Devon cast a glance at where the ring had been on the night table. He frowned. “Tilton, I thought I put the ring in the candle dish. Did you move it?”

Tilton’s gaze followed his. The ring was no longer in the candle dish, but beside it. “No, sir. I did not move it.”

Devon crossed to the table and picked up the ring. “Perhaps I just forgot. Take this and put it somewhere safer.”

“Of course, sir.” Tilton took the ring and placed it in a box with Devon’s cravat pins. “There. It’s fortunate you do not believe in the power of the ring, for I have it on the best authority that you have come to Kilkairn to meet your future bride.”

“Just what have you heard?”

“Only that speculation is rife over who you will choose, Miss Macdonald or Miss Spalding. Wagering is heavily favoring Miss Spalding.”

Devon frowned. “I favor neither. I’ve no wish to get married.” Which was why he was on his way out of the castle now. It was a good thing he had Kat to while the day away with, for he could not be certain he’d escape Murien’s spell otherwise.

“Sir, I am well aware of your feelings toward matrimony. And so I informed the other staff, but I fear I come into the servants’ hall too late to have any influence.”

For some reason, it irked him that the servants were speculating on his future. “Old gossips, the lot of them.”

“They are quite antiquated, sir. I feel as if I’ve stepped into a world filled with gout and a disturbing fascination for flatulence.” Tilton cast a glance about the green room. It was still a long way from meeting Tilton’s standards. “I shall attempt to organize your room a bit more today, although I have little hopes of actually causing an improvement.”

“You’ve already wrought miracles,” Devon said. Though there really wasn’t much to be done about the smoking chimney or the stained walls.

Devon glanced at his pocket watch, then started. He’d be late if he didn’t leave soon. Now all he had to do was get out of the castle without being forced to pay homage yet again to Fiona’s sister. “Don’t expect me to return until after dark.”

“What a long ride. I do hope your horse will be able to maintain such a pace.”

“I hope I can maintain such a pace,” Devon said. He grinned at the valet and then left the room, hat tucked beneath one arm.

He ran lightly down the stairs and had just reached the front entryway when a door opened off the great hall. Fiona stood in the opening. “There you are, Mr. St. John!” she said in a breathless tone.

Devon stifled a feeling of impatience. “Good morning, Lady Strathmore.”