Page 54 of The Secret of the Three Fates
Andrew muttered beneath his breath, then let out a weary sigh. “May I ask what was important enough for you to intrude upon my privacy when I specifically gave instructions to be left alone for the afternoon?”
His tone sounded precisely like Mr. Owen’s when he’d noticed I’d misshelved his Romantic poets.
Andrew rubbed his jaw. “I presume you know enough to hold your tongue about what you saw in there.”
“Of course, I do. I’m not a fool.” My chest ached and I reached up absently, rubbing at the tender scar. “I don’t even know why the governmentcareswhat happens willingly behind closed doors between adults. One would think with everything going on in the world that they would have better things to do withtheirtime than worrying about what we do withours.”
Andrew arched a brow. “Pretty words without action, Miss Vaughn.”
I bristled, but deserved his ire. “Be that as it may—in my experience, one cannot control whom one loves. Trying to do so would be like changing the tide or making the sun rise in the west—a pointless endeavor at best.”
The edge of his mouth twitched slightly as he leaned back against the dark wood paneling. “My father does not hold such modern opinions. I think he’d prefer to be well shut of me if I weren’t the heir. Unfortunately for him, he’s quite thoroughly stuck with me.” Andrew’s face took on a wistful expression as he stared into the empty hall behind me. “Uncle Owen understood though. I think sometimes that’s another reason Father despises him so. He thinks that Uncle had some hand in the fact I prefer the company of men to women. An absurd notion as I scarcely even knew Owen until I was at Oxford, and by then I’d already had my first lover and was plenty old enough to know my own mind.”
“Your father knows about him?” I tilted my head to the shut door.
“I’d not meant for him to learn of it, but yes. Father begrudgingly accepts the fact I will not give him up. Though I think he does eventually hope I’ll do what Uncle Owen did.” Andrew’s accent broadened dramatically as he did a terribly good impression of his father’s speech. “‘Why don’t you go on and marry a bonny lass, boy? Surely you can get at leastonebairn on her before you go back to your way of sin.’” He gave me a sad small smile and shrugged. “But alas, poor Andrew. See that’s the difference between my uncle and me. I cannot bring myself to live a lie. I won’t do it.”
A shiver ran up my spine. “What exactly do you mean,do what Uncle did?”
“Come now, Miss Vaughn. Surely you know some of his past. How can you not? What has he told you?”
“Little,” I admitted with a frown. “I know he’s Hawick andthat Mariah had been engaged to your father before Mr. Owen married her and that’s why the two of them don’t get along.”
Andrew cocked his head in acknowledgement. “That was certainlypartof their bad blood, but not all of it. From what I understand Uncle Owen and my father were nothing alike. My father’s always been a religious man. Strict and hard like his mother. Uncle Owen…” Andrew sighed. “He loved books and art and the unknown. He had a healthy disregard for rules of polite society, even when he ought to have been a bit more careful in his dealings.”
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me…”
“Only that my uncle was one of the greatest rakes in British history. His list of lovers as a young man was legendary, and put even Lord Byron to shame. It’s a wonder he settled down at all to marry Mariah. But after she disappeared—the way they tell it—he nearly drowned himself in liquor, leaving a trail of devastation a mile wide before he finally disappeared, only to reappear a few years later with a proper second wife. Father was angry with him before, but after that… he forbade Owen from setting foot in Hawick House ever again. I don’t think he’s ever forgiven Uncle for moving on with his own life after Mariah died. Father saw it as an insult to her memory. It’s mad, I know—but my father has never been a reasonable man.”
“I need to speak to him.”
“My father? Why on earth would you want to talk to him? The man is an utter nightmare.”
I let out a laugh. “Well. Yes, I probably ought to speak with him too—but I meant Mr. Owen. I need to get to Rivenly. I have some questions for him that I’d meant to ask before he confessed to killing Lucy.”
“Are you still seeking out the killer?”
“I cannot let Mr. Owen suffer for something we both know he didn’t do.”
Andrew hesitated, but thought better of whatever he was about to say. “Hugh, my driver, can take you as far as the ferry to the Isle of May then bring you back here straightaway. I’ll try to keep Kivell from killing me before you return.”
A smile tugged at my lips. “That would be splendid, but Andrew, I have one more question. And I need you to be completely honest with me.”
“Of course, Miss Vaughn.” He mirrored my position, folding his arms across his chest.
“Why were you following Genevieve? I don’t believe you wish Mr. Owen harm. I don’t believe you wishmeharm. But there is one—possibly two—dead mediums now and you were seen in the third’s room. I need you to tell me why.”
Andrew shifted where he stood. “For the same reason as you. I love my uncle—and I am determined to find out who means him harm.”
“And what would you do if you found them?” I asked.
He cleared his throat and straightened. “Let me have Hugh bring the car around. You should make haste to Rivenly, it’ll take most of a day to get there and back.”
And as I watched Andrew walk away, I began to wonder what I might do if I found the person who meant Mr. Owen harm. He wasn’t my blood, but he was family all the same. Mr. Owen, Ruan, Mrs. Penrose, even the dreadful cat. They were mine, and I had learned one fundamental truth about myself in the last few years—I would allow no one to harm what was mine.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWORivenly
HOURSlater, in fresh clothes and once again in possession of the stolen negatives, I finally reached the Isle of May. It was just before dawn, having taken several hours to traverse the country roads from Edinburgh to Anstruther where I was able to catch a ferry across the Firth of Forth. A maelstrom of seabirds cried out overhead, swooping down around the little flat-bottomed boat as we approached the great stone cliffs of the Isle of May rising from the swirling waters.
