My Fair Princess

Book 1: Improper Princesses

by Vanessa Kelly

Genres: Romance; Regency Romance

Synopsis

Despite being the illegitimate daughter of a prince, Gillian Dryden is happily ignorant of all social graces. After growing up wild in Italy, Gillian has been ordered home to England to find a suitable husband. And Charles Valentine Penley, the excessively proper, distractingly handsome Duke of Leverton, has agreed to help transform her from a willful tomboy to a blushing debutante.



Powerful and sophisticated, Charles can make or break reputations with a well-placed word. But his new protégée, with her habit of hunting bandits and punching earls, is a walking scandal. The ton is aghast . . . but Charles is thoroughly intrigued. Tasked with taking the hoyden in hand, he longs to take her in his arms instead. Can such an outrageous attraction possibly lead to a fairy tale ending?

Release date: January 1, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 368

Sample

The man who’d murdered her stepfather was finally in her sights.

Unfortunately, he was still beyond her rifle’s range. Gillian Dryden breathed out a curse that would have had her grandmother boxing her ears. They would need to get much closer to the bandits before taking a shot.

“You didn’t learn that dainty expression in the salons of Palermo’s distinguished nobles, I’ll wager,” her brother murmured. Like her own, Griffin Steele’s gaze was locked on the small cluster of men in the gorge below them.

“Indeed not. Their language is a great deal more shocking.”

When Griffin huffed out a laugh, Gillian’s heart warmed with wonder and gratitude. Strictly speaking, he was her half brother, which didn’t make him any less of a marvel. She’d only met him a few weeks ago, and yet there he was lying next to her on a limestone outcropping in the hardscrabble Sicilian hills. As was hers, Griffin’s rifle was aimed with deadly intent. If that didn’t constitute true familial affection, she couldn’t think what did. Particularly since he didn’t entirely approve of her actions.

“You do realize I’m here under duress,” he said, echoing her thoughts. That was another thing she’d discovered about him. He had a precise ability to read people.

Gillian peered at their target, a hulking man who’d just swung off his horse and handed the reins to one of his men. His gang of cutthroats had stopped to rest and to water their animals. One of the bandits quickly built a fire, while another retrieved a brace of rabbits hanging from a saddle and began skinning them. By all appearances they would be loitering for some time in the pleasant meadow. That suited Gillian perfectly. It was easier to kill a man taking a leisurely smoke under a tree than to pick him off the back of a cantering horse.

“I’m aware you don’t wish to be here,” she said quietly. “I’m very grateful for your company.”

“Your dear mother will roast me over the coals if she finds out about this little escapade. As will my wife,” he muttered.

One only had to look into Griffin Steele’s cool, dark gaze to realize how dangerous he was, but he turned into a puppy dog in the presence of his wife, Justine. With everyone else, a genial wolfhound was a better description for him, but one with a lethal bite.

“They won’t have anything on Grandmamma,” Gillian said. “You can’t imagine what she’d say about this.”

Not that it mattered what her mother or grandmother thought. Not when she was so close to achieving the goal she’d pursued these past five long years. And now that Antonio Falcone was in her sights, Gillian would allow nothing to stop her from exacting justice.

Griffin shifted, as if trying to get comfortable on the unforgiving rock surface beneath them. “Actually, I’ve heard quite a lot on the subject from Lady Marbury. She’s extremely concerned about your impetuous behavior.”

Gillian twisted to look at him, narrowing her gaze on his tanned, clever face. His eyes were shadowed under the brim of his slouched hat, and his features were devoid of expression. The long black hair clubbed back over his shoulders and the thin scar running down the side of his face made him look more like the bandits below than a wealthy, educated man who had royal blood running through his veins.

“They want you to get me in hand, don’t they?” she asked. “I assure you, it’s pointless.”

“So I told Lady Marbury. She found my reply less than satisfactory, I’m sorry to say.”

“If you don’t approve of what I’m doing, then why are you here? This isn’t your fight. And it’s not like I don’t have help.”

He snorted. “An old man and a boy.”

“Stefano taught me everything I know, and his grandson is coming along quite nicely.”

Griffin glanced over his shoulder to a rocky alcove where the man and the boy held the horses. “Stefano looks to be at least eighty, and his grandson is barely big enough to mount a horse.”

