Chapter 25
Twenty-Five
The ride back from Kitty’s house was quiet.
Eleanor sat stiffly in the corner of the carriage, shawl clutched too tight in her lap, her eyes unfocused as the streets passed in a blur. Her conversation with Kitty circled like smoke in her mind. The warmth of Kitty’s hand. The weight of her voice. The comfort of being heard without judgment.
But the ache hadn’t lessened. Not really.
She was still hollow. Still furious. Still terrified that he had meant what he said—that he didn’t want her, not enough to stay.
Her fingers tightened around the edge of the window. She was so caught up in her own thoughts that she almost didn’t see it.
Then she blinked—and went still.
Penelope was outside. She was just past the garden wall, standing beside the small pony Ramsay had chosen for her—Muffin. Belson wasn’t with her. Neither was her governess. But someone else was.
A man.
Tall, dark hair. Well-dressed but not like anyone she recognized. His coat was a dark shade of green, his boots polished. He was crouched beside the pony, one hand on Penelope’s saddle, the other gesturing idly as if telling her some amusing story.
Eleanor’s stomach dropped.
Before the carriage even rolled to a stop, she yanked the door open and almost jumped out of the carriage.
“Your Grace—!” the footman called.
But she was already out, skirts lifted as she hurried down the path, breath catching in her throat.
Penelope spotted her first, her eyes widening in surprise. The man caught that and turned slowly.
He rose to his full height with the same unsettling calmness she’d seen in card sharps and courtiers—people who always knew how the hand would end before the first card turned.
“Good afternoon,” he said.
He has a Scottish accent.
Eleanor stepped between him and Penelope. Her heart was thudding, but her mouth formed a smile. Brittle. Practiced. The sort one gave to uninvited guests at a party or men who lingered too long in drawing rooms.
“Good afternoon,” she echoed, her voice just a shade too warm. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”
The man tilted his head, amused.
“No,” he said, “we haven’t.”
She forced a laugh, light and tight. “Then you’ll forgive me for asking—”
“Who I am?” he finished, eyes glinting.
Eleanor didn’t flinch outwardly, but her pulse was fluttering at the base of her throat.
“I simply meant,” she said smoothly, “that this isn’t a public estate, and I wasn’t aware we were expecting visitors.”
The man smiled again. Slowly. Like he knew something she didn’t.
“I’m just a friend,” he said.
Her mouth went dry. “Of whom?” she asked, forcing the words out with an edge of civility though her tone betrayed the tremor beneath.
He turned to look at her fully, hands clasped loosely behind his back, as if they were merely chatting in a park. “I believe they refer to him here as the Duke.”
Eleanor stiffened. Her hand slipped protectively onto Penelope’s shoulder, fingers tightening slightly.
“And how do you know the Duke?” she asked, her voice calm but clipped. Controlled. As if the veneer of good manners might anchor her to the ground.
The man shrugged, the motion lazy and unapologetic. “I’m an… old friend.”
Old friend. That made something cold crawl down her spine, and she didn’t know why.
She cleared her throat, willing her expression to remain neutral. “And how do you know this child?”
He didn’t answer. Not at first. Instead, his gaze flicked downward, slow and deliberate, to Penelope—who was fiddling with the reins of her pony, clearly uninterested in the conversation. He tilted his head slightly, considering her.
Then, softly, as if offering a compliment, “Ramsay’s blood must’ve been stronger than the girl’s real father. She looks just like him.”
Eleanor froze. Her breath caught hard in her chest, like something had punched through the middle of it. The world tilted slightly off its axis.
“What did you say?” she asked, quietly. Too quietly.
The man didn’t repeat himself.
Penelope looked up, brow furrowed. “He was just talking funny,” she said, voice light. “Is he a bad man?”
Eleanor didn’t look away from the man. Her grip on Penelope’s shoulder had become rigid. Too tight. She could feel the heat of the sun on her neck, the buzz of insects in the hedgerows, the faint rustle of grass as the pony pawed the ground, but all of it felt distant. Muted.
This man was not a friend. And he was not talking funny.
Eleanor turned her eyes back to the man. “You said you were a friend. What kind of friend speaks to a child like that?”
“A thoughtful one.” The man brushed something from his sleeve. “I’d hoped to find Ramsay at home, but I hear he’s… gone again.”
