Page 30 of The Duke's All That
“I’ve settled Phineas in his cage and covered him for the night,” she said, going to the hearth, looking down into the flames. “I thought it best that we talk in private.”
Without realizing it, his hand went to his head. He could still feel the damn pigeon scratching at his skull. He would be surprised if he didn’t have a bald spot after that attack.
Not that he could blame the creature. At least, not now that he was able to think more clearly on the matter. The moment had been charged, tense. The bird had already been agitated; it was only natural that when it had seen its mistress on the ground with someone leaning over her, namely the person she had been quarreling with, its protective urges had been awoken.
But he was beyond grateful that he did not have to deal with the beast tonight. He would rather not have to worry that he would once more fall victim to the creature’s claws. And it was all too obvious that he would need his full focus for the conversation to come.
Seraphina spun about then. She held aloft a liquor bottle and two sturdy glasses, something he had not noticed upon her entrance.
“I also thought this would not go amiss,” she continued, cheeks bright pink, though whether that was from the warmth of the fire or any emotions she might feel was hard to say.
“Oh, God, yes,” he said, suddenly needing alcohol more than he needed breath, hurrying forward and dragging a small table between the two overstuffed chairs by the hearth. She placed her treasures down and sat, busying herself with opening the bottle and pouring generous portionsinto the glasses. Her hands, he noticed as he sat across from her, were trembling. Much like his own were, he reflected wryly as he clenched his fingers into fists in his kilt.
“I’m not planning on getting drunk, of course,” she babbled as she handed him a glass. “I would much rather go into this with a clear head. But I thought a bit of liquid courage would help.”
“Aye,” he agreed gruffly. He watched as, belying what she had just proclaimed, she downed the entire glass of liquor as if it was necessary to her survival. An impressive feat, truly, as now that he’d had time to take a proper look at the bottle, he noticed it was a good strong Scottish whiskey. Swallowing hard, he did the same, reveling in the burn of it through his chest and into his empty stomach. He had a feeling they were going to need this even more than either of them believed.
She slammed the glass down. “There,” she proclaimed. Her eyes glittered with purpose behind the lenses of her spectacles, and for the first time since she entered his room she looked him in the eye. “I’m ready now. Shall we get started then?”
Why did it sound as if she was girding herself to talk with a solicitor in preparation for a particularly unwelcome bit of business? But perhaps, he reasoned as he placed his own glass down, it was best to go at it that way. This subject, after all, would not be pleasant, and could prove to be incredibly emotional.
Sitting straighter in his chair, he nodded. “Verra well. Do you wish to begin?”
“Yes.” She cleared her throat and folded her hands in her lap, looking for all the world like a governess. A delicious, utterly gorgeous governess.
“Let me preface this all by saying that I am not naïve,”she said in clipped, no-nonsense tones. “I shall hear what you have to say on the matter and consider it carefully. As, I expect, you will do as well. We have spent nearly a decade and a half believing one truth; I think you can agree with me that we must go into this with caution.”
He nodded again, which seemed to please her if the satisfied look in her eyes was any indication. But when she opened her mouth to continue, nothing came out. She frowned, blinking several times as her jaw slowly closed. Then, letting out a short burst of air through her nose, she opened her mouth and tried again.
But once more, nothing emerged. Looking troubled, she chewed on her lip.
“Maybe I need more whiskey,” she mumbled before, reaching for the bottle, she said to him, “and mayhap it would be best if you begin.”
“Verra well,” he replied, watching as she downed another glass of the heady, smoky liquor. But when he tried to speak he found himself struck with the same malady Seraphina had been struck with: which was, namely, he didn’t know how the blazes to start. How did you begin to untangle such a mess? It was strange that, in the hours that had led up to this, impatiently waiting for them to be done with the chaos of the day so they might finally get everything out in the open and clear the air, he had not even considered how he would say what he had to say.
Finally, deciding there was no better place than when the whole heartache started, he began.
“I waited for you at our assigned meeting place for what felt like hours,” he said quietly, feeling out the words as the memory fell over him, dank and heavy. “But you never came. I was certain your father must have done somethingto stop you, so I went to his estate. He knew I was coming and was waiting for me. He informed me that he had finally relented to your wishes and would nae force you to go to London for the season, but instead would finance your much-desired travels, with the condition that you leave immediately. And that you had agreed.”
She stared at him, the glass cup halfway to her lips. “And you believed him?”
“Nae without proof.” He sighed and scrubbed a hand through his hair, the devastation of that day coming back to him with a clarity that cut. “I went to Mrs. Campbell for that. And she verified that what your father told me was the truth, that she saw you leave with her own eyes. She had physical proof as well, a package she said was from you.” He could still feel it in his palm, the weight of it so slight yet so very heavy for how completely it had crushed him.
“It was the ring I had placed on your finger just that morning,” he continued, his voice hoarse even to his own ears. “And the scrap of my tartan I had pinned to your dress.”
She was silent, not even a breath coming from her direction, and he chanced a glance up at her. She looked quite literally as if she had been struck.
“But I never would have parted with your ring, or your tartan,” she rasped. “I swear it.”
Despite the fact that he knew better, anger rose up in his breast. “Then how do you explain this, Seraphina?” he demanded. Reaching into the sporran at his waist, he yanked out the very same scrap of tartan he had given her, opening it to reveal the simple silver ring within. He had kept them with him all this time, as a reminder that he should never again trust another.
But once more her reaction took him by surprise. Shestared at the scrap of metal as if it was the most precious thing in the world.
“I did not give it up to anyone, Iain,” she said, her voice quiet, nearly swallowed by the snap and spit of the fire in the hearth. “When I awoke, I noticed it was gone. But I swear I did not remove it myself.”
“Awoke?” His every sense homed in on that one word. It could very well be nothing, of course. So she had fallen asleep somewhere and woken to find it gone.
Yet he could not shake the feeling that there was something more to it. That feeling only grew as she paled and clamped her lips shut. What the devil had happened?