Gillian switched her attention back to the bandits. “So that’s why you came with me today. You promised my family you’d protect me. It’s entirely unnecessary, I assure you.” She had been patiently working toward this moment for years. If she didn’t have the strength, the skill, and the brains to take down Falcone now, she didn’t deserve another moment’s peace.

I won’t fail you, dear Step-papa.

“I told Lady Marbury that you’re more than capable of defending yourself,” he said. “I just thought I’d come along and lend a hand.”

She was so grateful that Griffin never talked to her as if she were some silly miss. Or worse, treated her like a lunatic for seeking vengeance for her stepfather’s brutal murder. She was fine with not being like other girls, but it wasn’t always easy to be an outsider, living half in the shadows with her name—her very existence—marked by scandal. The fact that her half brother and his wife had come to Sicily to seek her out warmed Gillian down to her toes.

They studied the men below in the meadow. Dappled sunlight fell along the banks of the nearby stream, and the trees partly obscured a clear shot. The best firing position would be down and to the right, on a rutted path that ran along the cliffs.

Gillian had received word only a few hours ago from a local villager that Falcone was on the move. She’d had to scramble, but fortunately it had been early enough that no one had seen her race to the stables of her grandmother’s villa—no one except Griffin. She’d been stunned when, instead of trying to stop her, he’d simply rolled his eyes and saddled another horse.

“You don’t need to do this, you know,” Griffin murmured. “I can take care of it for you.”

She peered at him, squinting in the strong morning sunlight. From the look on his face, he was entirely serious. That unfamiliar sense of gratitude once more curled its warmth around her heart.

“No one’s ever offered to do that before,” she said softly.

He flashed a grin. “Most people aren’t in the habit of offering to shoot people for young ladies.”

“Except for you, of course.”

“You wouldn’t be the first.”

For a fleeting moment she was tempted to let him kill Falcone for her. After all, it wasn’t as if she relished killing. The first time she’d taken down one of the bandit’s men, she’d barely escaped before having to drop to her knees and retch up the contents of her stomach. The second and third time, the same thing had happened. It might even be the same with Falcone himself, despite the fact that he’d been the one to put the pistol to her stepfather’s head and pull the trigger. Seeking justice—or vengeance, some would call it—did tend to wear on one’s soul. More than once, she’d almost given the whole thing up. But for too long Falcone and his men had been allowed to roam free, committing murder and mayhem. Gillian would hold fast to her purpose, and to the vow she’d made to her stepfather the day they’d entombed him in cold marble.

“I’m touched, Griffin, but I need to see this through.”

He blew out a frustrated breath. “You do realize the bastard’s death will never truly bring you peace.”

“I don’t seek peace; I seek justice.”

“Revenge, more like it. The authorities in Palermo should handle this.”

A derisive snort was her only reply. Her grandmother, the Countess of Marbury, had spent years seeking justice from the authorities. They weren’t interested, and neither was her stepfather’s heir, the current Count Paterini. As long as Falcone continued to fill their coffers with bribes, the authorities and the local noblemen were content to let the bandit lord wreak havoc on the Sicilian countryside.

Griffin studied her. “You needn’t soil your hands with their blood, my dear girl.”

“They’re soiled already, Griffin.”

He shot her a puzzled look before understanding dawned. “Good God. How many men have you killed over this?” He sounded thunderstruck.

“A few,” she hedged.

“Oh, is that all?”

“They deserved it.”

The bandit scum had killed Step-papa, his two bodyguards, and the young groom accompanying him on that fateful trip through the Gorges of Tiberio. It was fitting that Gillian would deliver justice in almost the same spot where those innocents had breathed out their last moments of existence.

Her brother cursed under his breath. “Gillian, this should not be your life.”

“Do I look like a proper young lady to you?”

He cast a sardonic glance at her attire—sheepskin coat, buckskin breeches, and riding boots. “You could be. You’re an attractive, respectable-looking girl when you’re not disguised as a bloodthirsty ruffian.”

“I thought you, of all people, would understand,” she said, exasperated.

“I do, but if you continue along this course, it will take its toll. Killing always does.”

She managed not to flinch. “I don’t have a choice.”

“There is always a choice, Gillian.”

She flicked her gaze back to Falcone, who was sitting on a rock as he smoked a pipe. He was also splendidly out in the open, but she had to get closer.

