Strathaven Glen sat in a dreary valley, surrounded by unattractive trees and piles of rocks, nudged up against the border of the Highlands, but not a part of it. Malcolm found a certain degree of wry humor in that. His ancestors weren’t the great and noble Campbells who had made a name for themselves in the freedom struggles of the past. They were the money-hungry, bloodthirsty traitors who had sided with the English against their kinsmen and been rewarded with second-rate land and a title that didn’t actually mean much.

It was fitting, really. He’d been no more successful than any of his forbearers, and now, like them, he was returning home to sulk with his tail between his legs.

“We should really do something about the house,” Cece said at luncheon the day after their late-night arrival. She sat to Malcolm’s right, stirring a bowl of cold stew and trying to hide her distaste.

“There’s nothing wrong with the house,” Malcolm’s nephew and heir, Gerald Campbell, said as though Cece had insulted his mother.

Malcolm remembered Gerry’s mother. He would have insulted the feckless chit too. His late, lamented brother hadn’t been much better. They were all rotted fruit on the withered branch of the family tree.

“Do forgive me, Cousin Gerry,” Cece said with a diplomatic smile. “I was merely going to suggest that some of the furnishings and decorations be updated. It’s rather dark and medieval in here, you must admit.”

Gerry shrugged, stuffing sausage into his mouth and looking rather like he was eating his own kind. “It gives the place character.”

“Perhaps we could light a few more fires?” Cece went on. “Or throw more logs on the ones already lit? Installing a coal stove might help.”

“Where do you plan to get the money for your improvements, Cousin Cecelia?” Gerry snapped, his piggy eyes full of avarice. Piggy eyes, piggy face, piggy body. It described Gerry to a tee. Malcolm wasn’t sure how he was so closely related to the man. “You’re certainly not taking it out of my inheritance, I can tell you that,” he laughed, focusing on his food.

Malcolm sighed and shifted in his chair. Perhaps drinking himself into oblivion in preparation for the trip hadn’t been such a good idea. Everything hurt. His eyes stung, his head throbbed, his stomach churned, and every muscle in his body felt as though it’d been wrung out. Not even the coffee he’d had the dreary estate’s cook scare up for him was helping.

“At least it stopped raining,” Cece went on. “It seems that every time I’ve visited Strathaven Glen it’s been raining. It’s rather like a gothic novel.”

“There you go, then,” Gerry said with a nod.

Cece blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

Gerry shrugged. “The estate is like a gothic novel. There’s no need to rush about, changing the aesthetic, when we already have a solid identity.”

Cece let out a short, impatient breath. “I’m saying that it doesn’t have to be this way. If we replaced all the drapes with something lighter, kept them open so sunlight reaches the rooms, and traded the outdated carpets for something newer and more brightly colored—”

“I fail to see the point,” Gerry cut her off, his mouth full. “It’s an unnecessary expense. Carpets are meant for walking on and chairs are meant for sitting, nothing more. Besides,” he added with a sideways look to Malcolm, who was rubbing his pounding head and barely paying attention, “it’s not as though Uncle does any entertaining here.”

“But he might,” Cece said, a hint of mischief in her eyes that made Malcolm wince. “You never know who might drop by unexpectedly.” She darted a glance toward him and broke into a nervous smile.

Malcolm sat straighter, reaching for his coffee but not replying. The letter he assumed Cece had sent off to Rupert the night before their departure must have begged the man to come rescue her from the specter of horrible, Scottish weather. He supposed he should alert his butler, Mackay, to prepare a room for Rupert. But at the moment, he wasn’t inclined to move, let alone make preparations for guests.

“If there’s nothing to spare to purchase new drapery and furniture,” Cece went on, her expression hinting that she didn’t believe for a moment money was a problem, “perhaps we could have the staff engage in spring cleaning. I would be willing to wager that if the carpets were taken out and beaten properly, they’d brighten up in no time.”

