Page 91 of Surrender Your Grace
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When Cici stepped inside Sommerville House, the familiar scent of beeswax and bergamot enveloped her. So much warmer, and homier, than lavender. She unfastened her cloak, andJenkins slipped it from her shoulders with his usual quiet efficiency. She nodded in thanks and moved toward the stairs on her way to her room for a good cry.
At the last moment, she veered toward the music room.
With each step, the weight of Elizabeth’s betrayal pressed heavier. The journal. The draft. The twisted, venomous words scrawled in her sister’s hand. This wasn’t thoughtless cruelty. It was deliberate. Calculated. Personal.
Music might help soothe the ache clawing at her chest. But what to play?
Not something grand or defiant—no triumphant chords or predictable waltzes. She needed softness, not intensity. Comfort, not fire. Chopin, perhaps. One of the nocturnes, in C-sharp minor.
Then laughter—deep and unmistakably male—filtered from the salon. She paused in the doorway.
Inside, Maggie perched on the edge of the settee like a woman poised to bolt, while Duncan stood nearby, brandy in hand, posture maddeningly relaxed.
“I still fail to see why marriage should involve relocation to the edge of the world,” Maggie said airily. “Scotland is charming in theory—but so are ancient castles. Both are equally cold, damp, and prone to mildew.”
Duncan didn’t blink. “You’re confusing the Highlands with the Himalayas. We do have roofs. And we bathe occasionally to keep away the mold.”
“No pâtisseries. No opera. And nothing resembling fashion—unlessThe Ladies’ Gazettebegins featuring pleats, kilts, and bare knees.”
“Kilts are timeless. Practical. And delightfully breezy.”
Maggie arched a brow. “So the wind can whistle up your… pride?”
“Might you be worried for my anatomy, lass?” he asked, grinning.
“Hardly,” she scoffed. “I fear for my mine if I’m sentenced to a never-ending diet of mutton stew in such dismal, freezing weather that my teeth rattle right out of my head.”
“You say that now,” Duncan said smoothly, “but give Castle MacPherson a week and you’ll be penning sonnets to the heather.”
“I’d sooner milk a crocodile.”
“Pity,” he said. “They’re in short supply north of Edinburgh.”
Maggie opened her mouth to retort but caught sight of Cici in the doorway, who summoned her with a slight nod toward the corridor.
Duncan’s smile vanished as suspicion took root.
Maggie murmured something that earned a chuckle then excused herself and followed.
Cici led the way to the rarely used withdrawing room—their unofficial war room.
“Did you find anything?” Maggie asked, closing the door behind her.
“What about Duncan?”
“I told him you looked upset after tea with your mother. Which isn’t a lie.”
“Upset is an understatement,” Cici said grimly. “I didn’t find anything—I foundeverything.”
She handed over the journal and the draft of the letter. She hadn’t left either behind. Let Elizabeth panic, for once, and wonder if discovery was imminent, which it was.
Maggie crossed to the secretary, producing from its bottom drawer the bundle of pink and blue papers tied in ribbon.
“I’d have thought you would keep those in your rooms,” Cici said, joining her at the table before the settee.
“We use this room so rarely it’s practically invisible.”
