He began to put away food at a prodigious rate, while Hester savored a fortifying cup of tea. She’d just realized she’d poured none for him, when he looked up. “You’re not going to join me?”

“In a minute.” She passed him a cup of tea, which he drained and held out to her for more.

This little late-night meal held an intimacy. Hester watched Spathfoy eat with his fingers, while the fire—a wood fire, no less—snapped and crackled softly.

“How long will you stay, Hester?”

She could divine nothing from his question, not hope, not impatience. “I don’t know. Not long. A few days, maybe a span of weeks. Are you in a hurry to see me off the property?”

He paused with a rolled-up piece of ham halfway to his mouth. “You are tired, and this was not at all how you expected your day to unfold. Have I thanked you? I’m not sure how I would have managed both Fiona and Rowan in Aberdeen. One of them would have gotten loose and come to mischief if you hadn’t been on hand.”

“You’re very patient with your horse.” He was patient under other circumstances, too, but she pushed that awareness to the back of her weary mind.

“I’m not patient so much as determined. I get it from both my father and my mother. Eat something before I demolish the entire plate.” He held it out to her, an offering of ham, beef, strawberries, and two buttered scones.

And of peace. He had not allowed her to pick a fight, and she was grateful for his forbearance. “Will you check on Rowan before you turn in?”

“I probably should, but I’ll see you and Fiona up to your room first. The layout of the house isn’t complicated. I’ll give you a tour tomorrow, and you’ll catch on in a couple of days. Go ahead and eat the strawberries, Hester. They’ll go to waste if you don’t.”

Hester. She liked it when he called her Hester rather than Miss Daniels. They were not friends, but it was as he’d said: they were not enemies either.

She ate every last strawberry on the plate.

* * *

Hale Flynn understood politics. Unlike many of his peers, he understood that the role of the British monarchy was changing. Having a Sovereign with a strong familial orientation at a time when the realm was steering its way past shoals that had caused revolutions elsewhere was not necessarily a bad thing.

He understood horses and respected them for their elegance, utility, and sheer, brute strength.

He understood his place in the world, his title being a symbol of stability and tradition in a society where progress was touted on every street corner while bewilderment lurked in the heart of the common man.

He did not, however, understand his own family.

“Why the hell you put up with that idiot gelding is beyond me, Spathfoy. The blighter’s going to toss you in your last ditch one of these days.”

Though hopefully, not until Spathfoy had done his duty to the succession.

Quinworth’s son eyed him balefully across the horse’s back. “I continue to work with Flying Rowan because he’s up to my weight, he tries hard, and he alerts me to ill-tempered, titled lords lurking in the saddle room when I’m trying to groom my beast for a morning ride.”

“Do I employ half the stableboys in Northumbria so you can groom your own horse?”

Spathfoy went back to brushing his mount. “I’ve retrieved your granddaughter from her relatives in Aberdeenshire, my lord. I continue to believe your designs on the child are ill-advised, and hope you’ll rethink them when you meet her.”

Ill-advised was one of Spathfoy’s adroit euphemisms—he had many, when he wanted to trot them out. “Is she simple?”

The brush paused on the horse’s glossy quarters. “She is not simple. She is delightful. She has a gift for languages and arithmetic, she’s full of life and curiosity, and she’s going to be every bit as pretty as my sisters. She’s looking forward to meeting her grandpapa, because that good fellow will provide her a pony and a pet rabbit.”

“Spathfoy, has your horse tossed you on your head since last I saw you?”

“If he has, perhaps it has brought me to my senses. May I assume we’re riding out together?”

“You may.” If nothing else, Quinworth intended to get to the bottom of his son’s mutterings about ponies and rabbits.

Gordie had been the son Quinworth could understand. The boy had been lazy but likable; the man had been charming, with a venal streak, though probably nothing worse than most younger sons of titled families. The army had seemed a better solution than the church, letters, or the diplomatic service.

Quinworth tapped his riding crop against his boot, which made Spathfoy’s horse flinch. “I don’t suppose you ran into your mother when you were larking around Scotland?”