“So now you’re ordering my servants about?” Gerry gaped incredulously at her.

“They’re Papa’s servants, not yours,” Cece corrected him, her jaw tight.

They might as well have been Gerry’s, for all Malcolm cared. Strathaven Glen had always held a distant second place to Strathaven House in London in his heart. If such things had been allowed, he would have foisted the title and estate off on Gerry and retired to London as a simple gentleman of means instead of a bloody marquess. The title had never done him much good anyhow, and Gerry was clearly champing at the bit to get his hands on it. Malcolm would do everyone a favor if he climbed to the top of the miserable house’s highest roof and jumped off to speed things along.

The errant suicidal thought jolted Malcolm out of his thoughts and he sat straighter. Things weren’t that bad yet. He’d pack everything up, including Cece, and embark on a world tour before ending things. In fact, leaving the country for sunnier climes didn’t sound like a half bad idea. The islands of the Caribbean were nice this time of year, weren’t they?

“Excuse me,” he said, standing and tossing his serviette onto the plate with his uneaten lunch. Without another word, he started out of the room.

“Where are you going, Papa?” Cece rose and followed after him. “You haven’t eaten a thing.”

“I’m not hungry,” Malcolm said as he marched into the hall.

“That’s no excuse not to eat,” Cece kept on his heels. “You hardly ate any breakfast and you barely touched anything on the train yesterday. Well, except whiskey. You aren’t going to drink yourself into your grave, are you?” she asked, her tone far too chipper to be serious. “That may be a romantic reaction to a broken heart, but it’s hardly your style.”

Malcolm stopped abruptly in the front hall, whipping to face her. “I do not have a broken heart,” he snapped.

Cece saw right through the lie. She crossed her arms and fixed him with a hard stare. “Then I suppose we’re here for the view?” she arched one eyebrow.

The expression was so much like Katya that an ache formed in his heart. He turned away, striding on to a hallway that branched off the main hall.

“You’re right. The estate has been neglected. It needs improvements,” he said, knowing she would follow him.

“That’s not why we’re here either,” she said.

They reached a long, dusty room that passed as a library. One side was set with tall, dirty windows, most of which were covered by thick drapes. Even the uncovered windows let in very little light. A fire filled the huge hearth, but the deep chill in the room hinted that, until they’d arrived the night before, the room had been abandoned and neglected. Malcolm crossed to one of the pitiful bookshelves, took down the first book that came to his hand, and took it to the sofa closest to the fire. He sat, pretending to instantly be absorbed by the book, but Cece didn’t go away. She stood in front of him, her arms crossed.

“You love Lady Stanhope,” she told him. “You always have. I know the two of you have had a falling out—”

“Mind your own business,” Malcolm snapped.

Rather than doing as she was told, Cece’s back snapped straight in offense. “You are my business, Papa, and if you ask me, you need quite a bit of minding.”

Pride and sullenness warred in Malcolm at his daughter’s tart reply. He should have known he couldn’t get away with anything around her. “There’s nothing you can do,” he grumbled, pretending to read once more.

Cece sat on the sofa beside him. “I will admit that I don’t know everything there is to know about you and Lady Stanhope. You say she has other lovers, but I would be willing to stake my life that you’re wrong about that.”

Malcolm glanced sideways at her, hope swelling within him. He pushed it down before it could take over. Cece was eighteen. What did she know of the kind of life women like Katya lived?

“I don’t blame you for being upset that someone else might take the credit for everything you’ve worked so hard for,” Cece went on. “And I’m not going to tell you to be happy with the outcome, no matter who accomplished it. But Lady Stanhope wasn’t responsible for that, I’m sure.”

“You weren’t there,” Malcolm said. “You didn’t see.”

“See what?” Cece asked. “Did Lady Stanhope demand that you stay in the carriage while Inspector Craig conducted his raid? Did she shove you aside at the last moment and personally hand credit to someone else?”

