His scorn made her raise her head in a show of defiance. "I am here to see Lord Grahame, on behalf of his brother," she said icily, her accent at its most Scottish.

Grudgingly he admitted her to the hall. " Your card?"

"I haven't got one. I have been… traveling."

Plainly the footman wanted to throw her out, but didn't quite dare. "Lord Grahame and his wife are dining. You shall have to wait here until they are done. When his lordship is free, whom shall I say is calling?"

Her numb lips could barely form the name that did not seem as if it really belonged to her. "Lady Maxwell has arrived. His brother's wife."

The footman's eyes widened. "I shall inform him immediately."

As the servant hastened away, Troth pulled her cloak about her and paced the unheated hall, almost ill with nerves. Would the brother have her whipped when he heard? Great lords had been known to punish the carriers of bad news.

She would have bolted from the house and taken her chances with the evil northern winter, but in her head she could still hear his rasping voice: Tell my family, Mei-Lian. They must know of my death. Though Kyle Renbourne, tenth Viscount Maxwell, had some fondness for her, she didn't doubt that his ghost would haunt her if she failed to perform his last request.

Bracing herself, she pulled off her gloves to expose the Celtic knotwork ring that Kyle had given her, since it was the only evidence of her claims.

Steps sounded behind her. Then an eerily familiar voice asked, "Lady Maxwell?"

She turned and saw that a man and woman had entered the hall. The woman was as petite as a Cantonese, but with a glorious sweep of silvery blond hair that was striking even in this land of foreign devils. The woman returned Troth's stare, her expression curious as a cat's, but not hostile.

The man spoke again. "Lady Maxwell?"