While Ian watched a bead of moisture trickle from Spathfoy’s hair onto his collar, Spathfoy grimaced and stared at his drink. “Civility.”

“Shall we sit? The fire’s throwing out a little heat, thank God. And do I assume her ladyship’s presence will not be needed for this tête-à-tête?”

Ian moved to the sofa, while Spathfoy lowered himself to a wing chair. The man’s boots squeaked, which more than anything announced that Spathfoy’s errand was not a social call. No English gentleman would jeopardize the welfare of his favorite riding boots had he any alternative.

“No, we will not need to bother her ladyship.” Spathfoy fell silent then met Ian’s gaze with a glacial green stare. “Fiona is my niece.”

“She’s my niece too, and a lovely little girl if I do say so myself.”

“I’m to bring her back to England with me.”

A shaft of pain lanced Ian’s chest, pain for the child mostly, at being ripped from her home and family—if Spathfoy had his way. So many Scottish children had been uprooted at the behest of English convenience. The clearances had gone on since time out of mind, into Ian’s infancy, but his own niece…

And pain for Hester and Ariadne, who had cobbled together a household around the child’s routines and joie de vivre. Ian had done likewise almost since Fiona’s birth.

And then there was Mary Frances’s pain, should her own child be lost to her. This pain was too great to contemplate at any length.

“And why will you be taking Fiona from the only family to love her?”

Spathfoy rose and braced one arm on the mantel. “You’re not going to argue?”

“Answer the question.” Ian kept his seat, the better to watch his guest.

“Familial duty. The marquess has said it should be so, and I’m the logical one to retrieve the girl.” Spathfoy contemplated the fire as if he’d prefer leaping into it to this familial duty.

“What aren’t you telling me, Spathfoy? Quinworth forgets about the girl for years, all but denies her patrimony, and now he wants to reave her away from home the first time her mother isn’t on hand to go with her. Even an English marquess wouldn’t take that queer a start without some provocation.”

“I wish to hell I knew what the old man’s game was.” Spathfoy threw himself back into the chair. “When I came up here, I thought I’d simply collect the child, leave a bank draft with her mother, have a brandy with Altsax, and promise them they could visit her while she was with us. Altsax has a title, and nobody winters up here if they have a choice.”

“I winter up here. Fiona has spent every winter of her life up here.” Something wasn’t making sense. Spathfoy looked not chagrined, but rather, miserable.

Torn.

“I know that, Balfour. I know now that Fiona is well cared for here, and I know her mother and stepfather aren’t on hand to prevent me from taking the child. I did not know these things when I left England.”

“So your own dear papa is not showing you all his cards, and you’re his son and heir. How can you speak for his intentions toward Fiona?”

Spathfoy ran a hand through his damp hair, suggesting Ian’s question had hit a tender spot. “My father has assured me it was Gordie’s express wish, conveyed in his last will and testament, that any of Gordie’s children be raised by Gordie’s surviving family. My father would not lie about such a thing.”

Ian had read law. There was lying, and then there were the English versions of the truth, which were many, varied, and often grossly inaccurate without being what English barristers would call lies. “Have you seen your brother’s will?”

The knuckles on Spathfoy’s hand, the hand holding his drink, were white. “I would not insult my father by demanding such a thing.”

“Ah, but he’d insult you by sending you up here to steal a child without giving you the lay of the land. He’d insult me by sending you to do it without contacting me first as head of Fiona’s family and the man who has been writing to the marquess regularly regarding the child, and he’d insult Lady Mary Frances by failing to extend an invitation to the child’s mother to visit the almighty Flynn family seat with her daughter.”

Ian did not raise his voice, though the urge to shout and break things—Spathfoy’s handsome head included—was nigh overpowering.

“Let me be clear, Balfour.” Spathfoy didn’t shout either. “I am not borrowing Fiona for the rest of the summer. I am taking her to place her in the sole care and custody of the Marquess of Quinworth, her paternal grandfather. That is the purpose of my visit.”

“You will be sure Quinworth’s affairs are in order when you head south, won’t you?” Ian took a sip of his drink, needing spirits to calm his heart as it pounded slowly against his ribs.

“Quinworth’s affairs are always in order.” Spathfoy replied with such assurance, Ian concluded it was Spathfoy’s responsibility to ensure those affairs remained in order.