Malcolm snapped his book closed and turned to her. Only, instead of being angry, his tone was appreciative when he said, “Katya wasn’t there when Shayles was arrested. She’d run off into the house to alert the women she had working for her to what was going on.” He paused. “She probably saved lives.”

“And you’re angry with her why?” Cece stared hard at him.

“She put herself in danger,” Malcolm insisted. “And you didn’t see the way she clung to that buffoon Dowland when he brought her out of the fire.”

“Clung to him like someone who had come within a hair’s breadth of losing her life in a fire, perhaps?”

Malcolm scowled. All of the arguments that had whipped him into a fury days before felt flat now. The sickening sensation that he’d been wrong about everything crept through him. He hated being wrong.

“It doesn’t change things,” he said at last with a sigh, letting go of his anger and feeling only gloom in its place. “Katya and I were never going to work. I wasted too many years figuring that out. She doesn’t want me the way I want her to.”

Cece shook her head. “If you would just ask her to marry you, I’m sure—”

“I’ve asked her several times,” he said, louder than he should have been with Cece. For her part, Cece blinked in surprise. “I’ve asked her two dozen times at least over the years. Every time, she’s said no or not answered me at all. And now, to find out she’s been keeping Natalia a secret from me all these years?” He shook his head and pushed himself to stand, needing to move. “My darling, I know you’re young and have a lot still to experience, but women in love do not keep secrets or refuse the proposals of their beloved.”

Cece watched him pacing for a few seconds before saying, “I’m not so sure about that. I can think of a lot of reasons a woman would keep things from the man she loves.”

Malcolm paused to stare incredulously at her. “Is there something you’re not telling me too?”

“No, Papa,” she laughed. “I tell you everything.”

It was a tiny consolation, but enough to push Malcolm into pacing again.

“I’ve been wrong about nearly everything for most of my life,” he said. “So it’s time to start a new life, a life free from the embarrassments of the past.” He reached a table at the end of the room and set his book down, then said, “I think I might travel. Australia feels like a good idea.”

Cece wasn’t impressed. “Running away to the other side of the world isn’t going to solve anything. It would just make you more miserable.” She stood and met him in the middle of the room. “In fact, the only times I’ve seen you truly happy are when you’re with Lady Stanhope. Surely there must be a way to mend fences between the two of you.”

“Is it a woman?” Gerry asked from the door.

Any comfort Malcolm was tempted to feel at Cece’s words vanished in an instant. He broke away from her and continued pacing as Gerry entered the room, smiling obliviously at both Malcolm and Cece.

“Did a woman chase you up here?” Gerry went on. “Because if it is about a woman, I find the best course of action is a night on the town. Glasgow has some of the finest whiskey and lightest skirts in the north.” He followed his comment with a loud, snorting laugh.

Malcolm sent an apologetic look to Cece. Perhaps bringing her to his ancestral home was a bad idea after all.

He was about to suggest the two of them go for a walk—something he was loath to do, but that would guarantee Gerald wouldn’t follow—when Mackay appeared in the doorway.

“My lord,” he announced. “You have visitors.”

Scotland was a bad idea. Then again, Katya was convinced that leaving her house was a bad idea. Rupert had only been able to obtain tickets that would allow all four of them to travel in the same first-class compartment later in the day, which meant they’d had to stop overnight in York. She’d coughed like a consumptive the entire way, which had caused people to stare at her as though she were an invalid on death’s door. She was used to drawing attention, but not that kind.

The hired carriage that took them from the station in Glasgow out into the country was an exercise in torture. There were enough holes and rocks in the road to shake Katya’s insides like an earthquake, and considering the fire, her insides weren’t in the best of shape to begin with.

“Ugh, I hate Scotland already,” Bianca said after she’d been bumped against the side of the carriage for the dozenth time.

“Don’t say that,” Natalia argued. “My people come from here.”

