Over the next two days, Keir was in an unfamiliar state of acute happiness mingled with occasional unease. “Gleamy” was the Scots word for weather like this: sunshine interrupted by clouds or showers. There were no threads of continuity between his old life and this one, no rough edges anywhere. No recognizable faces or voices. Even the clothes he wore were new and strange. And yet it was all so comfortable and beautiful, he couldn’t help liking it immensely.
In a way, it would be easier if the Challons and Marsdens put on airs around him, or pretended he was beneath their interest. That way, he could preserve his sense of separateness, and remain a stranger in a strange land. But no, they had to be warm and friendly and interesting. He was especially charmed by the two youngest Challons, Ivo and Seraphina, both of them engaging and warm, but also possessing their father’s knack for a perfectly timed witticism—a bon mot, Merritt called it.
They asked countless questions about Islay, his friends, his dog, and the distillery, and they entertained him with stories of their own. To Keir’s relief, neither of them seemed to have difficulty accepting him as a half brother, despite the vast differences in their ages. They had been brought up in an environment filled with so much abundance, it didn’t occur to them to feel threatened by anyone.
The Challons were nothing like the noble families Keir had heard of, in which the children were raised mostly by servants and seldom saw their parents. These people were close and openly affectionate, with no trace of aristocratic stuffiness. Keir thought that was in no small part due to the duchess, who made no pretense about the fact that her father had made his start as a professional boxer. Evie was the anchor who kept the family from drifting too far in the dizzying altitude of their social position. It was at her insistence that the children had at least a passing acquaintance with ordinary life. For example, it was one of Ivo’s chores to wash the dog, and Seraphina sometimes accompanied the cook to market to talk with local tradespeople.
Although Evie was far quieter than the rest of the family, everyone paid close attention whenever she spoke. For all her gentleness, she possessed a core of inner strength that had made her the center of the Challons’ world. And she was so kind that Keir couldn’t help but like her. When they’d first met, the duchess had stared at him for a moment of wonder, and then had smiled and embraced him with tear-glittered eyes, as if he were her own long-lost child instead of Kingston’s.
On the second day after the Westcliffs’ arrival, Keir sat in the morning room with the other men, having an early breakfast. He found much to admire in Merritt’s father, a man’s man who loved to hunt, ride, fish, and shoot. Like Kingston, Westcliff had long ago foreseen the need to develop sources of income other than farming rents from his estate. He’d invested in industry and commerce, and had become financially powerful at a time when other ennobled families were destitute.
In the middle of breakfast, the butler entered the morning room and brought a message on a silver tray to Kingston. Having never seen a telegram with a seal on it, Keir watched alertly as Kingston opened and read it.
The duke frowned slightly. “Ethan Ransom will arrive this afternoon.”
Westcliff drained his coffee before commenting, “It’s about bloody time.”
Keir glanced at the telegram in Kingston’s hand. “Did Ransom say they caught the man from the alley? Or whoever set the warehouse fire?”
The duke shook his head and handed the piece of paper to Keir.
“Are we assuming one man committed both crimes?” Westcliff asked.
“Not necessarily,” Kingston replied. “Although if you’re hiring someone to commit murder, it’s better to keep it to one.”
Westcliff’s dark eyes glinted with amusement as he remarked blandly, “You say that with unsettling authority.”
Kingston’s lips twitched. “Don’t be absurd, Westcliff. If I wanted to murder someone, I’d never deny myself the pleasure of doing it personally.” He reached for a water goblet and idly rubbed his thumb over the cut crystal surface. “I’d lay odds Ransom still hasn’t caught the bastard,” he said, and frowned as he glanced at Keir. “It’s been almost a year since Cordelia’s death. As the executor of her will, I’m due to appear at the High Court the day after tomorrow. Once I tell the Chancery judges I was able to locate you, Ormonde’s lawyers will try to cast doubt on the fact that you’re Cordelia’s son.”
“Will I need to be there?” Keir asked.
“No, I’d prefer you to stay out of sight for the time being. My solicitors will present evidence of your identity, including hospital records, witness statements, and as many of the facts surrounding your birth as we can provide . . . at which point I’ll also have to publicly reveal that I’m”—Kingston hesitated—“the one who sired you.”
“Ah,” Keir said softly, while a sick feeling came over him. He set down his fork, having immediately lost his appetite. The news would be a sensation far beyond London. An overwhelming amount of unwanted attention would be focused on him, Kingston, and the rest of the Challons. He shrank inwardly from the idea of instant notoriety, especially for the sake of an inheritance he didn’t want in the first place.
“After I reveal your existence to the court,” Kingston continued, “Ormonde will know you survived the warehouse explosion. And his only hope of acquiring Cordelia’s trust will be to kill you before Chancery reaches a judgment in your favor.”
“How long will that take?” Westcliff asked.
“Two days, I’d guess. Unless they want to call in witnesses for questioning—that could draw it out to a week.”
“Let the lawyers negotiate,” Keir suggested. “I’d settle for dividing the London properties and giving him half.”
Kingston’s face hardened. “Like hell you would. It was your mother’s dying wish for you to be given the trust. Besides, even if you handed over the whole bloody inheritance to Ormonde, he’ll still hunt you like a bag-fox. He’ll never stop.”
“Why?” Keir demanded, baffled. “What motivation would he have after the will is settled?”
“My boy,” the duke said quietly, “we’re all subject to a system of descent and distribution that’s been in place for a thousand years, based on handing everything down to the eldest son. It’s called primogeniture. You’re not going to like what I’m about to say. However, as soon as the court acknowledges you as Cordelia’s legitimate issue, you’ll be established as Lord Ormonde’s rightful heir. You’re the first and only male offspring, which means you’re next in line for his viscountcy. He’ll do everything in his power to keep that from happening.”
Keir was so aghast, he could hardly speak. “But you’ll have just told the court that I’m your son. How could they turn around and rule that I’m Ormonde’s son?”
Westcliff broke in to explain, his expression grave but kind. “Your mother was married to him when she gave birth to you. Therefore, you’re legally Ormonde’s son, even though you’re not of his blood.”
“But . . . everyone will know it to be a lie. I’ve never even met the bastard!”
“The law has its limitations,” Westcliff said ruefully. “Something can be legal without being true.”
“I’ll refuse the title and estate.”
“You can’t,” Kingston said curtly. “Peerage titles don’t work that way. You may as well try to change your eye color. It’s who you are, Keir.”
Keir was filled with panic and fury as he felt his future closing around him like the jaws of a steel trap. “No. I know who I am, and it’s no’ that. A viscount? Living in a big dank house with too many rooms and . . . God help me, servants, and . . . far away from Islay . . . I can’t do it. I won’t.” He stood and tossed his napkin onto the table. “I’m going to talk to Merry,” he muttered, and walked away with ground-eating strides.
“What are you going to tell her?” he heard Kingston ask.
Keir answered in a growl, without looking back. “That I have too many fookin’ fathers!”
