“Fonteneau,” she repeated, her brow wrinkling in her confusion. Fonteneau was an old fortress abbey, a place she had frequented as a child. She remembered it had gardens and steeples built so very high, and birds nested at the tops of the spires. It had been a gloomy destination as a child, but since the ancient viscount of Fonteneau, Lord Granbury, had fallen ill, the place had fallen into deeper disrepair. Granbury had a son, Lord Putnam—but the last Margot had heard of him, he’d lost a fortune in London. “Why Fonteneau?”

“His lordship did not say,” Quint said.

“My husband, too? And his man?”

“Yes, madam.”

When had they gone? This morning? In the night? Why hadn’t Arran awoken her to inform her? “They left with no note for me? No explanation?”

“His lordship did not leave a note that I am aware,” Quint said. “Shall I prepare hot chocolate for you?”

“No, thank you,” she said absently. Was it her imagination, or did Quint hasten out the service door?

With each passing hour, Margot’s heart deflated a little more. She spent the day at the window, looking for any sign of her husband, her father or a messenger who would tell her when her husband and father would return. She tried to recall how long the journey to Fonteneau might take. Five hours? Long enough that they would stay overnight in that dreadful old abbey fortress with its thick stone walls and drafty windows? What business could Arran and her father possibly have there? It simply made no sense.

When no one had returned by nightfall, Margot was ill with worry. She went in search of Quint again. “I want a messenger,” she said when she found him in the dining room, setting the table.

“Straightaway, madam,” he said. “Shall I send him to the drawing room?”

“Yes.” She marched to the drawing room to wait.

Moments later, a young footman appeared in the drawing room. “Stand there,” Margot warned him, afraid that he, too, would disappear. “Don’t move as much as a muscle until I’ve written this note.” She had found pen and paper, and dashed off only a few words: “The laird has been taken to Fonteneau.” She didn’t sign it; it wasn’t necessary. She only hoped that the men who received it could read English. She waved the paper in the air to dry the ink, then carefully folded it.

“Take this to the village,” she said, speaking low. She glanced around her, uncertain if someone was listening. Fear was creeping up her neck, sinking into her veins. Something dreadful had happened today, and she didn’t trust anyone. “There are three men there, from Balhaire.”

The footman looked confused. He was a few years younger than she, his cheeks still pink with his youth. “They are Scots,” she said. “Give this to one of them. It hardly matters which. Just give it to one.”