Spathfoy—who had two inches of height on his father—settled a saddle pad onto the horse’s back. “I was not larking around Scotland. I was snatching a child from the arms of her loving family, for what purpose I do not know—except my father allowed as how, did I accomplish this bit of piracy, my sisters would be permitted to marry where they pleased, and Joan would be sent to live in Paris for at least one year. Or do I recall the purpose for my travels amiss?”

The boy had an aggravating knack for making every pronouncement sound like a sermon. He was going to give tremendous speeches in the Lords one day, though Quinworth wouldn’t be around to hear them.

“You do not recall anything amiss. So you did not see her ladyship?”

“Aberdeenshire being a good distance from Edinburgh, I did not.”

He placed a saddle on the horse’s back, then slid it back into place. The animal stood quietly, though it was likely plotting more mischief once the girth was fastened. Quinworth considered asking if her ladyship was still using her son’s estate outside Edinburgh, but somebody had returned a letter he’d sent there not two weeks past, so he held his tongue.

And slapped his crop against his boot.

“For Christ’s sake.” Spathfoy hissed the imprecation as his gelding danced sideways. “If you’re going to torment an animal, at least find one of your own to pick on.”

“My apologies.” He moved away, lest the gelding start kicking and stomping in the cross ties. Spathfoy spoke to the horse soothingly in Gaelic, of all the heathen languages. Quinworth had tried to learn it decades ago, when pleasing his new wife had been the sole compass of his existence.

He’d been a fool. Likely he was still a fool. He walked off, bellowing for his hunter and slapping his crop against his boot.

* * *

“You must be my granddaughter.”

Hester looked up from her eggs and toast to see a tall, older gentleman with graying hair and stern blue eyes standing in the door of the breakfast parlor. The resemblance to Tye was faint, mostly in his bearing and perhaps a little around the eyes.

“Make your curtsy, Fee.” Hester spoke quietly, and leavened the command with a smile. Any other relative of Fee’s—any other Scottish relative, and even Spathfoy—would have known to brace themselves for a hug from the child.

Fiona got out of her chair and curtsied prettily before her grandfather.

“Well done, child. And who would you be?” He barked the question at Hester, making her feel about eight years old and caught snitching tea cakes from the larder.

“That’s my aunt Hester. She came with us.”

Hester expected his lordship to reprimand Fee for speaking out of turn, but the man instead narrowed his eyes on Hester herself.

“If you’re the nurse, then you’ve presumed to dine at the family table for the last time, my girl. You wait outside the door for Miss Fiona to complete her meal, then escort her back upstairs for her lessons.”

He jerked his chin at the two footmen standing by the sideboard, as if to indicate Hester was to be removed bodily, but at least one of them had been on hand the previous evening.

“I am Fiona’s step-aunt, Lord Quinworth. My father was Baron Altsax, and I’ve accompanied Fiona here to ease her transition to your household. It is not my privilege to serve as her nurse.”

She could not give the man the cut direct under his own roof, so she went back to munching well-buttered toast. If this was the fare served to Tiberius with his morning meal, no wonder he’d chosen to absent himself.

“Can I sit down now?” Fiona aimed the question at her grandfather.

“May I.” He sounded exactly like Tye when he offered that admonition.

“May I sit down? My porridge will get cold.”

Something passed over the older man’s features, surprise, possibly, or fleeting humor. “Sit.”

Hester did not engage the man in conversation, though she studied him. He quizzed Fiona in French and then German, and Hester herself was surprised when the girl answered creditably well in both languages.

“When I go to Balmoral, we sometimes speak German when we play.”

“You go to Balmoral?”

“We’re neighbors.” Fee studied her porridge for a moment, as if pondering whether his lordship might need an explanation of the term. “Her Majesty comes to Aberdeenshire for only a few months every year, though. Do you like raisins?” She eyed the scone sporting an abundance of raisins on his lordship’s plate.

“It so happens I do. Hand on your lap, girl. I do not encourage pilfering at table, particularly not before the servants.”

“He talks like Uncle Tye.” This last was directed to Hester.

“I know. This is your uncle’s father, which I suppose explains many of Spathfoy’s unfortunate tendencies.” Hester realized what she’d said as she was putting the last bite of eggs into her mouth. The marquess was staring at her, glaring at her more like, and he’d put down his scone.