded the corner. It was an older model, but well cared for, and I did not recognize it.
I waited for it to drive past the wreckage of my life, but instead it turned around the pond. The driver stopped short, avoiding Fenella’s irritated bleat.
Something settled deep in my spine, an awareness, perhaps a recognition. Whatever it was, it felt like hope.
When the door opened, I wasn’t surprised to meet with Prussian eyes and the teasing smirk of Tom Grayson.
Twenty-Five
KILMARNOCK ABBEY, EDINBURGH - JULY 16, 1816
TOM
The journey was long,and dull, and astonishingly fast. When the driver informed me that the changeover would be my last, I was nowhere near ready to face him.
I wouldn’t have been disappointed if those last few miles took years. It had all seemed so simple in Hugh’s study. Travel to Scotland, confess my feelings, kiss Xander until neither of us remembered the purpose of air—mere trivial concerns. But as the distance between us shrank, my nerves grew.
Scotland was a novelty to me. The lush forests and clear skies were lovely—even if I couldn’t make out the precise shade. The air out here was crisp and bright—as Xander predicted—and lacking the stench of London.
Though I longed to stretch my legs outside of this blasted carriage, I wasn’t prepared for what came next. For the entire journey I had considered what I might say upon arriving at Xander’s doorstep.
I’d considered excuses and fibs. I’d considered a declaration. I’d considered abandoning this idea as folly and returning to London, hat in hand.
Butterflies danced in my stomach as they had for the best part of my trip to such an extent that I could hardly eat.
As we passed a small woodland abutting a little pond, we rounded a bend onto an overgrown gravel drive. Just beyond the pond was a ramshackle brick house. At one point, it had certainly been fine, but time and nature had reclaimed it. So I was all astonishment when we slowed to a stop in the drive.
