Chapter 3

"That's so sad," my maid, Bree, declared with a shake of her head. "That his lordship never had a chance to reconcile wi' his uncle," she clarified in her Scottish brogue when we all turned to look at her.

Having spent much of the day hurrying to pack and prepare for our departure, her appearance wasn't as neat as usual. Several strawberry blond curls had escaped from their pins to rest against the back of her neck, and there was a streak of dirt on the sleeve of her sprig green dress. But despite the busy day, she seemed as lively as ever that evening as Gage and I gathered in our bedchamber with our small staff. There hadn't been time to confer earlier in the day, but we knew an explanation was called for, particularly given the somewhat unorthodox nature of their roles and our relationships with them.

Anderley, Gage's valet—who was a dark foil for Gage's own golden good looks—stood with his arms crossed over his chest. "It seems unlikely that would have happened anyway."

Clearly, he'd heard gossip from at least one member of Lord Gage's staff, likely his punctilious valet, Lembus, for we'd not spoken to them before of Gage's father's past or his estrangement from the Roscarrocks. Even now, Gage was choosing his words with care.

"Aye, but the possibility was still open to him," Bree countered mournfully. "Noo it's not."

"She's right," Mrs. Mackay, our daughter's Scottish nanny, supplied. Her hands were clasped before her matronly frame, her silver hair a halo to her features. "?'Tis always sad when the opportunity to mend one's differences—nay matter hoo small—closes forever. 'Tis something to be lamented."

A furrow formed in Anderley's brow, and I wondered if he was thinking of someone other than Lord Gage. Perhaps even someone from his family back in Italy. But Gage spoke before I could give the matter further consideration.

"We're going to need all of your help with this investigation." His pale blue gaze swept somberly over everyone present, including Emma slumbering in my arms. "My father warned us that the Cornish are an insular lot. They're not going to share what they know easily. Not that we haven't dealt with such people before."

It seemed to me, more often than not, we were confronted with such people.

"But this time, it's different." Gage frowned. "Familial relations can be an odd beast. Estranged family, in particular. I'm honestly not certain what we're walking into."

These words and the grim tone of his voice made my chest stir with apprehension, and I could tell the others had been similarly affected.

"So I want us all to be especially prudent and watchful, without seeming so." Gage rested his hands on his hips and turned to stare unseeing at the fire burning in the hearth. Firelight flickered over his features, emphasizing the strong line of his jaw. "At least until we have a better understanding of what we're dealing with."

"Do you anticipate violence?" Anderley asked, being the first to dare to speak.

"No," Gage replied, though his tone was far from assured. "Not directly," he added, turning back to face us. "But…their history leaves room for doubt."

We all glanced at each other, perhaps wondering if we should be making the journey there at all. But if one of us was to go, then all of us would. After all, there was strength in numbers. And five—or six, if one counted Lord Gage—working together could prevail far easier than one.

I looked down at my child, her face soft with sleep, and my heart squeezed with love for her, with the desperate need to protect her. But I knew that if Gage genuinely felt there was reason to fear for her safety, he would never take her to Cornwall. He was just being cautious. Though I had to wonder what had inspired this more subdued outlook. Was he now regretting convincing his father to go?

I asked my husband exactly that once the others departed, with Mrs. Mackay carrying Emma off to the nursery.

Gage didn't seem surprised I'd asked. "No." He straightened from his stance leaning against the fireplace mantel to look at me. "We need to go. Or rather, my father needs to. And knowing what we do, we can hardly abandon him to face this alone." He reached out to rub his hands up and down the iris blue silk of my dressing gown covering my upper arms.

"The note did request help from both of you," I pointed out.

"Yes, but despite the fact they're family and I am curious about them, they're all but strangers to me. Given that, Great-Aunt Amelia can't have expected her plea to have the same effect on me."

I tilted my head, scrutinizing his features. "Actually, I think it was directed at you."

He tensed at this pronouncement. "But why…?"

"Because of your reputation." I lifted my hands to smooth them over the lapels of his burgundy banyan. "Because if she's kept abreast of you at all—as she seems to, through newspapers and such—then she knows you're not as stubborn and close-minded as your father. That if anyone has any hope of convincing him to journey to Roscarrock House, it's you."

He seemed troubled by this deduction.

"Does that make you question your counsel?"

He frowned. "No. Well…question it? Yes," he admitted. "But not regret it."

"Because you can't imagine disregarding their letter," I inferred, knowing my husband well. He was nothing if not dutiful and honorable.

He nodded. "Considering we would have found ourselves back at this conclusion no matter how long we analyzed it, I suppose it's foolish to begin doing so now."

My eyes dipped to the strong muscles in his neck. "Not foolish, no." For I was doing exactly that. Wondering if my initial enthusiasm had been rather rash.