Katya rolled her eyes at her daughter, but she knew if she said anything it would only result in another coughing fit. Malcolm’s people were no more hers than Robert’s family were to Rupert. Yes, they shared blood, but not much else. Robert’s kin barely acknowledged her family’s existence.

“Is that the castle?” Natalia asked as they rounded a particularly rocky stretch of road and approached Strathaven Glen.

“It’s not a castle, it’s just an estate,” Rupert said. He looked just as put out as Katya felt, but the eagerness in his eyes hinted that he was looking forward to the journey’s end.

“I suppose Cece told you all about it,” Bianca said.

“In fact, she did,” Rupert told her, then glanced out the window.

They all pressed their faces to the window, looking out at the antiquated form of Strathaven Glen. All except Katya. She’d seen the estate before. More than seen it, she’d spent a great deal of time there over the years, mostly when her children were too young to travel. Old feelings of guilt over leaving them with their nanny and the servants so that she and Malcolm could carry on welled up, but she quickly dismissed them. She didn’t have the energy for old regrets. Not when her new ones were so fresh.

The carriage crunched across the gravel in front of Strathaven Glen’s front door, then stopped. The driver helped the ladies down, then waited for Rupert to pay him. Part of Katya felt she should have handled the transaction, but most of her was relieved not to have to worry about it. She waited for Rupert to be done before approaching the front door, breathing in the fresh, Scottish air.

Of course, it made her cough, but somehow her fit wasn’t as bad as they had been. If Armand was right about the benefit of country air, she would be extremely put out. There was something humiliating about her friends being right while she was wrong. Then again, she would have to get over thoughts like that if she had any hope of moving on.

As soon as Malcolm’s butler, Mr. Mackay, opened the door to find her and her brood standing there, his face lit up.

“Lady Stanhope,” he said with a smile. “It’s been too long.”

“Hello, Mackay.” Katya managed a weak smile. She’d always liked Mackay. He looked older now, but then, so did she. “Is Malcolm at home?”

“For you, my lady, I’m sure he is.” Mackay took a step back. “Please come in.”

The whole lot of them bundled into the house. Mackay showed them to one of the nicer parlors, but within minutes, his happy smile had faded. The man wasn’t a fool. He had known Katya well enough all those years ago, and she was sure he could sense something was wrong now. He bade them wait in the parlor, then disappeared, presumably to fetch Malcolm.

“I bet this place is haunted,” Natalia said, awe in her voice as she looked around the room.

Katya huffed a laugh, surprised that it didn’t make her cough, and sank into a sofa near the fireplace. She held her hands up to warm them, but the room had a distinct chill to it.

Within minutes, Malcolm charged around the corner into the room, Cece and his odious nephew, Gerald, behind him. Whatever Malcolm was expecting to find, it wasn’t Katya. He stopped so suddenly that Gerry nearly barreled into his back.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, his surprise seeming to melt into a flash of hope before solidifying into anger.

Katya was too tired to charge into battle with him. “Ask them,” she said, nodding to her children, then coughing.

“Viscount Helm suggested country air would be the best cure for Mother’s lungs,” Rupert explained. He stepped subtly between Katya’s sofa and Malcolm’s glare as if he could protect her.

“Is that so?” Malcolm inched to the side so that he could deal with Katya directly.

“And we insisted on coming,” Natalia added, the only one in the room who was excited. She practically bounced to Malcolm’s side. “I want to see where my ancestors come from.”

“Are you a Scot too?” Gerry asked her, sweeping Natalia with a look that filled Katya with fury.

“Yes, I’m—”

“Natalia,” Rupert cut her short. “What did we talk about before?”

Natalia’s face went pink and she took a step back, whispering, “Sorry.”

Gerry’s smile grew as he glanced from Natalia to Bianca. “Who are these lovely young women?”

“My daughters,” Katya told him with as much force in her voice as she could manage, which wasn’t much.