“There’s no point in discussing this. I’m doing it,” she said.

“No, I will—”

“It was my fault,” she hissed. “That’s why I have to do it. No one else.”

He frowned. “I don’t understand.”

She had to swallow before she could answer. “It’s my fault that my stepfather was murdered. I sent him straight into Falcone’s line of fire.”

“So . . . it’s guilt that motivates you. Killing Falcone will likely be nothing more than an empty victory, if such is the case.” Griffin squeezed her arm. “As long as you continue to blame yourself, you will never find peace.”

She hoped to God he was wrong. He had to be wrong. “You are the most irritating man I have ever met.”

“So my wife informs me on a regular basis.”

Below them, Falcone knocked the tobacco out of his pipe and then hauled his formidable bulk to his feet. Gillian mentally cursed as he began to stroll over to join his men under the trees.

She turned and signaled to Stefano and his grandson. The old man pulled his pistol from the brace on his saddle, ready to cover her back.

“Griffin, help me or not, but I’m doing this now.” Before he could answer, she slung her rifle across her back and slithered away from the edge. As quickly as she dared, she crawled down the narrow, rutted path that ran along the rim of the gorge. If she stood, it was unlikely the men below would notice her, but she was taking no chances. Falcone had evaded her too many times over the years.

Her brother followed her. She could practically feel him seething with frustration, but he made not a sound. She had to give him credit—he was awfully good.

A few feet short of her goal, Gillian held up a hand to halt her brother’s advance. She stole a quick glance over her shoulder. Just behind them Stefano crouched, his tanned, leathery features cast into shade by his broad-brimmed hat. Griffin’s expression registered shock at the sight of the old man so close, pistols at the ready. Stefano might be getting on in years, but he was still vital and strong. He could move like a ghost, silent and lethal, at her command.

After crooking a finger to signal Griffin to follow, Gillian wriggled up to the edge of the cliff. She cautiously peered over the rocks and saw the bandits under a stand of beech trees, their attention on their flasks of wine as they waited for the rabbits to cook over the open flame. Unfortunately, Falcone was half obscured by one of his men and was partly in shade. She would have to stand up if she wanted a clear shot.

She came up in a crouch and pulled the rifle from her back. She’d already checked it three times, but did so once more. The Baker was a fine weapon. It had belonged to a Hussar, and had a light, short carbine, which made it easier to handle. But it was less accurate than rifles used by sharpshooters. Although she could reload quickly if she missed her shot, she’d make an inviting target while she did.

So get it right the first time.

Griffin came up beside her. He gave her a terse nod as he brought his rifle to bear on the men below. But he then sucked in a harsh breath when Gillian rose swiftly to her feet, taking aim at Falcone.

As bad luck would have it, an eagle soared right overhead, screeching out a cry. The men below automatically glanced up, directly at her and Griffin.

Gillian fired. The shot echoed through the gorge in a deafening report. Another boom followed as Griffin fired a second later. Falcone stumbled against a low rock, roaring as he clutched his shoulder. Another bandit went down like a sack of grain tossed from a cart.

The other bandits scrambled for their weapons.

“Get down, you daft woman,” Griffin barked, reaching to pull her away from the edge.

Gillian evaded his grasp, sliding on the rocky scree and almost losing her footing. Still, she managed to recover and reload. Griffin did the same as he let loose a string of hair-raising curses. She yanked up her rifle, took aim, and fired again.

A moment later, a bullet slammed into her shoulder, throwing her to the ground. The back of her head connected with rock, and pain exploded through her skull. Gillian lay there stunned, staring up at a sky that shimmered with a milky haze. Her ears rang with the sound of a thousand church bells.

Move, you idiot.

She couldn’t—not even one blessed finger.

Griffin’s face suddenly swam above her, only slightly less hazy than the sky. Gillian forced the words out past the pain. “Did I get him?” she whispered.

“For Christ’s sake, not now,” Griffin spat.

He pressed something into her shoulder, so hard that bile rose in her throat and black dots swam across her vision. She forced back the encroaching darkness.

“Is Falcone dead?” she ground out.

Griffin glanced over his shoulder and barked something to Stefano. Then he turned back to her.

“Yes,” he said.

Relief swamped her, momentarily driving out the fire consuming her body.

“We did it, Griffin.” If she had to die in the effort, thank God she’d been successful.

