The lady was aunt by marriage to the niece Tye must kidnap.
Another lining through.
The lady was aunt by marriage to the niece whom Tye would escort to the family seat, and the lady’s presence would aid the child in adjusting to her improved circumstances.
Improved was a stretch. He scowled at his list, scratched out “improved,” and wrote “new.”
Two minutes later he balled up his list and tossed it into the fire. Hester Daniels was a nobody—a younger daughter of a mere baron, and her brother was all but disdaining to use the title. As much as Tye might find the lady suitable, Quinworth would make her life hell.
Whisky was putting odd notions in his head. He stared at where the fire was consuming the crumpled list, turning paper to ash.
Hester wasn’t his mother, though. She wouldn’t run off if Quinworth turned up difficult. Hester could give the old man what for and never even raise her voice.
And she was quite passionate.
He started making another list.
Ian watched his wife climb into bed, something a year of marriage ought to have made into a prosaic, end-of-day sight.
Though it hadn’t. Each and every night, he feasted his eyes on the way firelight brought out red highlights in her dark hair. Each and every night, he waited for the moment she settled on the mattress, drew her nightgown over her head, and ranged her warm, female curves along his tired body.
“Come to bed, Husband. You’ve been brooding at that fire since we came down from the nursery.” She tossed off her nightgown, drew the covers up over herself, and lay back against the pillows.
Ian crossed the room, laid his dressing gown over her nightgown at the foot of the bed, and climbed in beside her. “The rain has made your son sleepy, I’m thinking. He hears it like a lullaby.”
“Growing has made him sleepy. He’ll likely be every bit as tall as you.” She cuddled up; he looped an arm around her shoulders and felt some of the day’s tensions ease out of him.
“He’ll be taller, because his mama is a fine, strappin’ countess who brings her own height to the equation. Do you think the lad would be up to a social call later this week?”
“To see Lady Ariadne? Of course.” She traced a single finger over Ian’s breastbone. “What has you in such a taking, Husband? I know Spathfoy came to visit this afternoon, but he didn’t stay long.”
Ian trapped her fingers in his and brought her knuckles to his lips. “Damned man is intent on taking Fee south, Augusta. I’m not sure I can stop him.”
She rose up on her side, peering at him by the dying firelight. “How can he just take Mary Fran’s daughter, Ian? Do you mean for a visit?”
“No, my heart, I do not mean for a visit. Quinworth has taken some notion to retrieve his long-lost granddaughter, and Spathfoy is charged with seeing it done.”
Augusta was silent for long moments after she resumed her position at Ian’s side. “This is not good, Ian. Quinworth is an old-fashioned aristocrat who probably thinks children should be seen and not heard.”
Old-fashioned aristocrats were capable of worse notions where little girls were concerned—or not so little girls. “Spare the rod and all that rot. Fiona will not deal well with such treatment. Mary Fran grew more rebellious the more Grandfather tried to set limits for her. Fiona will be no different.”
“Doesn’t he need to file some sort of lawsuit?”
“Yes, he does, but I’m thinking he’d do so in English courts.” Ian stroked a hand over his wife’s hair, the very feel of it soothing his worries. “Gordie was English, so his children would arguably be English.”
“But Fee was born in Scotland to a Scottish mother.”
“Who was married to an Englishman at the time of the child’s birth.”
Augusta cradled Ian’s jaw, then drew a finger scented with lavender across his lips. “Do we know exactly when Gordie died? I thought Fee was a posthumous child.”
“She…” He fell silent. They’d gotten word of Gordie’s death after Fee’s birth, but the ocean was wide, the Canadian wilderness almost as vast, and Ian had never gotten an exact date. “Wife, you give me hope, but at best, all I can do with this issue is slow Quinworth down. Spathfoy says the old man has Gordie’s will, and Gordie’s wishes are made very plain therein. Fee’s to go to her father’s family.”
“If I didn’t hate Gordie Flynn before…”
“He was trying to do what was best for his child, Augusta.”
“And I will do what is best for my husband.” She rose up and straddled him in all her naked glory. “When do Mary Fran and Matthew plan to get home?”
“That’s just it.” Ian wrapped a hand around her nape to urge her down within kissing range. “I haven’t heard a damned thing from them. I’ve sent a dozen wires, and they haven’t answered a one.”
She brushed his hair back from his brow, flipped her braid over her shoulder, and set about distracting him from the substantial worry Fee’s situation had become.
For two days, a cold, miserable rain fell without pause, though in Hester’s heart, she felt a slow sunrise. Spathfoy did not ride his horse out, but had a footman take correspondence into Ballater for him both days.
Hester had peeked at the addresses. They were letters to family, to the marquess, and to Spathfoy’s sisters, at least one of whom was residing at the family seat in Northumbria.
Hester liked that he wrote to his sisters, didn’t just append little postscripts for them to the marquess’s missive. She liked that Spathfoy took tea with Aunt Ariadne in the afternoon and listened to the old woman prattle on about “dear Prinny” and “poor old George,” as if they’d been neighbors of hers for years.
Which, given that Aunt had bided in London with two of her husbands, they very nearly had.
Hester also liked that last night’s evening meal had been shared by her and the earl alone, Aunt Ariadne claiming the damp was making her bones ache fiercely.
Hester did not like that Spathfoy hadn’t made one single overture of an intimate nature, though he was doing a creditable job of entertaining Fiona at cards as the afternoon wore on.
“You can’t cheat at this game,” Fiona admonished him. “I’ll watch you every minute, you see, and the cards are all right before us. There are two ways to cheat. You can peek at the cards as you lay them down, or you can peek at them if I have to get up, say, to fetch a cup of tea.”
She was shuffling the cards as she spoke, her hands appallingly competent for such a small child.
“And are we permitted to wager?” his lordship asked. They were on the rug in front of the hearth, the earl sprawled on his side, while Fee sat cross-legged on a pillow before him.
She paused in her handling of the cards. “Is wagering permitted, Aunt? I haven’t much money, because I’m saving it up for a present for Mama when she comes home.”
“I’m not going to be a banker for either of you.” Hester put her novel aside. She hadn’t absorbed a single word the entire time she’d been curled in her wing chair, though the pretense had allowed surreptitious enjoyment of the sight of Spathfoy at leisure. “You could wager favors, I suppose. Say, a ride on Rowan for some favor of the earl’s choosing.”
“Uncle already promised me a ride.”
Spathfoy eased up to tailor-sit across from the child. “We could wager future favors.” His gaze traveled from the cards Fee was shuffling to where the ruffled hem of Hester’s petticoat peeked from beneath her skirt.
Fiona peered at the top card, then returned it to the deck. “You mean we could ask each other for anything? I could ask you to teach me to ride Rowan?”
“You might.” He studied Hester’s hands now, making her skin heat as she tucked her hem over the lace at her ankles. “Or we might agree on some limits, like something that can be done in the space of an hour.”