“That’s just fine then, for Mary Fran will kill your father, Spathfoy. Altsax will load and reload her gun for her if necessary. Fiona’s mother would consider it worth her life to keep Fee safe from Gordie’s family, and particularly from her grandfather. More whisky?”

Spathfoy had the sense to cast a wary glance at Ian’s offer of more drink. The threat to Quinworth’s life if Fiona were kidnapped was far from a jest.

“The whisky would be appreciated, and I will consider that your description of your sister’s behavior is mere dramatics.”

“Laddie, that was not dramatics. That was a promise.” Ian went to the sideboard and brought the decanter to the coffee table. “Help yourself.”

He wasn’t trying to be rude, but he wanted to note whether Spathfoy’s hands shook when he poured himself a drink. “I have to wonder, Spathfoy, why you didn’t simply ride out with Fee, bundle her onto the train in Ballater, and send us a wire she’s being held for ransom.”

“Ransom?” Spathfoy set the decanter on the table—his hands were steady, damn the man. “That is a ridiculous notion. Quinworth’s finances are quite sound. My mother and I have both seen to it.”

Ian would bet his horse Spathfoy hadn’t intended to make that disclosure. “Well, then your dear papa has gone daft, perhaps. I’ve yet to meet an English marquess who ignores his own granddaughter for years, only to demand possession of her with no warning or explanation. Does your father know how much trouble young females can be?”

Spathfoy studied the decanter. “Likely not. He’s turned my sisters more or less over to me, and never had much to do with them when they were younger.” He tossed back his drink and reached for the decanter.

“Then Fiona will at least have the company of some doting aunts, if you take her south?”

“I shall take her south, Balfour. I know my duty, but no, her aunts do not reside at the family seat.”

“Married, are they?” Ian put the question casually while Spathfoy poured himself his third whisky. This was beyond chasing the damp away, past the medicinal tot, and fast approaching manly indulgence. Spathfoy was a big bastard, but he was drinking aged Scottish whisky like it was water.

Or like he was Scottish.

“Not a one of them is married. Not yet, which is the entire—” He fell silent, his drink halfway to his mouth. “They are lovely young women who enjoy the hospitality of various aunts and cousins for the summer. This is very good whisky, Balfour.”

“It is. When are you supposed to take Fiona into the loving arms of that stranger known as her grandpapa?”

Spathfoy stopped staring at his drink to peer at Ian. “Oh, yesterday, of course. With his lordship, everything is yesterday if not the day before.”

Which explained a few of Spathfoy’s unfortunate tendencies. “I can’t allow that. I need time to wire Fee’s mama at least. They will very likely head directly home by way of London, and Hester and Ariadne will need time to pack up Fee’s effects. I’ll want some assurances in writing regarding Mary Fran’s right to visit, as well as my own, Connor’s, Gilgallon’s, and Asher’s.”

“Who?”

“My brothers. With the exception of Asher, they’ve had as much of the raising of Fiona as I have.”

Spathfoy nodded. Being in anticipation of a title, he would comprehend a need to document any understandings. “You’ll draw something up?”

“Give me a week. This will require communicating with my men of business in Aberdeen, and they are not the most responsive bunch.” It would require no such thing, but Spathfoy was hardly going to deny Ian a week’s grace.

The English were stupid that way, though they called it being sporting.

“I’ll write to my father that we’ve had this discussion.” Spathfoy rose, and he did not weave on his feet in any manner.

Ian rose as well. “That’s all we’ve had, Spathfoy. This is discussion on my part, not agreement. I have one demand, though.”

“What would that be?”

“I’ll be the one to explain to Fiona what’s afoot, if and when the need arises. You’re not to be enticing the girl with fairy tales about golden coaches and spun-sugar castles.”

“Fair enough. You have a week, Balfour, and then I’ll be taking my niece south.”

“Our niece.”

They shook hands, and then Ian watched while his guest departed to once again get soaked to his English skin in the bone-chilling Scottish downpour.

* * *

A mean Scottish rain was sufficient to clear Tye’s head in short order, that and the sloppy lanes, which would have Rowan bowing a tendon if Tye weren’t careful. He brought the horse back to the walk and resigned himself to again getting thoroughly drenched.