Boyd’s laughter was mirthless. No matter the wealth or distance, he could never truly escape his past.
“From Dunkeld, you say?”
“Yes, Dunkeld.”
“Tear it down.”
Shaw sputtered as Boyd strode back inside. The marble walls, the gilded hall—it was all pressing in, threatening to bury him alive.
Midway down the stairs, a middle-aged woman stepped into his path.
“Mr. Sandeman, welcome. I’m Mrs. Abernathy, the housekeeper. Whenever you have time, I’d like to discuss menus. The staff is wondering how long—”
“My secretary will send you the guest list for Christmas. Expect thirty guests, plus my friends and Miss Croft, who will stay for the holidays.”
Mrs. Abernathy stiffened. “But the decorations—”
“Do as you please. Spare no expense.”
“The master bedchamber is ready, sir. Your luggage arrived this morning, and dinner—”
“I’ll be staying at the hunting lodge tonight.”
“As you wish, sir.”
As Boyd advanced toward the exit, a wiry lad materialized from the shadows, his coat a garish display of brass buttons and tartan trim. The poor soul looked like a peacock forced into a kilt.
“Mr. Sandeman, this is Reginald, the footman in charge of the doors,” Mrs. Abernathy introduced with a faint sigh.
Boyd groaned. “Mrs. Abernathy, remind me to shoot the devil who chose the servants’ livery.”
Reginald, wide-eyed, bowed. “Welcome, sir. It’s my honor to... open the door for you.”
Boyd grabbed the handle before he could. “Not this time, Reggy.”
“It’s Reginald, sir.”
“Of course it is.”
Boyd crossed the threshold, the night air far more welcoming than the silence inside.
Chapter four
"A winemaker’s wife must never arrive unannounced; it’s important to give the husband ample time to feign indifference." – The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement
Boyd paced the hall of his new house, the soles of his boots echoing against the polished floor. Servants scurried about like hens dodging a fox, caught up in the chaos of holiday preparations. A pair of children bounded down the stairs and into the garden—Julia and Griffin’s brood. He hadn’t bothered to learn their names yet. Almoster and Anne were already partaking in his hospitality, their presence adding some much-needed noise to the place.
All was set, except for Her Highness—Beth Croft.
He told himself his nerves were justified. After all, it would be hard to exact revenge on her father if the daughter didn’tappear. He didn’t hold out much hope for her, though. The girl’s spine had to be as flimsy as a parasol—only fit for fluttering and twirling.
She was surely prepared to find him the uncouth Scot everyone believed him to be. But he’d prove her wrong. Let her think she could fluster him. He’d be the perfect gentleman—a paragon of politeness—just to unsettle her.
Reginald stood off to the side, stiff as a sentinel in his ridiculous uniform, eyeing the door from his post near the grandfather clock. The lad looked as if he were preparing for a sprint in the Highland Games.
Boyd pulled out his watch, checking the hour. She should have arrived by now. Where was she? He hadn’t taken her for a coward, but perhaps all that poise was nothing more than the illusion of stiff taffeta and whale bones. Beneath the veneer, she was likely no different from the rest of high society—spoiled and eager to take advantage of others.
The sound of a carriage rolling into the courtyard made his pulse race. He glanced at Reginald, who sucked in a breath, his eyes wide with anticipation.
