Chapter 24

24

A s much as Orin enjoyed music, the evening at Landreth Hall felt interminable. Several guests performed with the hired musicians, including Miss Lyon on the pianoforte. For the hundredth time that night, his mind returned to Maryn. It made him half crabbit that she was absent. Maryn played the pianoforte and harp, or once did. She should be here beside him, enjoying the music if not entertaining.

A female soloist took center stage, her swelling soprano reminding him of a performance long ago in London. Beside him, Charis wore a faraway look, no doubt missing Lovell and wondering about their future. When the piece ended, his niece left his side to speak with friends while he discussed his bookshop's opening and rumblings of a new Jacobite Rising with a few gentlemen from Duns. Miss Lyon appeared, making her way to his side when the men went in search of punch.

"You seem rather preoccupied tonight, Mr. Hume." She flicked her fan open, wafting it about so vigorously he felt its wind. "Perhaps you're as shocked as I about the ill news."

News? Orin felt in the dark and on guard all at once.

"Just now I learned from Lady Blackadder that another tragedy has befallen Berwick. It seems the Lockhart curse has struck again."

Maryn? His every nerve turned taut. "What means you?"

"Not long ago Mother and I had tea at Redbraes Castle with Lady Marchmont. It seems she died in childbirth yestreen leaving her family reeling. The babe lives but … "

Nicola? He hadn't even known she was expecting. Maryn hadn't mentioned it but she rarely talked about family, even her own sister. He did ken Lord Marchmont wasn't in the best health but couldn't recall how many children they had.

Miss Lyon was studying him in a way he could only call dissecting. "I remember you once had close ties to the Lockhart family."

Once cut coldly. Colder still was the realization that Maryn had been dealt another death on the heels of her grandfather's passing. "I'm most acquainted with the late baroness's sister."

"Ah, yes. A failed marriage settlement of some sort, 'tis said. And now, lo and behold, she's a duchess, removed from your realm completely. Perhaps if you'd accepted that baronetcy … "

He listened but his mind couldn't latch hold of the details. All that mattered was that Maryn was safe. Sound. But no doubt shattered over another loss.

"Her Grace is a recluse, I understand," she continued though her fan had stilled. "Unable to return to society due to her injuries from that unfortunate accident you were a part of."

Orin suspected Nicola had blamed him publicly for Herschel's death as well. She'd always held him responsible, God rest her troubled soul. For now, he'd had enough of Miss Lyon and her meddling. To his relief, the soloist approached, her smile resurrecting a past meeting.

"Mr. Hume, imagine seeing you again," she began, "after our less than illustrious beginning in London."

"Miss Hazel Robson." He gave a slight bow, remembering the incident and wanting to put her at ease. "A genuine pleasure whether here or there."

"You continue very courtly, sir. I still owe you a debt of gratitude for coming to my rescue."

At this, Miss Lyon took her leave as Orin and Miss Robson moved toward a French door.

"That summer was particularly stifling and His Majesty refused to open any windows if memory serves." Orin gestured outside, her fainting firmly in mind. "I'm in need of some fresh air myself."

She nodded. "Our thoughts align though I do find Scottish summers far more comfortable than those in the city."

They continued down wide steps onto a lantern-lit walkway that skirted a pond. Twin swans glided by, their plumage silvery beneath a full moon. A few other couples walked about, their murmurings threading through the sultry stillness.

"Are you here in the Lowlands long?" Orin asked, eyes on the swans even as his thoughts swung to Lockhart Hall.

"'Till Christmas. My voice needs a rest and my aunt lives in Polwarth. She's invited me to stay with her there."

"Not far then." He couldn't help but add, " At Polwarth on the Green, if you'll meet me in the morn, where lads and lasses do convene, to dance around the thorn ."

"My aunt has quoted that same old rhyme," she said with a smile, pausing to remove a pebble from her slipper. "I find Polwarth—the Merse—especially lovely right now."

"You've come at a good time. Midsummer is when the Lowlands are at their best."

"I heard you're opening a bookshop. I shall do some reading while here and must visit Duns."

"Visit, aye. You'll be among our first customers."

They started up the steps to return to the house, his hand on her sleeve to steady her. Her blondeness was in direct contrast to Maryn's blue-black. Of the same height, Maryn was not the sylph this lass was. Miss Robson looked almost fairy-like, mayhap frail.

When they reentered the house, Orin checked the urge to consult his watch. A glass of punch and several business-related questions later, he bided his time till Charis stifled a yawn and returned to his side.

"I see you've renewed your acquaintance with the angelic-voiced, very agreeable Miss Robson," she said conspiratorially. "A much more suitable match than Miss Ivory Lyon … if I were to be accused of matchmaking, that is."

With a half-hearted chuckle, Orin escorted her from the house to the waiting carriage. "I make nae such accusation but your high praise is duly noted."

Back in the gatehouse, Orin found himself reading till midnight. Or trying to. He'd brought home a few compelling books from the bookshop but Maryn's bereavement intruded, and he wondered her possible reaction to her sister's death. With no family to console or comfort, she would forge ahead alone with her grief. He didn't believe in the Lockhart curse but this latest tragedy confirmed the family was indeed marked by extraordinary grief.

"I'm shocked and heartbroken for them, especially Maryn," Charis had said on their return home. "How much tragedy can one family endure? There's no end to their mourning."

Rising from his chair, he set the book aside and wandered outside to the walled garden. Drenched in moonlight, it had a ghostly aspect that fit his mood. Turmoil vied with melancholy as he debated his next step.

Should he go to Maryn or merely send her a note of condolence?

She'd made it abundantly clear about his company.

I'm not who I once was nor are you. 'Tis futile to try to go on as before.

Wasn't that his answer to his pursuit of her, then? She clearly wanted no part of it. Add to that the burn of Miss Lyon's forthright words and there was abundant proof it was futile to have any hope of rekindling their relationship.

A failed marriage settlement of some sort … and now, lo and behold, she's a duchess, removed from your realm completely.

Her words were driven by spite, the small-mindedness of a woman thwarted. But they still merited unraveling. True, the marriage settlement between him and Maryn had failed because of the tragedy. Once they had been nearly inseparable, though now he wondered if his own romantic nature colored their tie as having been more than it was.

Mayhap the Almighty was even using the disagreeable Miss Lyon to shine truth on his situation lest he become mired in it. It might even be that Miss Robson was not happenstance either. Given that, this seemed a chance to consider what was before him, forsake the complicated past, and forge a different sort of future.

But could he?

He needed counsel, but Lovell was gone. The laird was often embarrassingly blunt, the countess ever obliging, and Charis too inquisitive. He had few confidantes here as he'd lived in London so long—and even his peers in the city weren't always trusted nor wise.

He walked the perimeter of the knot garden, fragrant even at night, bypassing the cool spray of the fountain till he came to the opening in the stone wall. His hand sought the rough stone even as he felt a beat of hope that a letter would rest there, waiting. But the space was empty.

Empty as his heart.