“I’m certain you don’t remember me, sir,” Gray began. “I am Grayson Elliott.”

“Ah yes, Lord Fairborough’s nephew.” The older man nodded. “I hear you have done quite well for yourself.”

Gray nodded slowly and studied the other man, certainty growing within him. “You’re not Colonel Channing, are you?”

The gentleman’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you say that?”

“Because, for as long as I knew Colonel Channing, he never allowed himself to be called ‘Lord Briston’ out of deference to his brother.” He paused. “His dead brother.”

“Ah yes.” The man waved off the comment. “Things change, you know, boy.”

“Not this. Beyond that . . .” He drew a deep breath. “When Camille and I were looking for ornaments in the attic, I uncovered some letters. Letters from her dead father, dated long after his supposed death.”

“I see.” Lord Briston’s eyes narrowed. “What do you intend to do about this discovery of yours?”

“Whatever you wish me to do, sir.” He shook his head. “This is your home and your family. I would say the next step is yours. However, you should know”—he met the man’s gaze directly—“I will do whatever I think best to keep Camille from being hurt.”

“So that’s how it is, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And does my daughter feel the same about you?”

“I hope so, but I’m not sure she has realized it yet.”

“This sounds rather complicated.”

“You have no idea,” Gray muttered.

“Then I suspect explanations are in order.” He blew a long breath. “From both of us.” He glanced around. “Is the whisky still kept where it always was?”

“I believe so, sir.”

“Pour us each a glass, a large glass, and come sit down.” He moved to one of the chairs before the fireplace and settled into it. “This will take a while. It’s a long story.”

“It would have to be.” Gray moved to the cabinet where the whisky and brandy and various spirits had long been kept, poured two glasses and joined Camille’s father. He handed him a glass, then sat in the matching chair. “Might I ask, sir, why you are here? After all this time?”

“It’s Christmas,” Lord Briston said simply, and sipped his drink.

“Forgive me for saying, sir, but haven’t nearly twenty Christmases passed since you . . .”

“Died?”

Gray nodded.

“That wasn’t entirely by choice. Nonetheless, the fault is mine. But I have regretted every Christmas that I did not have the courage to return.” He swirled the whisky in his glass. “I said it was a long story—one I’ve never really told before. However as I am here, and as you are determined to protect Camille . . .” He shrugged.

“Go on, then, sir.”