Eleanor didn’t answer. She was too busy studying him.
Something about his eyes unsettled her. They were a strange shade—grey, maybe, or blue—but the color didn’t matter. It was the way he looked at her. As if he knew something she didn’t.
No bow. No name. No apology for speaking to a child uninvited. Just that quiet, smug calm.
She kept her body in front of Penelope.
“If you’re truly a friend of the Duke’s,” she said slowly, “then I imagine you wouldn’t mind telling me your name.”
The man smiled. “Names are such stiff things,” he said. “They ruin all the mystery.”
Eleanor’s heart began to beat faster with the kind of tight, prickling unease that made her skin pull too tightly over her bones.
“Penelope,” she said without turning around, “go to the house.”
“I don’t like him—”
“Now.”
The girl hesitated. Something in Eleanor’s voice must have struck her because she mounted the pony without another word and began to ride toward the stable yard at a slow trot.
The man was watching her.
“That was very motherly,” he said.
Eleanor waited until she was halfway there before speaking again.
“You were watching her.”
“Of course, I was,” the man said, easily. “She’s lovely.”
“She is none of your concern.”
The man tilted his head. “And yet, I find myself terribly concerned.”
Eleanor’s steps slowed. The grass was damp beneath her slippers, and somewhere in the trees a bird gave a long, descending call. The world felt wrong. Tilted. Like something unseen had already broken.
“Where did you say you were from?” she asked, voice still even.
“I didn’t,” the man said. His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “But if you must know, I’ve come from the Highlands.”
“Then you must’ve traveled a long way.” She paused. “What was your business with the Duke?”
He gave a soft, mocking chuckle. “Just wanted to talk. I thought he might be… open to revisiting old acquaintances. Seems I missed him.”
“You did,” Eleanor said. “By hours.”
“Shame,” he murmured, adjusting his cuffs with care. “Though I suppose I found something better.”
Her breath caught, but she was determined not to let it show. “What is your name?”
The man looked almost entertained now. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
“Well,” he said, giving her a shallow bow that somehow felt offensive, “in another circumstance, I might’ve introduced myself as Callum.”
Callum.
The name struck no chord in her mind, but her stomach turned. There was something theatrical about the way he said it. Something dangerous. As if she were supposed to recognize him. As if his name alone should make her flinch. And yet—nothing. But her instincts screamed.
Eleanor narrowed her eyes. “You said you knew the Duke.”
“I did.” His tone darkened, slightly. “Very well.”
She swallowed, keeping her voice calm. “Were you good friends?”
“Once,” he said, glancing toward Penelope with unnerving ease. “In the way wolves and hounds are sometimes raised in the same litter.” He smiled again, that same serpentine curve. “Five years. I’ve been waiting five years.”
Her throat went dry. “Waiting for what?”
Callum took a step closer. She didn’t move, even though her heartbeat thundered in her chest.
“You know,” he said, voice soft and reverent, “I imagined it differently. I thought I’d slit his throat at the edge of a river. Or burn his house down with him inside it. I even thought, once, about dragging him behind my horse through the village square.”
He was still smiling.
“But then…” he lifted a hand, palm up, as if gesturing to a stage, “then I saw you.”
Eleanor didn’t breathe.
“I saw the house. The horses. The governess. The girl with his eyes. And I thought…” He clicked his tongue. “How lucky for me. How perfect. That he left his duchess so unguarded.”
Her stomach turned to ice.
“You—” she began, but her voice broke.
He tilted his head, watching her.
“You’re mad,” she said quietly.
“Maybe,” he admitted “but I’m also very patient.”
He moved again, closing the distance. Eleanor’s feet braced instinctively.
“You see,” he said, “Ramsay took something from me. Something he’ll never be able to give back.”
She didn’t speak.
“My brother,” Callum said. “A boy with dark hair and foolish loyalties. Ramsay killed him.”
Eleanor’s lips parted. A thousand images flickered behind her eyes—Ramsay in the garden, Ramsay furious on the ship, Ramsay holding her like she was his only tether to the world. And now this. This man who looked at her like she was already a grave.
“Whatever happened between you,” she said, her voice trembling but firm, “it doesn’t concern me.”
“Oh, but it does,” Callum said. “Because since Ramsay took someone I loved, it only seems fair I take someone he does.”