"I'm sorry," Lucien said quietly. "No matter how difficult the relationship, losing a parent has to be a blow."
"The end of an era, certainly, but don't waste your sympathy on me." Michael stared at the scrawled lines. Benfield was a responsible fellow; he would make a good duke.
Better than the bitter old man he was succeeding. He had even politely requested a meeting, saying they had matters to discuss.
Unable to think of anything the two of them might say to each other, he touched the corner of the letter to a burning candle on the desk. The paper blackened, then burst into flame.
I would have been your son if you had wanted me to be. His chest constricted as painful regret washed through him. If the old duke had wanted filial love and loyalty, he could have had them so easily. Michael had desperately wanted to love; perhaps that was why later he had loved so unwisely.
Before the flames could scorch his fingertips, he threw the burning scrap into the fireplace. "I'll be going out of town tomorrow, probably for a fortnight or so."
"I presume the burial will be at Ashburton."
"No doubt, but that's not where I'm going. Some other business has come up."
"You're not attending your father's funeral?" Lucien could not keep shock from his voice, but then, he had loved his father.
"My presence would be unwelcome." Not ready to explain, even to Luce, Michael watched the paper crumble to ash. With luck, it was the last connection he would ever have with the Kenyon family.
He raised his head. Lucien had the worried expression Michael had seen before on his friends, though not in the last two years. He wanted to assure Luce that there was no need for concern, but he was too drained to find the right words. He said, "I'm not expecting anything urgent, but if you should need to reach me, I'll be staying on the Isle of Skoal under the name Colin Melbourne."
His friend's brows rose. "What are you up to? Deception is usually my specialty."
"Merely a bit of dragon slaying." Michael halted, suddenly remembering his childhood nurse. Fanny had been a good-natured country girl, the closest thing he'd had to a mother. In her bedtime stories, she had combined Saint George and the Archangel Michael into one swashbuckling, heroic figure called Saint Michael. Michael would dream of slaying dragons, saving maidens, and performing other great feats. If he did that, surely he would win the approval of his father, and the hand of the most beautiful princess in the world.
But his father was not his father, and the beautiful princess was married to another man. A pity that Fanny hadn't been educated enough to tell him about Don Quixote, who was the real model for Michael's life. Face set, he began describing a steam engine company he was considering for investment. Lucien tactfully accepted the change of subject, and there was no more discussion of the late, unlamented Duke of Ashburton.
It wasn't until he went to bed that night that Michael realized how lucky he was. Helping Catherine was the perfect antidote to what would otherwise be a bleak time.
I wanted another son. Instead, I got you.
Chapter 20
"There's a post chaise outside," Amy reported. She glanced over her shoulder. "Are you positive I can't come with you?"
"Positive. I want to be sure this new grandfather deserves to meet my daughter." Catherine hugged Amy. "But if he behaves himself, just think-someday you may be the Lady of Skoal!"
"It does sound rather grand," Amy admitted. "If you like the old gentleman, send for me and I'll come right away."
"We'll see. I promise I won't be gone too long."
Catherine went outside, accompanied by the whole family and both dogs. As the driver packed the baggage away, Anne said, "I wish you weren't traveling alone."
"I'm not alone with a driver and a postboy. Besides, this is England, not Spain. I'll be safe." More guilt; now she was lying to her best friend. It was a relief to be on her way.
Half an hour later, the chaise stopped at a busy coaching inn to collect Michael. After his baggage was stowed, he swung into the vehicle, saying, "If you don't mind traveling long hours, we should be at Skoal tomorrow evening."
"I hope so. I'm very curious about this grandfather of mine." The chaise was spacious and very comfortable, but Michael was still too close for her peace of mind. She had forgotten the aura of leashed power that emanated from him.
They spoke little, each of them absorbed in private thoughts. Though they were servantless, Michael's natural authority produced instant deference and the best available horses whenever they stopped. They made excellent time.
Michael knew the road well, and Catherine found out why when they reached a village called Great Ashburton, in Wiltshire. It was market day, and the chaise slowed to a crawl as they went through the town square. Drowsily she asked, "Does this village have a connection with your family?"
He looked unseeing out the window. "Ashburton Abbey, the family seat, is about two miles down that road we just passed."
"Good heavens." She sat up, her sleepiness gone. "This is your home?"
"I was born and raised here. My home is in Wales."
Fascinated, she said, "You bought sweets at that shop?"
"Mrs. Thomsen's. Yes."
He was as terse as if confessing to murder. Since he didn't wish to discuss the past, she studied the village and tried to imagine a young Michael dashing through the streets. It seemed to be a pleasant, prosperous community. Then she frowned. "There are black ribbons on many of the doors."
"The Duke of Ashburton died yesterday."
She stared at him, sure she must have misheard. "Your father died yesterday and you said nothing?"
"There was nothing to say." He was still gazing out the window, face like granite.
She remembered the time he had discussed his family in Brussels, and her heart ached for him. His hand was clenched on the seat between them. She rested her palm on the knotted fist. "I'm even more grateful that at a time like this, you have the generosity to help me."
He did not look at her, but his hand turned and convulsively clasped hers. "On the contrary, it is I who should be grateful."
Though neither of them spoke again, their hands stayed locked for a long time.
They traveled until it was full dark, then stopped at a coaching inn. There were two bedchambers available, for which Catherine was grateful. After refreshing themselves, they dined in a private parlor. They both relaxed under the influence of good food, good conversation, and a fine bottle of Bordeaux.
When the last of the dishes had been cleared away, Michael produced a small book. "I stopped at Hatchard's and found a guidebook to the West Country that mentions the Isle of Skoal. Shall we find out what awaits us?"
"Please. My ignorance is almost total."
He thumbed through the pages to the correct entry. "The island is about two miles by three and is divided into Great Skoal and Little Skoal. They are almost two separate islands, connected only by a natural causeway called the Neck. The writer strongly suggests that visitors not attempt to cross the Neck at night, for fear of the awesome toothed rocks jutting from the sea more than two hundred feet below.'"
She took a sip of wine, enjoying the sound of his deep voice. "I'll bear that in mind."
"There are approximately five hundred residents, and more gulls than the writer wants to think about," he continued. "Fishing and farming are the main occupations. It has been inhabited since 'time immemorial,' and is 'noteworthy of the blend of Celtic, Anglo-Saxon, Viking, and Norman customs.' It is also one of the few feudal precincts left in Western Europe."