“Ladies,” her father said, interrupting them. “Shall we all repair to the salon? Margot, darling, I’m afraid I’ve boasted quite relentlessly of your talent on the pianoforte. Would you grace us with a song? Perhaps Miss Beauly will accompany you with her angelic voice.”

Margot looked at Arran. He smiled. He did not know about Dermid.

In the salon, Margot did as her father asked. But her play was wooden, and Lynetta kept shooting her looks. Margot could hardly help it—she was nauseated with anxiety. Dermid Mackenzie being accused of thievery was wrong. And why hadn’t Quint said so when they asked? Had he kept quiet to spare Arran’s feelings? Did he think perhaps they should hear it from her father? And when, exactly, did her father intend to tell Arran what had happened to his man?

Her father seemed perfectly jovial and at ease this evening. He laughed and teased, applauded and poured wine for everyone. He did not seem like a man who had any unpleasant news to share. He looked happy to have his daughter home.

Maybe Lynetta was wrong.

And yet Margot couldn’t shake the feeling that something else was very wrong.

When the song came to an end, Mrs. Beauly and Mr. Beauly stood up to perform, and Margot was thankfully relieved of her duty. She resumed her seat next to Lynetta, Arran standing behind her. His presence was comforting to her. But his expression was unreadable. She suspected he found the evening quite tedious, and honestly, Margot kept nodding off as the Beaulys sang. She’d more wine than was her custom, and her thoughts kept drifting to nights at Balhaire, to those occasions of lively music and chaotic dancing. Just in the last fortnight, she’d been far more entertained at Balhaire than by the very prim performances in this drawing room. She suddenly wished that they could all come out of their seats and dance. She imagined Bryce hopping about in a Scottish reel and couldn’t suppress a smile. Oh, how he would loathe it.

She often felt as if he despised her.

But why would he? She was being overly suspicious now. The journey to England, her nerves, her doubts and the anticipation of what was to come—all of it began to weigh on Margot. She could scarcely keep her eyes open.

It was half past one in the morning when the Beaulys took their leave, and in the foyer of her home, she held Lynetta tightly to her. “You are always welcome, no matter where I am, Lynetta.”

Her friend giggled at her. “I know, Margot. How silly you are! You look completely exhausted, darling—you really must go to bed.”