“Indeed.” Griffin yanked something tight around her shoulder and upper arm. She had to bite back a shriek. “But trust me, dear sister, your killing days are over.”

When he lifted her onto his shoulder, the blackness rushed in, pulling her away from the heat, the light, and the pain.

From everything.

Charles Valentine Penley, Sixth Duke of Leverton, hastily stepped off the curb and into the street, narrowly avoiding collision with three little boys barreling down the pavement on their way home from the park. As much as he could appreciate their high spirits, they were covered in mud, and one generally didn’t make social calls looking as if one had been rolling around in the stables.

“Slow down, you little hellions,” Kates yelled from the seat of the curricle. “You almost knocked His Grace flat on his arse.” Kates, an excellent groom, occasionally forgot himself as his rather disreputable origins in the London stews bubbled to the surface.

“No need to shout,” Charles said.

“They might have spooked the horses. And you all but scared the wits out of the poor things, jumpin’ off the curb like that,” Kates added in an accusatory tone. In his world, nothing was worse than ruffling the high-strung nerves of the animals under his care.

“How dreadful of me,” Charles said. “Do you think I should apologize to them?”

When Kates was upset, his resemblance to a sad-eyed basset hound verged on the remarkable. “Now, no need to make a jest out of it, Yer Grace. You know this pair hates goin’ out in all this wind. It’s well-nigh a gale, I tell you.”

As if to underscore the point, a stiff breeze swirled down Brook Street, kicking up both dust and the skirts of the three nursemaids hurrying after their ill-behaved charges. Two were young and pretty and smiled flirtatiously as they passed, murmuring apologies for any inconvenience the boys might have caused.

Charles gave them a polite smile before turning back to Kates. “Very well, you may return to Grosvenor Square now. I’m not sure how long I’ll be staying, and God forbid I should keep the horses out in a hurricane.”

It was merely a blustery day, an unseasonably cool one in an unseasonably cool spring. Still, it felt good to be outside. Only recently returned from his estate in Lincolnshire, Charles had spent the last several days buried up to his eyeballs in paperwork in his parliamentary offices. He already missed the long rides, the crisp, clean air, and the quieter, more ordered way of life in the country.

Kates cast an assessing glance at the slate-gray sky. “Are you sure, sir? It looks as if it might be comin’ on rain. You don’t want to be gettin’ them boots wet. Jobbins will be pitchin’ a fit if you do.”

“Let me explain something, Kates. I’m the duke, and Jobbins is the valet. I pay his wages. I do not pay him to pitch a fit.”

The groom eyed him uncertainly. “If you say so, Yer Grace.”

The staff at Leverton House lived in terror of Jobbins, who’d been around since Noah’s Flood and who had a knack for reducing even the butler to grudging compliance. Jobbins had acquired his intimidating manner from his previous master, the Fifth Duke of Leverton. Unlike that duke, however, Jobbins had a heart. Charles had always found it rather amazing that his valet treated him with more genuine affection than his own father had.

Charles took pity on his clearly worried groom. “Would you rather the horses get wet or me?”

Kates darted another alarmed glance at the sky, then at the patiently waiting pair. “Right you are, sir. I’d best be getting these two safely home.”

While Kates set a brisk trot down Brook Street, Charles turned to mount the steps of the building in front of him. The handsome brick and stucco townhouse had belonged to the Marburys for as long as he could recall, although it had been rented until Lady Marbury and her family’s recent return to England after many years abroad.

They were his family too, as he had to remind himself. He and Lady Marbury were cousins a few times removed on his father’s side, and Lady Marbury’s daughter, now the widow of an Italian aristocrat, had been married at a young age to one of Charles’s maternal uncles. That union had only lasted a few years before his uncle died of a heart attack in the bed of a notorious courtesan. The young dowager duchess had then gone on to scandalous escapades of her own—so scandalous, in fact, that the Marburys had taken their errant daughter and decamped to the Continent, settling first in Naples and then Sicily.

They had remained there for well over twenty years, even after the death of Lord Marbury. Why they had returned now—and why Charles had been so peremptorily summoned by Lady Marbury—was a mystery that instilled a certain caution. But they were family, and Penleys always put family first. That lesson had been drummed into his head from an early age and wasn’t one he was likely to forget.

