Dallin ruffled the top of her head much the way he had when she was a small girl, fluffing those ridiculous curls that her mother and Mrs. Belden had tried in vain to tame.

In an attempt at nonchalance, she dipped the edge of her spoon into her fluted crystal bowl and took a bite of vanilla pudding. “What do you know of our neighbor?”

Dallin puzzled his brow.

“The Duke of Aragon,” she clarified, clearing a second bite of pudding.

Suddenly, her brother widened his eyes. “Ahh.”

Do not indulge him. Do not . . . do not . . .

Alas, she’d always been hopeless at hiding her curiosity, and her eldest brother, along with her eldest sister, knew it.

“‘Ahh,’ what?”

Dallin leaned in. “I take it Cassia has gotten in your ear?”

Her shoulders sagged, and she leaned in. “I knew it was rubbish,” she spoke in a loud enough whisper to be heard over the commotion of her family’s lively discussion.

“Oh, no,” Dallin said in grave tones.

Her smile quavered. “N-no?”

Because Dallin might delight in making her mad, but he wasn’t the storyteller Cassia had always been.

“I’ve never met the fellow personally, but Aragon’s wife died some years ago.”

Her heart stuttered. “He is a widower?” she whispered. And a very young one at that. He couldn’t be more than thirty years old. If that. No wonder he was so very miserable.

Dallin nodded. “No one really knows the details. Only that it was sudden. They left London, and only the duke returned. They say he went half-mad, killing his servants.”

“If he went half-mad, it would mean he loved his wife very deeply,” she said softly.

Her brother snorted. “Or that he carries guilt for whatever fate she met . . .” Dallin let that linger there before picking up his claret and turning his attention to their cousin Brone, seated at his left shoulder.

And once more, Myrtle found herself forgotten. Only this time, she was grateful for it. For the remainder of the gathering, and then alone, all the way to her chambers, she was allowed to replay in her mind everything her siblings had shared about the duke.

Surely they were outlandish, outrageous rumors and tales concocted by people who actually had no idea what fate had befallen the Duchess of Aragon. And in the absence of facts, there were invariably gossips, happy to fill the void with salacious rumors and tall tales.

A short while later, changed into her nightgown, Myrtle slipped under the heavy coverlet and stared overhead.

No matter how much she burrowed into the blanket, the cold gripped her.

Sleep eluded her.

Memories throughout the day persisted.

Plink.

She blinked back the sharp sting of pain of water striking her eye.

What in blazes?

She opened her eyes and noted those details that, in the light of day, had escaped her notice: the enormous—nearly three feet across—wet stain . . . directly overhead.

Myrtle cursed.