Jenkins no doubt remained on as he did because he perceived his master was broken and lonely.

What Jenkins, however, did not and would never realize was that all Val craved, the only thing he now wished for in this world, was to be left completely and truly alone.

And with all but a handful of his staff taking their leave this evening, Val would have that blessed solitude . . . if even just for a short, precious while.

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

There’d been no servants.

At least not that Myrtle had been able to see during her inspection of the duke’s windows.

She’d been able to assess only the lower level with its floor-to-ceiling crystal panes.

But she’d seen enough to gather those windows had revealed not only no servants but also furniture draped in white sheets, indicating there’d be no need for servants because the rooms were covered.

Not that that meant the Duke of Aragon had killed his staff.

Except, as much as it pained Myrtle to agree in any way with her sister, or give credence to any story she told, Myrtle could and would readily admit—at least to herself—that the frosty, rude duke she’d met that morn was certainly a reasonable suspect.

He’d been determined to terrify her.

Or perhaps that was just his natural way?

But was he a killer . . . ?

He’d likely want her to believe that.

But he kept a pup, and the dog had been devoted . . .

Such weren’t the actions of a murderer.

Unless he fed his victims to his dog, as her sister had suggested . . .

“Stop,” she muttered to herself.

Alas, seated and partaking in dessert, she could have stood amidst the pastries and puddings and cakes and danced a jig before her family, and still gone unseen for the activity at the enormous, lace-covered rectangular table.

The McQuoids, from her cousins to her siblings to her parents and her aunt and uncle, were all engrossed in their discourse.

Each one of them excitedly discussing the journey they’d make to Scotland on the morrow.

Dropping her elbow on the table, Myrtle rested her chin atop her palm and stared morosely off into the distance.

At what point had the family who so loved London in the wintertime ceased wishing to make their holiday memories here?

At what point had she become the sole McQuoid bent on maintaining their memories of this place?

Seated beside her, Dallin, her eldest brother and the future Earl of Abingdon, leaned in. “Why so glum? Missing Mrs. Belden’s? Or envying Arran for his travels?”

“Oh, hush,” she muttered, giving him a light kick under the table. It was easy enough for him, a man with full freedom to make light of her circumstances these past years. “The only way I’d envy Arran is if he were journeying to this very townhouse for Christmas.”