A liveried footman ushered him in with a quiet greeting, taking his hat and gloves. A moment later, an extremely correct butler appeared from the back of the house to escort him to Lady Marbury. The surroundings exuded an atmosphere of quiet, familiar elegance. Charles had visited the house often as a child, and he could almost imagine nothing had changed since those long-ago days, before the family’s ignominious fall from grace and social exile from England.

The butler led him to the back of the house, to what he vaguely recalled was Lady Marbury’s private sitting room. That was interesting, since he’d been expecting to make a formal call. After all, the last time he’d seen her had been when he was a callow youth of eighteen, on the Grand Tour with his tutor. Much had changed since then, including the fact that Charles was now Duke of Leverton.

After a quick tap on the door, the butler announced him.

Charles entered the small room and came to a halt, feeling as if he’d stepped back in time. The furnishings hadn’t altered a jot. Even the yellow swags draping the windows looked the same, albeit rather faded. He remembered the ornate French bracket clock on the mantel and the portrait of a previous earl of Marbury, painted by Romney, hung over the fireplace.

It made him feel like a child again, not a sensation he relished.

A soft laugh jerked him out of his reverie. “It’s uncanny, isn’t it? I almost felt like a young woman when I walked into this room. We have been away for much too long.”

Lady Marbury stood there, elegantly attired in a style more French than English. Her clear blue eyes regarded him with amusement, and a welcoming smile lit up her handsome, barely lined face. Only the white hair under a dainty lace cap gave testament to her age of more than seventy years. Her life had not always been easy, but she had certainly retained much of her beauty and quiet grace.

Her smile slid into a grin. “Charles, it’s very good to see you again. I do hope, however, that my appearance has not struck you dumb. Have I aged so much that you no longer recognize me?”

“Please forgive me,” he said, taking her hand. “I truly was struck dumb by your youthful appearance. You’ve hardly aged a day.”

“What nonsense.” She stretched up and pressed a fleeting kiss to his cheek. “You too have changed a great deal. You’ve grown into a handsome man, which is hardly surprising since you were a good-looking and charming boy.”

He mentally blinked at her affectionate compliment. The Lady Marbury he remembered was not a woman prone to such high praise and flattery.

And no one would have ever labeled him charming—awkward and tongue-tied was more like it. True, he’d acquired social polish over the years. But since Lady Marbury wouldn’t know that, her words made him even more suspicious. He knew her to be a brilliant woman and the true force behind her husband’s political career before their exile to Sicily. Lady Marbury had always been the canny one, a fact he must not forget.

“Please sit, Charles,” she said, waving him to an armchair covered in gently faded but still beautiful embroidery. She took the claw-footed settee across from him. “I hope you’ll forgive our rather shabby appearance. We’ve not yet had the chance to redecorate.”

“There’s nothing shabby about it, my lady. It’s charming and very . . . homey.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” she said in a dry tone that sounded more like her. “And, please, there is no need for such formality between us. If you keep referring to me as ‘my lady,’ I shall be obliged to refer to you as Your Grace. You used to call me Aunt Lucy, after all.”

He refrained from expressing polite incredulity. Charles had sometimes called her Aunt Lucy when he was a boy, more to annoy his elders than anything else. Neither the Marburys nor his parents had encouraged such informalities.

“As you wish, Aunt Lucy,” he said. “Now, how may I be of assistance to you?”

Her eyebrows lifted a tick. “Why would you assume I’m in want of assistance? Perhaps I simply wished to see one of my nearest relations after so many years away from home.”

“Are we such near relations? I will have to check the family Bible.” He pretended to ruminate for a few seconds. “Although I suppose you must be referring to your daughter’s marriage to my uncle which, as I recall, was extremely short-lived.”

She blinked, but then her eyes warmed with laughter. “How wretched of you to point that out. Are you suggesting that I’m doing it rather too brown?”

He gave her a half smile. No point in letting Aunt Lucy think she could push him about for her own purposes. Once, he had been very easy to manipulate, but those days were long gone.

“Perish the thought,” he said. “Your missive, however, seemed to carry a rather urgent undertone. Forgive me if I assumed incorrectly.”

Warmth lingered in her gaze. “You would be wrong, you know. I am happy to see you. But you are correct—I do need your help. I was simply trying to figure out the most successful line of approach.”

“Directly, I would think. There’s no need to beat around the bush with me.”

