TWO #2
And though she appreciated the warning—of course, she did—it also left her floundering.
Her primary gaoler had died, but the bars of her cage remained.
Lord Drempton, George’s cousin and closest friend, had always displayed an unnatural fascination with her.
Must she now wait for yet another gentleman to die?
How she wished for a life outside the capricious whims of controlling men. One where she didn’t flinch at shadows and jolt awake from nightmares and worry that the slightest misstep would betray her.
At last, across fields and down a long lane, Avoch Castle came into view—
Home.
The castle had seen better days. The curtain wall was half-collapsed, and shrubs had taken root on some of the ramparts. Cold winds off the North Sea battered her walls almost continually, while mold and rodents ate at her from the inside. And yet, the old lady stood proud.
A bit like herself, Cecily supposed—world-weary and tired, but still bravely flying a tattered flag of defiance.
Perhaps that was why she found the ancient place so dear.
Two years ago, after her previous post had been unmasked, she had taken a position as housekeeper at Avoch Castle.
She had arrived hunted and shattered. The remote location and welcoming warmth of the Avoch staff had been a soothing balm.
Like setting down a heavy pack after a grueling journey and finally finding rest.
Trading the life of a lady for that of a servant six years ago had been no simple task. But desperate times called for desperate measures and all that.
It was just . . . Cecily was so very tired of feeling desperate.
A return to her old life was impossible. She knew this. The path from lady to servant permitted travel in one direction only.
But when Cecily allowed herself to dream, she imagined returning to her uncle’s house and folding into her aunt’s embrace. Perhaps receive callers and take tea with the vicar’s wife. Attend the occasional ball and dance the night away on slippered feet.
The life of a true lady.
Driving through the bedraggled curtain gate, she guided Jura around the back to the stables. Usually, the buildings were a quiet haven with the gig mare and a pair of aging carriage horses.
Today, however, grooms bustled around, rushing to complete tasks.
What on earth?
Mr. Mackenzie, the stablemaster, waved a hand and rushed to her, snatching Jura’s bridle.
“Lord be thanked ye’ve returned, Mrs. Armstrong. Rawkin is fit to burst.”
Mr. Rawkin was the butler of Avoch. The father of the castle, so to speak. As housekeeper, Cecily was his counterpart—the castle’s mother.
“Whatever has happened?” she asked, taking the stablemaster’s hand and stepping from the gig.
“His lordship has arrived early.”
“Pardon?” She couldn’t have heard right. Lord Matthias Kinsey was set to arrive on Friday. Today was Tuesday. “He is an elderly invalid. I assumed, if anything, that he would be late in arriving.”
Mackenzie shrugged. “I dinnae ken that Lord Matthias is much of an invalid. He’s certainly not elderly. I fear we’ve been misled. He’s here, waiting for ye in the great hall with his brother, the Duke of Grayburn.”
“The duke is here? Now?”
“Aye.”
Cecily blinked.
Her mind flashed to the elegant gentlemen on the road—Handsome and Haughty.
No one is asking you to help, Brother.
A terrible suspicion lodged in her brain.
Cecily had never been introduced to the Duke of Grayburn—such an honor was well above her station.
Her aunt would have fainted in delight had Cecily made His Grace’s acquaintance.
However, during her one and only Season, she had seen His Grace from afar, fingers pointing toward his regal head like a rare celestial sighting.
Surely that would explain Haughty’s vague familiarity.
And if Lord Matthias was not, in fact, elderly . . .
A frantic buzzing trembled her bones.
This entire situation had gone topsy-turvy.
Avoch’s current owner, Colonel Gordon, lived in Edinburgh.
However, a recent worsening of his gout made travel difficult.
This year, he had decided to let the castle and forgo a visit over the summer.
The Colonel had settled on Lord Matthias Kinsey as the new tenant, a gentleman with some familial connection to the Duke of Grayburn.
The colonel’s letter had described Lord Matthias as an elderly housebound invalid who rarely left his bed.
As Cecily had never heard of this elderly Lord Matthias, she assumed him to be an uncle or cousin of the current, much younger duke.
It was not unusual for a wealthy family to spirit away an infirm relative from the public eye.
