He understood horses and respected them for their elegance, utility, and sheer, brute strength.

He understood his place in the world, his title being a symbol of stability and tradition in a society where progress was touted on every street corner while bewilderment lurked in the heart of the common man.

He did not, however, understand his own family.

“Why the hell you put up with that idiot gelding is beyond me, Spathfoy. The blighter’s going to toss you in your last ditch one of these days.”

Though hopefully, not until Spathfoy had done his duty to the succession.

Quinworth’s son eyed him balefully across the horse’s back. “I continue to work with Flying Rowan because he’s up to my weight, he tries hard, and he alerts me to ill-tempered, titled lords lurking in the saddle room when I’m trying to groom my beast for a morning ride.”

“Do I employ half the stableboys in Northumbria so you can groom your own horse?”

Spathfoy went back to brushing his mount. “I’ve retrieved your granddaughter from her relatives in Aberdeenshire, my lord. I continue to believe your designs on the child are ill-advised, and hope you’ll rethink them when you meet her.”

Ill-advised was one of Spathfoy’s adroit euphemisms—he had many, when he wanted to trot them out. “Is she simple?”

The brush paused on the horse’s glossy quarters. “She is not simple. She is delightful. She has a gift for languages and arithmetic, she’s full of life and curiosity, and she’s going to be every bit as pretty as my sisters. She’s looking forward to meeting her grandpapa, because that good fellow will provide her a pony and a pet rabbit.”

“Spathfoy, has your horse tossed you on your head since last I saw you?”

“If he has, perhaps it has brought me to my senses. May I assume we’re riding out together?”

“You may.” If nothing else, Quinworth intended to get to the bottom of his son’s mutterings about ponies and rabbits.

Gordie had been the son Quinworth could understand. The boy had been lazy but likable; the man had been charming, with a venal streak, though probably nothing worse than most younger sons of titled families. The army had seemed a better solution than the church, letters, or the diplomatic service.

Quinworth tapped his riding crop against his boot, which made Spathfoy’s horse flinch. “I don’t suppose you ran into your mother when you were larking around Scotland?”

Spathfoy—who had two inches of height on his father—settled a saddle pad onto the horse’s back. “I was not larking around Scotland. I was snatching a child from the arms of her loving family, for what purpose I do not know—except my father allowed as how, did I accomplish this bit of piracy, my sisters would be permitted to marry where they pleased, and Joan would be sent to live in Paris for at least one year. Or do I recall the purpose for my travels amiss?”

The boy had an aggravating knack for making every pronouncement sound like a sermon. He was going to give tremendous speeches in the Lords one day, though Quinworth wouldn’t be around to hear them.

“You do not recall anything amiss. So you did not see her ladyship?”

“Aberdeenshire being a good distance from Edinburgh, I did not.”

He placed a saddle on the horse’s back, then slid it back into place. The animal stood quietly, though it was likely plotting more mischief once the girth was fastened. Quinworth considered asking if her ladyship was still using her son’s estate outside Edinburgh, but somebody had returned a letter he’d sent there not two weeks past, so he held his tongue.

And slapped his crop against his boot.

“For Christ’s sake.” Spathfoy hissed the imprecation as his gelding danced sideways. “If you’re going to torment an animal, at least find one of your own to pick on.”

“My apologies.” He moved away, lest the gelding start kicking and stomping in the cross ties. Spathfoy spoke to the horse soothingly in Gaelic, of all the heathen languages. Quinworth had tried to learn it decades ago, when pleasing his new wife had been the sole compass of his existence.

He’d been a fool. Likely he was still a fool. He walked off, bellowing for his hunter and slapping his crop against his boot.

* * *

“You must be my granddaughter.”

Hester looked up from her eggs and toast to see a tall, older gentleman with graying hair and stern blue eyes standing in the door of the breakfast parlor. The resemblance to Tye was faint, mostly in his bearing and perhaps a little around the eyes.

“Make your curtsy, Fee.” Hester spoke quietly, and leavened the command with a smile. Any other relative of Fee’s—any other Scottish relative, and even Spathfoy—would have known to brace themselves for a hug from the child.

Fiona got out of her chair and curtsied prettily before her grandfather.

“Well done, child. And who would you be?” He barked the question at Hester, making her feel about eight years old and caught snitching tea cakes from the larder.

“That’s my aunt Hester. She came with us.”

Hester expected his lordship to reprimand Fee for speaking out of turn, but the man instead narrowed his eyes on Hester herself.

“If you’re the nurse, then you’ve presumed to dine at the family table for the last time, my girl. You wait outside the door for Miss Fiona to complete her meal, then escort her back upstairs for her lessons.”

He jerked his chin at the two footmen standing by the sideboard, as if to indicate Hester was to be removed bodily, but at least one of them had been on hand the previous evening.

“I am Fiona’s step-aunt, Lord Quinworth. My father was Baron Altsax, and I’ve accompanied Fiona here to ease her transition to your household. It is not my privilege to serve as her nurse.”

She could not give the man the cut direct under his own roof, so she went back to munching well-buttered toast. If this was the fare served to Tiberius with his morning meal, no wonder he’d chosen to absent himself.

“Can I sit down now?” Fiona aimed the question at her grandfather.

“May I.” He sounded exactly like Tye when he offered that admonition.

“May I sit down? My porridge will get cold.”

