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It’d been four days since she’d told him who her grandfather was, and he’d had to rethink the whole idea of keeping her captive until she broke and confessed all. It would not do, holding the granddaughter of a marquess against her will.
But he still needed answers before he could set her free. He’d sent Simmons to London to discreetly gather as much information about the marquess as possible, and he was more than irate his solicitor hadn’t returned yet.
The short message that Simmons had sent back about her grandfather was perplexing. Her family was not destitute, as far as Simmons had been able to discern. So she would not be one that was bound by the debts of her family—willing to break into his home in order to pay them off. Instead, her grandfather owned an impressive swath of land in Stirlingshire. Sloane had been raised a lady, groomed to marry a peer—and while she had attended one short season in London two years past, nothing had come of it.
Reiner stared at Sloane, watching her pick up pebbles at her feet and plunk them into the pond. The cerulean dress he’d had a maid procure for her fit her well, though tight in the chest. She still wore the long glove on her left arm, even in the warmth of the day. Her right hand was bare. Pinned into a soft chignon, her hair that he’d originally thought was blond showed streaks of red in the sunlight, casting a warm, rosy glow to the color of her hair. She sat utterly relaxed with Vicky, a smile radiant on her face.
He shook his head. The likelihood of her trying to sneak into his room to do him harm was less a possibility than he’d originally thought. But it still didn’t answer the question of what she was doing there.
Until he had that, he was stuck. For too much was at stake for him to let her go without those very answers.
~~~
They trailed through the beds of late summer roses and asters, Vicky stopping every other foot and plucking fresh blooms to add to the quickly expanding bouquet in her hand. Bending over deep purple asters, she looked back over her shoulder at Sloane, wrinkling her nose.
“I just don’t see the purpose in practicing my French as it concerns flowers.”
“Well, one, we promised Miss Gregory we would practice your French as we took in a breath of fresh air,” Sloane said. “And two, you never ken when some fine French gentleman will want to discuss with you the intricacies of the flora in France.”
Vicky snorted, standing up as she tucked an aster stem into her hand. “I don’t think I would ever like to discuss with a man any sort of flora. Especially in French.”
“You might be surprised what will pass as fascinating conversation at dinner parties.” Sloane gave a visible shudder. “But I think we’ve run through enough French for the day. Tomorrow we’ll tackle the best ways to enrich soil in French. I think you’ll find that conversation fascinating.”
“Yes. Oh please, yes, let us be done for the day.” Vicky sighed out the words. Far too dramatic, but it still brought a chuckle to Sloane’s lips.
The girl pointed to the evergreen hedgerows several hundred paces away with her bouquet of flowers. “Shall we play Catch the Cat again? That was so much fun.”
“First we must put the flowers in water, lest they wilt away.”
“Claude could do it for us.” Before Sloane could stop her, Vicky bounded over to Claude where he stood with Lawrence at the gravel pathway that led from the yew labyrinth to the symmetrical rows of raised flower beds. “Claude, could you please bring these into Mrs. Flurten and ask her for a vase?”
A burly man with dark curly hair skimming his eyebrows and leathery skin, Claude cringed at the request. “I’m not a cursed housemaid, young miss.”
Vicky didn’t blink at his gruffness. “Please?” She held up the bouquet to him.
His face scrunched in horrified indignation. But he grumbled nonsensical words and took the bouquet from her, turning and walking toward the castle.
Vicky spun back to Sloane, an impish grin on her face.
Sloane shook her head at her and the right side of her face lifted in a crooked smile. While what Vicky had just done reeked of prerogative, Sloane hadn’t minded that one of her constant, dour shadows had been sent off to deliver a frilly bundle of flowers. “You will drive your suitors in London into madness in ten years’ time, you scamp.”
Vicky giggled and shrugged.
They started walking across the wide expanse of lawn toward the hedgerows.
“What is it that you think Uncle Reiner wants from you?”
Sloane’s look lifted to the clear blue sky above them, dotted with only sparse, puffy clouds. For several steps, she didn’t say a word.
“I wish I knew. I wish I knew exactly what I was doing behind the castle—if I truly was trying to climb the vines and get into his room. I wish I knew what happened to my arm.” She lifted her left hand. “I wish I knew why I would travel so far from home.”
Several steps passed before Vicky looked up at her. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Of course.”
“I hope you never remember. I hope you have to stay here with us. You are the only fun thing that has happened here at Wolfbridge in four years.”
“Your uncle is not fun?” Sloane chuckled to herself. “Strike that question, for I ken very well how cold and sour your uncle is.”