Idiot her for not checking Debrett’s Peerage and ascertaining the precise relationship between Lord Matthias and the current duke.
It was not outside the realm of possibility that His Grace could recognize her. She had been a popular débutante.
Fear pulsed atop her tongue.
As if to solidify her stupidity, a groom walked by leading a familiar chestnut stallion.
The image of Handsome rose in her memory—pulling himself into the saddle with one strong hand. That gentleman had been anything but an invalid.
Pivoting, Cecily hastily walked—it was not a run, no matter how the grooms later described it to the upstairs maids—straight into the castle.
Cecily found Mr. Rawkin pacing in the servants’ hall. A nervous man, he hid his agitation behind a veneer of brisk movement and rapid orders. But one look at his face, and Cecily knew he was stewing in terror.
Gracious. How terrifying was the Duke of Grayburn? Or Lord Matthias, for that matter? The gentleman who had unmired her gig had been anything but a monster. But she knew only too well that some men presented one face to the world and quite another behind closed doors.
Her pulse flailed like a silk pennant in a strong wind—frayed and snapping.
“Mrs. Armstrong! At last!” Rawkin said.
“His lordship arrived early?” Cecily made quick work of the buttons of her pelisse, handing the outer garment along with her bonnet to a waiting maid. “Colonel Gordon must have forwarded us the date wrong.”
Though it was rather thoughtless of the gentlemen themselves not to notify Avoch’s staff of their impending arrival. She struggled to reconcile this knowledge with the kind, handsome gentleman who had assisted her on the road.
Men, she thought for easily the thousandth time in her life, were paradoxical creatures.
“Aye.”
“Has Cook been informed?”
“Aye.”
Cecily could hear pans banging and orders being called in the kitchen. Mrs. Finlayson ran a tight ship and was an excellent cook. Even on short notice, she would conjure something magical for dinner.
“Lord Matthias is decidedly not an invalid,” Rawkin continued.
“Yes, I have surmised as much.”
Cecily’s mind whirred, sorting through all the household tasks that now needed to be completed in short order.
She and Rawkins had been planning for a different sort of gentleman, one who would struggle with the narrow spiral staircases of Avoch and would likely prefer a bedchamber on the same floor as the great hall and dining room.
Consequently, the main upstairs bedchambers had only been given a cursory cleaning in recent weeks.
Now, the rooms required a thorough polishing.
Bed ropes tightened and crisp linens tucked neatly under mattresses. Windows opened and the spaces aired.
Moreover, Cecily would need to sit down with Mrs. Finlayson and plan menus and possibly arrange additional kitchen staff. Of a surety, Lord Matthias’s eating habits would not be those of an invalid, either.
Unfortunately, this thought led to questions that only Lord Matthias himself could answer.
What were his lordship’s preferences for meals, and when would he like them served?
As the tenant of Avoch Castle, Lord Matthias paid all household bills, minus staff salaries.
Cecily would need to have a delicate conversation regarding his wishes there.
How many servants would be accompanying his lordship?
She would need to secure rooms for them.
Her head spun. She had thought to have more time to organize herself.
A list. She would make a list and then—
“His lordship wishes to speak with us both immediately,” Rawkin said. “I had to make your excuses.”
It was not pleasant, his tone added.
Cecily pinched the bridge of her nose, swallowing down a swell of anxiety.
Colonel Gordon paid her wages, thank goodness.
But a complaint from Lord Matthias about her abilities would certainly result in her sacking.
She could not be sacked. The mere thought of being on the run yet again, attempting to conceal her movements from Lord D and his obsessive—
Well.
That horror should not be dwelt upon. It would only serve to fuel her nightmares.
“Of course.” She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror—eyes wide, cheeks flushed, hair slipping from its pins. At present, she appeared more wood nymph than capable housekeeper. “Give me a moment to attend to my toilette.”
Rawkin lifted an eyebrow at her use of the formal word—toilette. A duke arrived, and Cecily had abruptly slipped into the language of a lady. Thank goodness her Scottish accent had stayed true.
Regardless, she would need to be more on guard.
Five minutes later, Cecily followed Rawkin up the stairs to the great hall. A journey she made dozens of times each day.
Never had it felt so fraught.