The angry sparkle in the old eyes holding hers so intently was all the proof Kit needed of her aunts’ duplicity.

“Those conniving bitches! Those witches dressed up in silks and furs. Those hell-born harpies! The pair of them are nothing but-”

Spencer’s animadversions were interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Jenkins, the butler.

Kit caught Jenkins’s eye. “Your master’s cordial, please Jenkins.”

Jenkins bowed. “At once, miss.”

As the door closed, Kit turned to Spencer. “Why didn’t you write?”

The pale old eyes met hers unflinchingly. “I didn’t think you’d want to hear from an old man. They told me you wanted to go. That you were bored, buried here in the country, living with old people.”

Kit’s violet eyes clouded. Her aunts were truly the bitches he called them. Until now, she’d never appreciated just how low they’d stooped to gain control of her so they could manipulate her to suit their husbands’ ambitious ends. “Oh, Gran’pa.” Sinking onto the chaise, her elegant gown sushing softly, she hugged Spencer for all she was worth. “You were all I had left, and I thought you didn’t want me.” Kit buried her face in his cravat and felt Spencer’s cheek against her curls. After a moment, his hand rose to pat her shoulder. She tightened her arms fiercely, then drew back, eyes flaming with a light Spencer remembered all too well. She rose and fell to pacing, skirts swishing, her vigorous strides well beyond society’s dictates. “Ooooh! How I wish my aunts were here now.”

“Not half as much as I,” Spencer growled. “Those mesdames will get a lambasting from me when next they dare show their faces.”

Jenkins noiselessly entered; coming forward, he offered his master a small glass of dark liquid. With barely a glance, Spencer took it; absentmindedly, he quaffed the dose, then waved Jenkins away.