“Oh?” Katya had intended to put the man in his place, but his eyes gleamed with mischief. “And do they take after their mother?”

“If you so much as look twice at these girls, I’ll have your hide for boots,” Malcolm growled.

Gerry flinched, backing away from Malcolm. “Sorry, Uncle, sorry. But everyone knows what Lady Stanhope is like.”

“Get out.” Malcolm glared at Gerry.

“I didn’t mean anything by it.” Gerry held up his hands, moving toward the door. “I mean, she came with that young buck, didn’t she?”

“Lady Stanhope is my mother,” Rupert barked, staring at Gerry with undisguised disgust.

“Oh, dear.” Gerry’s flabby face went pale, and as soon as he’d backed far enough away, he turned and darted out of the room.

“I see your heir is as charming as ever,” Katya croaked, then cleared the smoky taste from her throat.

“He’s Lord Malcolm’s heir?” Bianca yelped, visibly offended.

“He’s my brother’s son,” Malcolm answered, “and since I have no son of my own, he’ll inherit all this someday.”

Bianca made a disgusted sound and moved closer to the fire to warm up.

Malcolm approached the sofa, where Katya was ready to pass out with exhaustion. “What are you really doing here?” he asked, eyes narrowed. “Come to gloat?”

“No, Malcolm, I—” Katya was unable to finish her sentence. She burst into a coughing fit that had her gasping the way she had right after the fire. Her eyes watered, and fury at being in such bad shape made her tense, which worsened the coughing.

It wasn’t until she realized Malcolm had rushed to sit on the sofa beside her, hands outstretched to help her, that she stopped coughing.

“You really are sick,” he said, anxiety pinching his expression.

“I didn’t want to come,” she whispered. Speaking any louder would only set her off again. “This lot and Armand forced me. I just want to go to bed.”

“I’ll have a room prepared at once,” Malcolm said. He straightened and glanced toward the door. “Mackay.”

“I’ll have Mrs. Bruce prepare rooms immediately, my lord,” the intrepid butler replied before Malcolm could give the order.

Malcolm proceeded to glare at Rupert. “You shouldn’t have dragged her all the way up here.”

“It’s my fault, Papa,” Cece answered, standing close by Rupert’s side. “I told him we were coming here and begged him to follow.”

The look in Malcolm’s eyes wasn’t surprised. He studied Katya with a doubtful, sideways look.

“Truly, I had nothing to do with it,” she said. When Malcolm didn’t answer, she went on with, “Really, Malcolm. Do I look like I’m in any condition to resist the combined force of our offspring?”

“No,” Malcolm answered slowly. He stood, crossing to Rupert. “If you truly brought your mother here so that the country air could restore her, then I’ll give you all rooms and order my staff to help the process along. But that’s it.” He turned to Katya’s girls. “If any of you attempt to meddle in business that isn’t yours, you’ll regret it.” He finished by sending Cece a pointed look.

Cece glanced to Rupert as though she had a whole library of stories to tell him. Katya was certain the two of them were up to something, but she was too wrung out to wheedle it out of them. She leaned against the back of the sofa and shut her eyes.

“You can wait here until Mrs. Bruce has prepared your rooms or you can sit outside,” Malcolm said.

“Here is fine,” Katya said, her eyes still closed.

“But, Mama,” Natalia started.

“Leave your mother alone,” Malcolm told her.

Katya opened one eye to peek at him. He wore his usual grumpy frown, but there was something older about him, something defeated. And there was a reluctant sort of concern in his eyes when he shifted his glance to meet her one-eyed gaze.

A burst of warmth filled Katya, but she shut her eye and leaned her head back to block it out. The last thing she needed was more emotion where Malcolm was concerned. She was in his house, but she would do no more than Armand had ordered her. She would rest and breathe country air. Whatever was going on in Malcolm’s head, he had made it clear it was none of her business. As far as she was concerned, that was fine with her.