Balfour scrubbed a hand over his face. “And people claim the Scots have bad tempers. I would not insult your sister, Daniels. She’s sweet, pretty, endearingly stubborn, and scared to death of your father. That is not a sound basis for a marriage.”

Endearingly stubborn. Matthew filed that description away to apply to Mary Fran at some opportune moment. “Are you declining to court Genie because you’re concerned for her happiness?”

“I am concerned for her happiness—also for my own. My family needs coin desperately, though we need our honor more.”

Made with such casual, weary assurance, the observation stung. “Genie has a notion she’ll marry only for love, Balfour. I don’t know where she came by it. Altsax thinks marrying for love is vulgar, stupid, and common.”

“Not common enough,” Balfour muttered. “I had some questions to put to you on another matter, if you’ve a moment.”

And now the man with the piercing green eyes who made casual death threats and summarized Matthew’s sister accurately in a few words took to studying a portrait of some crusty old Highlander over the fireplace.

“Balfour, I do not share my father’s opinion on the matter of marriage. I married once for duty, for Queen and Country, and while it was not a horror, it was not what either I or my wife deserved. Ask me your questions. If I know the answers, I’ll gladly share them, though I have to warn you—the press of business means I must travel south in the morning.” The press of business and the dictates of sanity.

The emotions flitting through the earl’s gaze weren’t hard to name: relief, wariness, and bewilderment. “Travel on if you must, but my questions are about your cousin.”

The words were parted with carefully, with a studied neutrality that fooled Matthew not one whit. “Break Augusta’s heart, and the same promise applies, Balfour. She’s been through enough. Too much, in fact, and all she wants is to be left in peace.”

“No, that is not all she wants.” Balfour spoke softly, humor and sadness both in his tone. “Neither is it what she deserves, but that’s a discussion for another time. I was wondering if you could tell me the other things.” He ran a hand through thick dark hair, took another sip of his drink, and commenced staring out the mullioned window at gardens he’d had years to study.

“What other things?”

“The small things… What is Augusta’s favorite flower? How did she come by her love of drawing? Is she partial to sweets? Does she prefer chess or cribbage or backgammon?”

The personal things. Abruptly, Matthew recognized a fellow suffering swain, particularly in the earl’s mention of the difference between what a lady wants and what she deserves.

“I could use a game of cribbage myself, my lord, and perhaps we’d best keep that decanter handy.”

“Never a bad idea.” Balfour crossed the room to rummage in a desk drawer. “Turnabout is fair play, too, you know.” He slapped a deck of cards on the desk, then a carved cribbage board.

“Turnabout?”

“You have questions, Daniels. About Mary Fran. As long as you don’t ask me to violate a confidence—the woman has a wicked temper and very accurate aim with a riding crop—I’ll answer them.”

Matthew fetched the decanter and prepared to lose at least one game of cribbage. He’d lost two—only one intentionally—before Balfour asked Matthew to fetch some sensitive documents back to him here in the Highlands posthaste.

Perhaps that was fitting, that Matthew be given a chance to torment himself with another glimpse of Mary Frances, and to contribute to the happiness of others—his own being a lost cause.

***

“Where are you going?” Fiona asked the question as she tried to descend from the hayloft while holding her kitten, Spats. Mr. Daniels’s horse didn’t take exception to the company, but then, the horse had likely known Fee was above.

“Have you started sleeping in haylofts, Fee?”

“The sun comes up early, and I wanted to play with my kitten. Are you out for a ride?”

He smiled at her. Mr. Daniels had nice eyes—he smiled with his eyes more than he smiled with his mouth. “I’m leaving for the South, Fee. Business, you know.”

This was not good. Mama had disappeared into the saddle room the other day with Mr. Daniels, and she’d been smiling radiantly at the time—also holding Mr. Daniels’s hand. “Send a wire for your business. That’s what Her Majesty does.”

Mr. Daniels slipped off the horse’s headstall and looped the reins of a bridle over the gelding’s neck. “Her Majesty explains her business practices to you, does she?”

“She comes to our tea parties in the nursery at Balmoral sometimes, and so does His Royal Highness. They speak German to help us learn. If you’re leaving, you ought to pay a call on her.”

And he ought not to leave. Fiona would bet her favorite doll on that—if she could find it.

“Her Majesty is the last person I want to spend time with, Fiona.”

Mr. Daniels had been in the cavalry. He put a bridle on his horse in a precise order, and he checked each strap and buckle in order too.

“I like the Queen. Why are you leaving?”

“I told you.” He blew out a breath and stared over the horse’s neck. “The press of business calls me away, and even if I were having second thoughts, and leaving was the last thing I wanted to do, your uncles need me to see to some things for them rather urgently. It’s best if I go.”

Things to see to must be half of what adulthood was about. Fiona didn’t think such a life was going to be much fun. Uncle Ian’s face wore the same expression when he talked about Marrying Won’t Be So Bad. “You should not lie. Ma will skelp your bum.”

“Would that it were so simple.” He stared at his empty saddle, his eyes bleak. Uncle Gil looked like that when he stared at Miss Genie.

“I am forbidden to tell the truth by my own honor and by vows explicitly made to one whose requests I could not refuse.” He muttered the last as he checked the horse’s girth, which meant soon he’d lead the horse out to the mounting block.

“That is silly. Nobody is forbidden to tell the truth. It says to tell the truth in the Bible.”

“It also says ‘let the women keep silent in the church,’ but I doubt you do. Put my stirrup down on that side, if you please.”

Fiona put Spats on her shoulder and pulled the stirrup down, then ran the buckle up under the saddle flap. “If you are forbidden to tell the truth, and you want to tell the truth, then you must simply get permission first. Uncle Ian says you have to neg-o-ti-ate.”

On the other side of the horse, Mr. Daniels peered over at her. “Get permission?”

“To tell the truth. You ask nicely, and give at least three reasons, and it doesn’t hurt if everybody’s in a good mood when you ask.”

“I should get permission…” He came around the horse and scooped Fiona up against his hip, like Uncle Ian used to before she got so big. Spats hopped down, and the horse twitched an ear.

“You are a brilliant child. You’re going to grow up to be as lovely as your mother, and I’m going to be there to see it—I hope.” He didn’t look nearly so bleak now. He looked fierce.

“I hope so too. May I have a pony if you are?”

“Not unless your mother says it’s acceptable to her. I have to leave now, Fiona, but I will be back in time for the ball.”

He hugged her, good and tight, and while he led his horse out to the mounting block, Fiona ensconced Spats on her shoulder again. She waved Mr. Daniels on his way in the predawn light, and watched as he cantered off. At the bottom of the drive, he turned the horse not toward the train station in Ballater, but to the west, toward Balmoral.

Which was odd.

***

Mary Fran hated the summer ball. Not the planning and organizing of it, not seeing her brothers in all their Highland finery, not seeing how excited Fee got as the day drew closer.