“Not any more than you uncivilized English.” Sébastien scrunched his nose and glared.
“We be half Scottish.” Lillie added.
“That’s even worse, the Scots are barbarians,” Sébastien argued.
“Sébastien!” He called.
“Girls!” Caillen admonished.
“Blast.” Sébastien cursed.
He had no one to blame but himself for his son’s improper language.
“Bugger,” said the girls.
Ailsa laughed and then froze.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever visited a more unruly household in my entire career.”
The children in the doorway tilted their heads back and nearly fell over in a heap as they gaped at Sir Williamson standing above them. Standing six and a half foot tall, the gentleman exemplified his Danish heritage in size and his coolvisage. He was immaculately dressed in a conservative black and grey suit with a crisply ironed white shirt and black cravat. He studied the room with expressionless ice blue eyes while sporting not a blond hair out of place. His manner was as cold as the day Simon had met him, and the children immediately backed out of his way, scurrying underneath his top hat that dangled in his right hand along with a large leather tome, and a folded newspaper that was stuck neatly under the same arm.
Ailsa’s mouth hung open as she gazed up at the man, while Caillen tucked her sister behind her as if she needed to protect her from the giant. In the best of circumstances, Sir Williamson was imposing. When a man was at his weakest, it was a blight on his ego to watch the women in the room examine Williamson so intensely.
“It seems my bedchamber has turned into a drawing room.” Simon said with irritation lacing every word as he grabbed his crutch.
“The last time I was here, this was a drawing room.”
“We’ve had to do a bit of remodeling, which has caused me to move my bedchamber from the upper floors.”
“So I’ve heard.” He dropped the latest edition ofThe Whispers of the Tonscandal rag on the table, and he and Caillen leaned over to read the headline, while Ailsa could do nothing but ogle the man in front of her.
“Bloody hell,” he said.
“Yes, it seems you’re rubbish at keeping a low profile, and very familiar with the fires of hell.” Sir Williamson’s tone held a bit too much sardonic amusement.
Whatever business Caillen’s father had been involved in, it had gotten him killed. It had gotten Simon kidnapped, and tortured, and well on his way to his grave. He wasn’t certain how he had cheated his demise in France, or England and he couldn’ttake a chance on Caillen or any of the children getting caught up in this web of deceit and death.
He watched Caillen devour the image as if it were a sugared biscuit. Her eyes raced across the paper in stunned silence as she took in every detail of the scandalous image. He would be damned if she would experience any more gossip or heartbreak because of him.
Ten
Dear Sisters,
Love is not for the innocent. It is in fact for the wicked. A tool to be used and wielded like a sword on the battlefield. I was correct in my belief that marriage was not for me, yet I was fool enough to be duped; swayed by a pair of sparkling blue eyes, a beautiful smile, and engaging conversation I believed to be heartfelt.
It was a lie, “a ruse for a magnificent fool who stood still and accepted its cutting blow.” Love is not a fairy tale. It is a tragedy for any woman naïve enough to believe the gentlemen of the ton could possibly have the capacity to love. They do not. They love a woman’s connections and her dowry. Nothing more.
A woman is only a vessel to slake their lust. To torment. Beat. Humiliate. Use. Share. Terrorize. Break.
To scar and utterly destroy…
—A letter started by Lady Caillen Blair and never finished when she realized her sisters wouldn’t understand her quote of Shakespeare. Only one man would understand, and he was a prisoner in France. The letter was tossed inthe trash and ended up in the hands of a certain gentleman at the War Office. Upon reading the letter, Sir Williamson decided to keep the footman who recovered the letter in his employ with the Baroness until the Earl of Astley was rescued and could protect her once more.
Acrash outside the floor-to-ceiling glass doors leading to the garden hadn’t even finished resonating before Sir Williamson dropped his hat and belongings and pulled a pistol from his waistcoat. A clay pot lay shattered on the patio as he raced out the door with Simon in pursuit.
Caillen grabbed Simon, clamping down on his forearm, she refused to let go. Even when he nearly dragged her off her feet.
“Caillen, release me,” Simon ordered as he began peeling her fingers from his sleeve.
