the hunting lodge near Balhaire that belonged to Catriona’s nephew, Lord Chatwick.
“Quite grand, isn’t it?” Uncle Knox remarked.
The road curved away from Blackthorn Hall, and Catriona returned her attention back to the road. “Did he really kill his wife, then?”
“You’ve heard it already! That is indeed what the locals say, but I don’t know that he did. Perhaps he sent her off to a convent. Whatever happened, it seems to be fact that she disappeared one night and no one has seen hide nor hair of her since.”
“And no one has looked for her?” Catriona asked.
“Oh, I suppose they have,” he said. “She was, by all accounts, a ginger-haired beauty, beloved by the tenants. I have heard it said she was a bright spot of light in a dismal man’s shadow. How he must have resented her,” Uncle Knox mused.
“Why?”
Uncle Knox laughed. “Don’t you know, Cat? Gentlemen of a certain disposition do not care to be overshadowed by the weaker sex.”
“But murder?” Catriona asked skeptically.
“Yes, well, some men are driven to mad passion by the right woman, darling.” He tapped her hand. “Mind you remember that.”
Catriona rolled her eyes. “Have you met him, then?” she asked. “The duke?”
“What? Why, no,” he said, sounding as if he’d just realized it and was surprised by it.
“If I lived here, I should make a point of meeting him,” Catriona said. “I’ll no’ believe such rumors without meeting the man.”
“So much like your aunt Zelda, aren’t you?” he said, shaking his head. “She would have walked up to Blackthorn and banged the knocker and asked his grace, ‘Did you murder your wife?’”
Catriona smiled.
Her uncle suddenly sat up. “There it is, there is Dungotty!” he said, swiping his hat off his head to use as a pointer.
Dungotty was a glorious house. It was half the size of Blackthorn Hall, but quite bigger than Catriona had expected, and rather elegant. It was at least as big as Norwood Park, her uncle’s seat and her mother’s childhood home. Dungotty was nestled in a forest clearing, and a large fountain spouted water from the mouth of three mermaids in the middle of a circular drive. They were arranged with their arms around each other, their faces turned up to the sun as if they were singing.
As Catriona steered the team into the drive, two men in livery and wigs emerged and took control of the team and helped Catriona and her uncle down.
“I’ve the perfect suite for you, my love,” Uncle Knox said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. “It was once inhabited by the dowager of Dungotty.”
“Who was the family, then?” Catriona asked, casting her gaze up at the frieze above the grand entry.
“What family?”
Catriona gave him a sidelong glance. “The family that was forced to forfeit.”
“Ah, of course! You still harbor tender feelings, I see. I believe they were Hays. Or perhaps Haynes. Well, no matter. It was a very long time ago, and we should allow bygones to be bygones.”
“Spoken like an Englishman,” she muttered.
Uncle Knox laughed. “You might change your thinking when you see the rooms I’ve set aside for you.”
Well, as it happened, Uncle Knox had a point. The rooms he showed her to were beautiful—a bedroom, a sitting room and a very large dressing room. The suite had been done in pink and cream silks, and a thickly looped carpet warmed the wood-planked floors. The bed had an elaborate canopy, and the view out the three floor-to-ceiling windows featured a trimmed lawn and a picturesque glen with hills rising up on either side beyond. In the sitting room, a fire blazed in the hearth. It boasted upholstered chairs, a small dining table and a chaise. But perhaps the most welcome site was the brass tub in the dressing room.
“What do you think?” Uncle Knox asked.
“Aye, it’s bonny, uncle,” Catriona said, and looked up at the ceiling painted with an angelic scene. “Thank you.”
He smiled with pleasure. “Rest now, love. I’ll send a girl and a bath to you before supper. We’ve a fresh ham in honor of your arrival!”
Catriona wasn’t certain if he was more excited by her arrival or the prospect of fresh ham. She was excited by the prospect of a nap and a bath. “Before you go, uncle,” she said, catching her uncle before he disappeared through the door. “I’ve a letter,” she said, reaching into her pocket.
“My sister is determined to rule my life,” he said with a chuckle. “This will be the third letter I’ve received from her in as many weeks. What now?”
“No’ Mamma,” Catriona said. “It’s from Zelda.”
Uncle Knox’s expression softened. He looked at the letter Catriona held out to him. “She wrote me,” he said, his voice full of wonder.
“Aye, that she did. She left three for me to deliver, she did. One for my father. One for the reverend. And one for you.”
Uncle Knox took the letter and ran the tip of his finger over the ink where she’d written his name. “Thank you, my darling Cat,” he said, and hugged her tightly to him.
Catriona was suddenly overcome with a wave of emotion. “You’ll help me, will you no’, Uncle Knox?” she asked into his collar. “You’ll help me preserve what Zelda worked so hard to build, aye?”
“There now, lass, of course I will. But we will save talk of it until later, shall we? You need to rest from your journey and your loss.”
“But I—”
“We’ve plenty of time,” he said, and kissed her temple. “Rest now, darling.” He went out, his gaze on the letter.
Catriona closed the door behind him, then lay down on the counterpane of her bed and closed her eyes with a weary sigh. But as she drifted off to sleep, she kept seeing a broad back, a neat queue of black hair, held with a green ribbon, an arm stretched possessively over the back of an empty chair.
It was impossible to imagine that a man who looked as virile as he would find it necessary to kill his wife. Could he not have seduced her instead? Of course he could have—he was a duke. She’d never known a woman who could not be seduced with the idea of being a duchess.
What, then, had become of her?
HAMLIN GRAHAM, THE Duke of Montrose, Earl of Kincardine, Laird of Graham, was brushing a ten-year-old girl’s hair. It was not his forte, nor his desire.
These were the true troubles of a notorious duke.
“It’s too hard,” the girl, his ward, complained.
“What am I to do, then?” he asked brusquely, annoyed with the task and his clumsiness at something that seemed so simple. “You’ve a bird’s nest on your head.”
The girl, Eula—Miss Eula Guinne, to be precise—giggled.
“Why do you no’ have your maid brush your hair, then? She’s surely better than me.”
“I donna like her,” Eula said.
“Aye, and why no’?”
“Because she’s quite old. And she smells of garlic.”
Hamlin couldn’t argue—he’d caught a whiff of garlic a time or two from Mrs. Weaver.
“I should like a new maid.”
Hamlin