After all, Cornwall was a great distance from anywhere. It stretched out past the far southwestern edge of England like a lady demurely lifting her skirts to dip her toes into the Atlantic Ocean. Or like a claw scrabbling at the vast, unforgiving sea. It depended on one's fancy. Either way, if something should go wrong, we would be a very long way from any friends in London or even Alfie and Lorna in Dartmoor.

I worried my eagerness to see my father-in-law reconciled with his mother's family had clouded my judgment. That my desire to fix what might, indeed, be unfixable had blinded me. After all, Lord Gage did know the Roscarrocks better than I did. Perhaps what I viewed as his prejudice borne of festering shame and anger was actually more clear-sighted than I realized.

Gage's head dipped, trying to recapture my gaze. "Are you regretting it?"

"I'm regretting my failure to question my impartiality sooner."

He frowned in confusion. "About the Roscarrocks?"

"Yes." I fidgeted with his lapels. "For a woman who has never met them, I seem to have formed a rather more positive opinion of their innate goodness than your father's recollections would seem to illustrate."

"Recollections which, as we've established, are nearly fifty years old."

"Yes, but that doesn't mean they're inaccurate."

"Kiera." He waited until I looked up at him. "You have every reason to question my father's judgment when it comes to his perception of other people's characters. Just look at the way he misjudged you, and Henry, and about a dozen other people I could name. He treated you abominably before we wed, and after." He clasped his arms around my waist, drawing me closer. "Truth be told, for a time, I feared you would decide marriage to me wasn't worth suffering his scorn. But then you proved to be made of sturdier stuff than I'd given you credit for."

"You are not your father, Sebastian," I reminded him with a shake of my head.

"No, I am not. And I would trust your judgment of a person—even one you've never met—over that of my father's any day." He arched his eyebrows. "Especially if he has a personal connection to them."

"He does often seem to hold a skewed perspective of those he possesses any sort of emotional bond with," I conceded.

Gage arched his neck back, considering me. "And if that should fail to convince you, I would remind you that the one person he does have a clear perception of is his granddaughter, whom he rightfully adores. Do you honestly think he would let us set foot near the Roscarrocks with Emma if he genuinely feared them and whatever we might discover there?"

"Not in a thousand years."

He leaned close again, so that our faces were but inches apart. "And neither would I."

That much I'd already realized.

"Then we're bound for Cornwall," I murmured, confirming the decision that had already been made. "Or rather, Devon, first." I searched Gage's eyes for any reaction to this reminder. "You've never been to Liftondown, have you?"

A glint of anxiety flickered in his pupils. "No. Though it's about a dozen miles from Langstone Manor, as the crow flies."

Langstone Manor was his maternal grandfather's estate at the edge of Dartmoor, where he'd spent much of his childhood.

"So close?" I replied in shock. And yet Gage's paternal grandparents had only visited him once, when he was too young to remember. I supposed his mother could have taken him to see them, but she'd so often been ill, which was the reason they lived at Langstone in the first place rather than nearer to Plymouth. His father might have made the effort, but he was at sea much of the year—sometimes fifty or more weeks—which meant that after travel from Plymouth and back, he would have, at most, twelve days with his wife and son, or perhaps as little as three. It would have fallen to Sir Henry Gage and his wife to make the effort to see their only grandchild, something one would have thought they would do even if they were estranged from their son. Apparently, Lord Gage came by his propensity to hold long grudges naturally, heedless of who they hurt in the process.

"If my mother's description of it is to be believed, it is a rather bleak place," Gage replied.

Which was saying something, as Langstone Manor had been far from sumptuous, even if it had contained a rather wonderful art collection.

"Maybe we can visit Alfie and Lorna at Langstone when we're finished in Cornwall," I suggested, trying to cheer him. I hadn't failed to notice he was avoiding discussing his paternal grandparents' absence from his life, but what could I say? It was clear he didn't know how to feel about it. After all, how do you mourn someone you never really knew? Perhaps you merely mourn the space in your life they should have occupied, the void their absence left behind. Like an echo of pain rather than the ache itself.

"I would like that," Gage agreed. "Their son is, what? Eight or nine months old now? He and Emma can play together."

I smiled. "I'm not certain babies actually play, but they can certainly babble at each other." I hesitated before voicing my next thought. "Has Alfie written to you?"

"No, but you know he's a terrible correspondent."

This was true enough. "Well, Lorna's letter today intimated that their son Rory will have a natural playmate soon enough."

Gage's eyes dipped to my abdomen.

I laughed. "And no, that is not a hint that I'm ready to add another child to our nursery. Not yet." I draped my arms around his neck. "Not intentionally anyway."

"I see," Gage replied silkily, drawing me closer. "Then, considering the long journey before us, perhaps we should consider retiring."

My breathing hitched at the gleam in his eyes. I slid my fingers up into his hair. "Yes, a good night's rest is exactly what we need."

"Hmm. Rest, yes," he hummed in a deep baritone just before his lips pressed to mine.

And rest we did. Eventually.