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“That was marvelous, Tiberius. I can see why your father enjoys riding his acres so much. Was he the one who taught you to ride?”
“He tried, but my mother had to intervene. She has more patience, which is a valuable commodity where little boys and ponies are concerned.” He turned Rowan up an old cart track, unable to make small talk when he might never enjoy another ride in Hester’s company. “I don’t want you to leave,” he informed her. “Not until you know if there are consequences from my visit north.”
Her gaze went to the green hills around them, to the sheep in the next meadow, to the gray stone wall undulating up the acclivity to their right. “That will be at least another week yet, Tiberius, and I don’t know if I can bear to remain here that much longer. Fiona cries, and I can offer her no comfort. Your father barely says two words to her when he comes up from the stables for breakfast, and your day is much taken up with estate matters. My heart—”
She lapsed into damnable silence.
“My heart too, Hester.” He nudged Rowan back to the walk, the pleasure of the shared ride swallowed up in the pain of the parting she was determined to bring about.
“Where is that ray of perpetual sunshine known as my niece?” Lady Joan paused in the door of the breakfast parlor to fire her question at Hester. In their brief acquaintance, Hester had realized a tendency to use military analogies where Lady Joan was concerned. She was strikingly tall for a woman, brisk, and bold. Her walk took her places swiftly and directly, her laugh charmed, and her penetrating green eyes were the antithesis of the term “dreamy artist.”
“Fee has gone to collect some flowers for her uncle’s office. I expect she’s waiting for her grandpapa to come in from his ride as well.”
Joan took a seat across from Hester, setting down a plate piled high with eggs, bacon, and toast. “She’ll have a long wait. I swear his lordship has cast my mother aside for the company of his horse.”
Hester tried not to let her surprise at such a comment show. “He cast her aside?”
“Or maybe they cast each other aside.” Joan closed paint-stained fingers around the teapot handle. “I will ask Mama about this before I decamp for Paris this fall.”
“Tiber—Spathfoy said you were longing to live there.”
“Hah.” Lady Joan sprinkled salt on her eggs. “Longing is such a polite word. I am desperate to go there, mad to live there, ready to commit rash acts and so forth. Fortunately, Tye has convinced his lordship to allow it.”
“The marquess was quite set against the notion?” This was shameless prying, but Joan didn’t seem to regard it as such, and Hester was willing to exploit any avenue to gain insight into the man who’d turned her—Fiona’s—life upside down.
Joan picked up a point of buttered toast and considered it. “I suspect Papa is contrary as a means of gaining Mama’s notice, and she’s indifferent as a means of maintaining his. The four of us children have learned to navigate between the two, though I must admit this is part of what makes Paris attractive.”
“You want to get away from your family?” And this was the milieu in which Fiona was to be raised?
“I adore my siblings.” Joan tore off a bite of toast with straight, white teeth. “And when I was younger, Mama and Papa were alternately squalling like cats and cooing like doves. I shudder to think what ma
Hester’s breakfast started a quiet, uncomfortable rebellion in her vitals. “I beg your pardon?”
“Papa was grumbling about it even yesterday: he promised if Tye brought Fiona to Quinworth, then Mary Ellen, Dora, and I might have our choice of husbands—within reason. Fiona’s here, and my sisters and I are breathing a collective sigh of relief. My year in Paris was part of the bargain as well, though I suspect Tye is footing the bill rather than Papa. More tea?”
“Please.” Hester pushed her cup and saucer across the table only to realize the cup was more than half-full. “Just a touch.”
Joan topped up the teacup and went back to studying her toast. “When I was a girl, we were happy. I ca
Hester took as long as she could with a sip of tea. “He has offered. I have declined.”
Joan beamed a toothy smile at her. “Oh, that’s lovely. Tye adores a challenge, positively thrives on it, which is fortunate, since ru
“Dotes on me?” He was luscious.
“I ca
“I never intended to put anybody off their feed.”
“Which is why,” Joan drawled, “your eggs have gotten cold on your plate, hmm?”
Hester glanced down at the omelet congealing before her. “I served myself too large a portion. If you’ll excuse me, I’m off in search of a book. His lordship’s library is truly impressive.”
“Books, bah. You’re hiding from Tye, and I am anxious to see how this little drama plays out. If you see Fiona, tell her to bring me some flowers, and we’ll paint a portrait of them. I refuse to sketch that carrot-pig masquerading as a rabbit one more time.”
“I will pass your message along.”
Hester rose without finishing her tea and made her way to the library, blind to the Quinworth wealth arrayed around her.
Tye had fetched Fiona here to rescue his sisters from the kind of match his parents had made into a living purgatory. This was the leverage his father had over him: three women could look forward to happy adulthoods, provided Fiona was sacrificed to a childhood away from those who loved her.
Hester pushed the library door open, lost in thought.
And Tye had said he honestly believed he’d be improving Fiona’s circumstances, plucking her from penury into a life of guaranteed privilege.
Merciful Saints. That a father would put his son up to such an undertaking was an abomination against the natural order, but again, Hester had to wonder what motivated the marquess.
She did not wander the bookshelves as she had on many occasions. She instead sat at the huge old estate desk by the windows and tried to wrap her mind around the choices Tiberius had faced. Outside the windows, a lovely day was unfolding, full of sunshine and fresh breezes. Inside the library, Hester rummaged for writing implements, intent on sharing the morning’s revelations with Aunt Ariadne, and Ian and Augusta MacGregor as well.
Pen and ink were not difficult to find, but the nib needed trimming, so Hester opened more drawers in search of a penknife, sand, and wax.
She found… documents. A large cache of letters addressed to Deirdre, Lady Quinworth, in a slashing hand that looked very like what she’d seen of Tiberius’s writing.
Why would the lady have left her letters here if she dwelled in Scotland?
Tamping down the clamorings of conscience, Hester opened one letter:
My dearest wife,
The Holland bulbs you planted on the tenth a