Albion shook his head. “There wasn’t one. My mother didn’t want it to be common knowledge. I suppose she wasn’t sure if I’d come back when summoned, so she kept it quiet. He was already buried by the time I returned.”
“I am sorry, old friend,” Daniel said, patting Albion’s shoulder more gently. “I know he was dear to you. Dear to us both.”
Albion plucked a stray burr from the stallion’s forelock. “Is it strange to say I’m glad my father isn’t alive to see all of this?”
“Not at all, considering what sort of man your father was.”
“It’s just… I think he’d be angry with Isaac for dying and leaving me as the heir,” Albion said, more to himself than to Daniel. “I truly think he’d be furious with a dead man for dying and ruining his legacy—more furious than my mother is though she’s made her opinion known. I don’t know why I expected anything different.”
Daniel frowned. “Is there anything I can do?”
“What?” Albion shook his head, wrenching himself from the inner thoughts that had snuck through the blockade of his more distant memory. “Sorry, I’m spouting nonsense. Ignore me. It’s just nice to have reasonable company, that’s all.”
He had his good friend Ben, of course, but the things Ben took seriously could be counted on one hand.
“Shall we have a nip of something strong?” Daniel suggested, as the pair led their horses to the stables to be fed and watered. After their ride, Albion would have to wait a while before he could even think of returning to Whitecliff, so his horse did not become fatigued.
Albion smiled. “I doubt you’ve spoken sweeter words.”
Leaving their mounts in the capable hands of the Westyork stableboys, Albion and Daniel made their way around the rear of the house where glorious lawns and beautiful gardens stretched for miles. It had been one of Albion’s favorite places when he was a boy, and to his surprise, some things had not changed.
They had just entered through the terrace doors into the Garden Room when the interior door opened, and a startled figure stopped in her tracks.
“Goodness, you frightened me!” the woman said, clasping a hand to her chest as her shock turned to laughter. “Your mother said you had gone out riding with an old friend and would not return until dinner. I was hoping to read for a while as Mirabelle is still sleeping.”
“Do not let us stop you,” Daniel said, rushing forward to pull the woman into a tender embrace.
His wife,Albion realized.
“We were just going to spend an hour in my study with the good brandy,” Daniel explained, stealing a kiss from his wife’s lips.
The woman peered around her husband’s shoulder, frowning at Albion. “And who is your friend? I do not believe we have been introduced.”
Albion bowed, forgiving the wariness in the woman’s eyes. He likely looked twice as unlordly after the long and liberating ride through the countryside, his complexion ruddy from the whipping wind, his attire speckled with mud.
“This,my darling Phoebe, is Captain Winter,” Daniel said.
Phoebe gasped. “TheCaptain Winter that I have heard so much about?”
“Nothing bad, I hope,” Albion said, forcing what he hoped was a pleasant smile.
Phoebe’s wariness evaporated into a wide and vibrant grin. “There have been so many times where I thought you were a fiction, Captain! Daniel would tell me great stories about you so filled with adventure and peril that I doubted they—or you—could be real. Yet, here you are. You are welcome here, Captain.”
“Ah, he is ‘Your Grace’ now,” Daniel corrected, flashing a wink at Albion. “A recent turn of events. He is no longer merely Captain Winter, but he is the Duke of Whitecliff.”
In the blink of an eye, all of the light and warmth sputtered out on Phoebe’s face, the color draining from her. “What did you say?”
“My dear friend is now the Duke of Whitecliff,” Daniel repeated, arching an eyebrow.
Phoebe broke away from her husband, taking a few steps across the room, coming closer to where Albion stood. Her eyes narrowed, assessing him from head to toe the way that Lady Matilda had done. Indeed,exactlythe way Lady Matilda had done, to the point where Albion wished he had donned a mask or a hood.
“You are the one who has trapped my dear friend,” she said in a low, simmering voice. “You are the one who has conspired with her cousin to steal her freedom.”
Albion blinked. “Pardon?”
“I have just been with Matilda,” Phoebe replied sharply. “She told us everything. Told us how she has been exchanged for a debt.”
Daniel came to stand at his wife’s side. “My darling, please do not speak to my friend like that. I am certain he is no happier about the arrangement than Matilda is.” He paused, grimacing. “Mercy, I had no notion that your bride was Matilda, Albion. I would not have thought it possible, for she is…” He tailed off, as if he did not trust what he might say next.
