“I am here to take his lordship on a tour, ma’am. I arrived just before you did.” Donnatella then turned to Tysen and gave him a very warm smile. “Good day, my lord, it is ever so pleasant to see you again. Are you ready to leave?”
The black mustache quivered again, just a bit, over Mrs. Griffin’s upper lip. Tysen wondered if Mrs. Griffin had a first name, but he didn’t ask because then the lady laughed, a perfectly dreadful sound, all deep and hoarse, and said, “Ha! I’ll wager one of my last groats that a tour isn’t your objective at all, Donnatella. You are here to begin your flirtations with the poor man, who isn’t poor at all since he now owns Kildrummy Castle, which the good Lord knows he doesn’t deserve.”
Well, that was the truth, he thought.
Mrs. Griffin turned back to Tysen, gave him a look that clearly told him he was grossly lacking, and said, “You probably do not have a chance, my lord. Donnatella is young, but she is wise in the ways of women, and thus, as a man, you haven’t a chance. Hmmm. Donnatella is a Scotswoman, however, and that is probably the only good thing to come out of this debacle. I would have married old Tyronne myself, but I was too old to give birth to another heir, and also, alas, there is Mr. Griffin to consider. A pity, but we will see.”
Tysen looked beyond Mrs. Griffin to see a very tall, very thin gentleman, nattily dressed, his hair snow-white, thick and full, leaning against the door of the carriage.
“Sir,” Tysen said, giving him a slight bow.
Mr. Griffin nodded, returned with a quick, jerking bow, and nodded once again. He walked up to stand just behind his wife. “My lord. We are here. We have returned, just as we promised ourselves we would. You have met my charming wife, I see.”
“Yes, he has, Mr. Griffin. I am still standing outside, and I don’t want to be here. Now, where is Mrs. MacFardle?”
Tysen couldn’t think of a single thing to say. He merely stood there gazing after the very tall lady who was old enough to be his mother and was probably even more vicious than his mother, who excelled at her craft. He prayed that neither Mr. nor Mrs. Griffin would remain for very long. He continued looking after her until she passed through the front door, Mrs. MacFardle now by her side. Mr. Griffin trailed gracefully behind his wife. She continued to swing her griffin-headed black cane back and forth.
“She is quite obsessed with Kildrummy,” Donnatella said calmly, straightening the charming little riding hat she wore. A dark-blue ostrich plume curved around one cheek. “Do not have an apoplexy, my lord, for neither Mrs. Griffin nor Mr. Griffin lives here, thank the gracious Lord. Evidently she decided to see the new master of Kildrummy Castle for herself. She probably will not remain long. She detests the sea air. She says it makes her nose swell. I believe that her nose swells because she drinks so much smuggled French brandy. Mr. Griffin doesn’t drink anything at all. He just stands there, all skinny and blank-looking, well dressed, his arms crossed, and stares at everyone. You have my profound sympathy, my lord.”
Donnatella lightly laid her fingers on his arm. “Would you like to leave now?”
Tysen looked after the couple, Mr. Griffin still right on Mrs. Griffin’s bootheels, nearly inside the castle now, and he wondered what his obligations were in that particular direction.
Donnatella laughed. “Don’t concern yourself, my lord, truly, she will do just as she pleases without a by-your-leave. For the most part, she is harmless.”
“And for all the other parts?”
“Whatever is involved, I doubt you will like it. She will boss everyone about. You will see that she and Mrs. MacFardle are quite the bosom bows—like to like, as my mother says. Also, Mrs. Griffin is quite rich, for Mr. Griffin owns a huge iron foundry outside of Edinburgh.”
And so Tysen elected not to concern himself, at least not until he returned from his tour.
Donnatella took him all over the countryside. They visited Stonehaven, not at all changed from his boy’s memory, all the houses still dark and dreary, hunkered down between a low, meandering cliff and the sea.
Tysen was beginning to believe that he had ridden by every single hillock, seen every tree, remarked upon every crofter’s cottage by the time she stopped at a jagged outcropping of a cliff that hung dramatically over the sea about two miles northeast of Vallance Manor. She dismounted, walked to the edge, and stared down. She looked over her shoulder and called out, “Come, my lord. This is where Ian fell to his death. He broke his neck when he hit the rocks below. See there, since it is nearing high tide, you can barely see the tops of them sticking out of the water. There are no paths leading down to the water here. It was very difficult to bring Ian back up to bury him. Old Tyronne supervised the entire venture.”
Tysen walked slowly toward her. He remembered Ian so clearly in that moment—so very young and strong, his white teeth gleaming when he smiled. He’d smiled so much as a boy, and he was filled with mischief. And then he had died before he reached his thirtieth year. The last heir. He’d been old Tyronne’s last hope, his last grandson. Mr. and Mrs. Griffin’s last hope as well, Tysen supposed.
As far as Tysen could tell, Donnatella Vallance hadn’t flirted with him at all, thankfully. She’d just tried to ride him into the ground. Big Fellow was snorting, tossing his head. He was tired.
Tysen said, looking at those sharp black rocks with the frothy white waves whipping around them, “Donald MacCray, the solicitor in Edinburgh, wrote that Ian was drunk when he fell.”
“That is what was said,” Donnatella said, then shrugged. “Do you remember him from your only visit here? He was younger than you, wasn’t he? Perhaps about two years younger?”
“Yes, I was ten at the time, and I believe Ian was around eight. I liked him. It is a pity that it happened.”
Donnatella’s chin went into the air, she drew in a deep breath of salty sea air and said, “He changed. At one time he was my hero—when he was twenty and I was only nine. I would have done anything for him. But then he changed, became sullen and withdrawn. I remember
hearing of wickedness, of too much wildness in bad places in Edinburgh. Then, last year, when I decided to marry him, he was perhaps happy for a while, but evidently he drank too much one night and stumbled over this cliff. I doubt I will ever forgive him for that.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Vallance. I did not know that you were his fiancée at the time of his death.”
She turned and smiled at him, shrugged. “My father and mother wished me to be mistress of Kildrummy Castle. I did not love him, but I finally agreed to marry him.” She paused then and gave him a sloe-eyed smile designed to make a man’s knees go weak, a smile so beguiling it was superior even to those embarrassingly intimate smiles that Mrs. Delaney, the widow of a local draper, frequently sent his way. She was an extraordinarily confident lady who had made it her goal last year to get him into her bed. He would never forget what she’d whispered in his ear one evening after a town meeting regarding the bridge to be built over the river Rowen: “I want to bed you, Vicar, not wed you. Can you begin to imagine how I will make you feel?”
He’d had to admit to her that no, he couldn’t begin to imagine. He had escaped without rudeness, surely a remarkable feat, given the lady’s perseverance.
“Miss Vallance—”
“My lord, since we are neighbors perhaps you should call me Donnatella.”