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It took over a week for Ian to track his sister to Gretna Green, only to find the giddy twosome had never been there. Charlotte and Monroe had sent decoys in their places. Ten days later—after inquiring at every parish, village, township, and hamlet on the way—he finally caught up with the newlyweds. Merry as grigs, they were ensconced in a quaint inn in Edinburgh.

He cursed himself for a fool. He should’ve known his sister would send him on a false trail. Edinburgh was just across the border from Northumberland. It was only logical Charlotte and Monroe would fly there, not Gretna Green. She’d made a May game of him, yet she was miffed with him for thinking she was genuinely interested in Pickering.

“Really, Ian, Lord Pickering is such a clod-pate. You, of all people, should’ve found it unfathomable I would have any interest in that buffle-headed coxcomb.” She formed her mouth into a moue. “For pity’s sake, he has more hair than wit, and that’s saying something since he’s bald.” Frowning, she declared puckishly, “I’m offended, truly I am. That you’d think I’d make a cake of myself over the likes of stinky Pickering—” She huffed and folded her arms. “Well, it’s beyond the pale.”

Infuriated and incredulous, Ian clenched his hands and clamped his teeth to keep from telling her what a spoiled, inconsiderate, scheming chit she was. By God, the gammon she’d pitched him and her mother. And they’d believed her. Lips pinched tight, he remained obstinately silent, lost in his own recriminations.

I am an idiot.

After harrumphing a bit more, she dimpled and clasped her new husband’s hand. “I’m so very happy. I simply cannot stay annoyed with you, dear brother, and I suppose I do owe you an apology.”

“Indeed, you do. And not only me, but Miss Caruthers.” He narrowed his eyes and made no attempt to keep the anger from his voice. “You intentionally tarnished her good name, all as part of a hoax? I never would’ve thought you capable of such calculated cruelty.”

He’d always hoped she’d be more honorable and kinder than her mother.

Charlotte blinked at him, opening and closing her mouth like a gasping trout. Finally, she sputtered, “I was but play acting.”

Recalling her most convincing histrionics and her hourly flood of tears, Ian said dryly, “Even your mother believed you enamored with the earl.”

Looking taken aback, a shadow flitted across Charlotte’s features. Casting an adoring glance at her husband, she conceded Ian’s point. “Well, yes, but it was necessary lest Mother suspect my true affections lay elsewhere. And she was acting so odd of late.”

Ian allowed there was some substance to that; a great deal of substance, truth to tell.

“She was always talking to herself, wandering about the woods in the wee hours, gathering all sorts of weeds and such.” Two neat rows wrinkled her usually smooth brow. “Ian, she really was most peculiar, especially after Papa’s and Geoff’s deaths. It…frightened me.”

“It was still wrong, Charlotte. You could’ve spoken to me.” He was her guardian after all.

“After Papa and Geoff died, I couldn’t bear to lose Trevor too.” Charlotte’s doe-like brown eyes filled with tears. She snuffled into her handkerchief. “I simply couldn’t.”

“Why did you drag Miss Caruthers into your Cheltenham tragedy?” Genuinely curiosity promoted Ian to ask. Why had she involved Vangie in her theatrics?

“Well, as to that, brother dearest, one has only to meet Miss Caruthers to know she’s not any of those horrid things Mother and I alluded to.” Now it was Ian’s turn to gape as Charlotte rattled on. “You’re so perceptive. I knew I could rely on you to fudge out the truth regarding her moral character straightaway.” Angling her head, Charlotte studied him. “You didn’t seriously attempt to ruin the sweet girl, did you?” For the first time, she appeared truly chagrined, concerned for someone other than herself.

“I married her.”

Charlotte’s reaction wasn’t at all what he expected. Squealing, she clapped her hands before launching herself at him and covering his face with kisses. “It’s so perfectly romantic. I knew you’d see what a darling she is. You two are simply ideal for each other.”

Vangie mightn’t agree.

She descended on her husband, wrapping her arms around him and sighing. “Is it not wonderful, Trevor? Ian’s found love too.”

Judging by the hungry look smoldering in Monroe’s eyes, Ian concluded his new brother-in-law had much more pressing matters on his mind than offering his congratulations. Namely how to courteously suggest Ian push off so he could entice his wife into a satisfying afternoon tussle on the feather tick dominating the small rented room.

Obligingly, Ian bid them farewell, eager to return home to his own wife. And if fate smiled kindly on him, mayhap he’d have his own honeymoon.

Twenty-two days after leaving Somersfield, Ian trotted Pericles into the paddock outside the extensive stables. Past midnight, a cocoon of tranquility swathed the night. A dove cooed sleepily, perched aloft in one of the massive oak trees looming over the main barn.

He had envisioned breeding the finest horseflesh in the north of England here. Now, with the acquisition of the Arabian-blooded stock, he pursued that dream.

Gerard, the stable master, approached lantern in hand. His slow, shuffling gait gave Ian plenty of time to dismount. Another form plodded unhurriedly from the barn. Gerard waved the sleepy groom away. “Go on with ye, Ben. I’ll see to the beasty.”

Mumbling an unintelligible answer, the young stable hand ambled back into the dark building. Soft welcoming nickers accompanied his return.

“Pleased to have ye home, Lord Warrick.” Gerard yawned sleepily, patting the lathered animal on his glistening neck. “Ye rode him hard, ye did.” He crooned softly to the stallion, his hands never breaking their soothing contact with the horse.

“Aye, I did at that.” Ian smiled and patted the horse’s rump. “I’ve a bride waiting for me.” Slapping the dust from his thighs, he made for the manor, calling over his shoulder, “Rub him down well, won’t you, Gerard? And an extra portion of grain for him too. He earned it.”

Entering the silent manor, Ian went directly to his bedchamber. Though he ached to see Vangie, he didn’t want to waken her this late. Besides—he sniffed, crinkling his nose in distaste—he sorely needed a bath. But he’d not wake his valet or disturb the other servants and demand bathwater at this ungodly hour. He’d have to wait until morning to greet his wife.