Something passed over the older man’s features, surprise, possibly, or fleeting humor. “Sit.”

Hester did not engage the man in conversation, though she studied him. He quizzed Fiona in French and then German, and Hester herself was surprised when the girl answered creditably well in both languages.

“When I go to Balmoral, we sometimes speak German when we play.”

“You go to Balmoral?”

“We’re neighbors.” Fee studied her porridge for a moment, as if pondering whether his lordship might need an explanation of the term. “Her Majesty comes to Aberdeenshire for only a few months every year, though. Do you like raisins?” She eyed the scone sporting an abundance of raisins on his lordship’s plate.

“It so happens I do. Hand on your lap, girl. I do not encourage pilfering at table, particularly not before the servants.”

“He talks like Uncle Tye.” This last was directed to Hester.

“I know. This is your uncle’s father, which I suppose explains many of Spathfoy’s unfortunate tendencies.” Hester realized what she’d said as she was putting the last bite of eggs into her mouth. The marquess was staring at her, glaring at her more like, and he’d put down his scone.

“Explain yourself, woman. And be quick about it.”

Fiona was looking raptly at Hester—and a little scared. Hester chose her words, though there was no disguising certain ugly truths, no matter how large and varied one’s vocabulary was.

“I have low expectations of a man who will ignore his granddaughter for years, then have her snatched away without the least courtesy to her family, your lordship. Such a man has little sensibility for the feelings of others, as demonstrated by his willingness to enlist his own son in this misguided adventure, and to enforce his high-handed whims without even writing to the belted earl who has provided for the girl’s every need for the entirety of her life.”

She expected to be tossed from the room, never to see Fiona again.

She expected a dressing down at the least.

She expected Quinworth to raise his voice to her—her own father had done so before the servants on many an occasion.

The marquess let out a bark of laughter. “You remind me of my marchioness. This is intended as a compliment. Pass the teapot and finish your toast.”

His lordship went back to interrogating Fiona, while he obliterated his breakfast. The questions ran the gamut from English history, to geography, to animal husbandry.

“I’m told you’re in want of a pony.”

Fiona stopped fidgeting. “I am not to have a pony just yet. I’m to be a great strappin’ beauty, and I will outgrow my ponies too quickly if I start riding them now.”

Her grandfather peered over at her. “This is sound reasoning, which unfortunately did not occur to me when I was nigh beggared keeping your aunties mounted practically from the cradle. Would you like to see the stables?”

“Yes, please, Grandpapa.”

His lordship scowled at his empty plate. “I suppose I am your grandpapa at that. Miss Daniels, good day. Where shall I send Miss Fiona when we’re done with our inspection?”

“I believe I’m in Lady Dora’s room, your lordship. Though I might explore the library for a book.” She should have asked for permission to use the library, but had the sense her manners would be lost on his lordship.

“Hmph.” He rose and did not bow to her. “Come along, Granddaughter.”

Fee bolted out of her chair, seized her grandfather’s hand, and dragged him from the room.

Hester had just finished her toast and poured herself a final cup of tea when Spathfoy came in, looking windblown and bemused.

“Did I, or did I not, just see my father being led by the hand around his own stables?”

“By a small child chattering a mile a minute? You did. Tea, Tiberius?”

He paused at the sideboard, but it was too late to correct the familiar address.

“Please. Would you like anything more to eat, and was Quinworth at least civil?”

“Nothing more, thank you. To Fiona, he was quite civil, if a little imposing. I don’t like him, though. He’s not only arrogant, he’s…”

“My mother said he was impossible on more than one occasion. Even his cronies call him a throwback.” Spathfoy took the seat beside Hester that Fiona had vacated. “Did you sleep well?”

“I slept very well. Yourself?” He was a good host, she concluded with some surprise. That had to be his mother’s influence.

“Well enough. I thought to ride out with his lordship this morning—Rowan needed to settle his nerves over a few fences—though Quinworth and I were arguing before we’d reached the end of the lane.”

“About?” She did not want to encourage his confidences, but the footmen had left when his lordship had departed, so she did not change the topic.

“I should have looked in on my mother when I was in Scotland. What sort of son am I, to pass right through Edinburgh and not take the time to see to her and to the estate I’ve turned over for her use?”

“Your father can’t hop a train to check in on his wife?”

“Hopping is not within his lordship’s gift. He seldom goes anywhere anymore, just rides the length and breadth of the shire in all manner of weather.” He fell silent and tucked into his breakfast while Hester tried to fathom a marriage where a man did not care enough to visit his wife, but could castigate his son for the same shortcoming.

The longer she contemplated this conundrum, the more clearly she understood why Tiberius Flynn might not have been eager to plight his troth to anybody, ever.

And yet he had offered marriage to her.

* * *

A week went by during which the hope Tye stubbornly nurtured for a future with Hester Daniels was severely buffeted. After the first day’s outing to the stables, the marquess virtually ignored his granddaughter. The pony procured for Fiona—a rotund little slug cheekily named Albert—could not fly over fences as Rowan could, and thus his hairy company was not sufficient to distract Fiona from increasingly severe bouts of homesickness.

Connor MacGregor called with his wife Julia, and gave Tye such broodingly thoughtful looks as to make Tye wonder if Fiona ought to be put under guard, but before he took his leave, the man brought a smile to Fiona’s face and promised to visit her again soon.