“Whereabouts in Scotland?”
“Whereabouts?” She looked at him as if the answer was of no consequence. “Moffat. It’s renowned for its mineral-rich spring water. They say the medicinal baths have healing properties.”
“Moffat?” His heart thumped in his chest. His stomach churned. “In Dumfriesshire?”
“Indeed.”
Suspicion didn’t just flare—it blazed.
“And you felt you could return to London now the duke is on his deathbed.” His cynicism was evident in his tone. “Why?”
Would she have the gall to say she wanted to be his mother?
“There is nothing to fear anymore.” She paused to cough violently into her handkerchief. “I received word of your father’s condition and came on the first stagecoach.”
Liar!
His father’s health had deteriorated this past week. No one knew. So how the devil had someone sent word to Scotland? How the hell had she got to London so quickly?
Lucius downed his drink and refilled the mug. Ale splashed onto the wooden table as his hand shook from suppressed anger.
Keep calm.
Extract the information.
“I’m curious to hear about your life there. Have you other children? Did you marry?”
“No. No other children. We tried.” She looked at the ale in the mug as if the liquid represented every tear shed. “My husband was desperate for an heir. It seems to be a recurring theme in my life.”
“So you did marry. You’re no longer Julia Fontaine.”
“No.” Her weak smile faded quickly. “My married name is Dunwoody. It’s not as elegant as Fontaine.”
Dunwoody?
Bloody hell!
It took the control of a saint to remain seated in the chair. His stomach roiled. Every puzzle piece appeared in his mind. Laid out before him. The solemn Scot watching his house, stealing the journal, hiring thugs to kidnap Sybil. The vowels in the name of Dunwoody. Her vowels, not her husband’s. The deeds to the property in Dumfriesshire. Cribb. The sketch of Warner.
Warner?
Is that how she knew his father was sick?
Did Warner know she lived across the border?
Yet the steward had only served his father for five years.
Think! Damn it!
He downed another mug of ale as a means of stalling while he assembled his erratic thoughts. There were so many confusing elements, so many pieces of information to slot together. Indeed, his mind seemed suddenly heavy, woozy, as he tried to make sense of it all.
Still, Sybil’s words penetrated the chaos.
Don’t fire a measly arrow.
Load the trebuchet and hurl a fireball.
“I agree,” he said. “Fontaine is of medieval origin, the name given to those who lived by water.” A weeping willow who sheds false tears. “Dunwoody rings of a debt-ridden devil willing to sell her soul to reclaim her vowels.”