“I’d forgotten how blunt and honest you were as a boy.”

“I believe you mean clumsy.”

“No, that was your father’s assessment, not mine. I did not agree with him.”

He nodded his thanks, not wishing to encourage that discussion. Charles was well aware of his late father’s opinion of him.

“Besides,” she continued, “I understand that you are now a paragon of courtesy and good taste. Peerless Penley, is that not what people call you?”

They did, and he hated it. But like many things in life, he’d learned to turn it to his advantage. “Also Perfect Penley and Impeccable Penley. You have your pick.”

She nodded. “Yes, I’ve heard those as well. Your reputation as a leader of the ton is quite formidable.”

Now they were getting to it. “And is that why you seek my help?”

“Let me ring for tea before I explain.”

He held up a hand. “Perhaps we can dispense with the social formalities just this once, despite my fearsome reputation. Please, Aunt, speak freely.” As much as he’d learned to value the social niceties, he sometimes found them irksome and time-consuming.

She eyed him dubiously. “Very well. Perhaps it’s best if we have tea once my granddaughter joins us.”

Surely she didn’t mean . . . “Are you referring to Miss Gillian Dryden?”

“I am.” Her answer held a touch of defiance.

“You brought her back to England with you?” He couldn’t keep an incredulous note from his voice.

His aunt starched up, looking every bit the imperious aristocrat he remembered. “Is there some reason why my daughter and I shouldn’t bring Gillian home?”

Besides the fact that she was the bastard daughter of the Duke of Cumberland, the Prince Regent’s brother? But, of course, he would never be so rude as to state it so bluntly. “Forgive me. I simply assumed her to be married and living in Sicily. She’s . . . twenty-two by now?”

“Twenty-one. And I think you can guess why she’s not married.”

“I’m sorry. I had no desire to offend.” He offered her a wry smile. “Clearly, my reputation is not so well deserved after all.”

She drummed her fingers on her knee. “That is certainly not what I was given to understand.”

Now they were going around in circles, an even bigger waste of time. “Is it Miss Dryden you wish to speak to me about?”

She let out a sigh that sounded both weary and worried. “Forgive me for biting off your head. It’s been a long two months.”

“I have no doubt your travels were taxing. Nor could it have been easy to return home after so many years abroad.” Although decades had passed since the Marburys left England, the scandal that had forced them away was still not forgotten.

Aunt Lucy’s gaze softened. “Yes, England is still home, for all that. Despite the difficulties, I am happy to be back here in my declining years.”

“Good Lord. I had no idea you were verging on such decrepitude.”

She let out a reluctant laugh. “That, my dear Charles, was anything but polite.”

“No, but I needed to point out that you are anything but in decline. Your remarks suggest, however, that not everyone is happy that you’ve returned. Meaning your granddaughter, I presume?”

“How disgustingly perceptive of you. I shall have to remember that. Yes, Gillian is not taking the transition well. And I won’t pretend that we’re not having problems because of that.”

“Because of her, er, status, or because she’s not terribly familiar with English manners and customs?”

Aunt Lucy sighed again, but this time it was the sound of exasperation. “Both, although her behavior is the more vexing of the two at this point.”

“I wouldn’t have thought that possible.” In a woman of the upper classes, the stain of illegitimacy was an almost insurmountable obstacle.

“Anything is possible with Gillian,” she said, shaking her head. “What do you remember of her?”

He thought back to his visit to Sicily over twelve years ago. Although he’d stayed with the Marburys at their charming villa on the outskirts of Palermo, he’d seen Gillian Dryden only a few times. She’d only been nine at the time, so there would have been little reason for her to be out in company. He’d also had the sense that Lord Marbury had objected to his granddaughter’s presence in their household. As a result, she’d been kept out of sight as much as possible.

“I remember that she was very quiet, like a little ghost hovering around the edges of the room.”

For a moment, Aunt Lucy looked stricken. “That is a very apt description. My husband did not approve of Gillian’s presence, although I’m happy to say that her stepfather was a great deal more accepting.”

Charles nodded. “Lady Julia married a member of the Italian nobility, as I recall. Count Paterini, I believe?”

“Yes. He was a wonderful man who treated Gillian like his own daughter. We were all devastated when he died so tragically. It was as hard on Gillian as it was on her mother.”

“I’m sorry to hear of your loss,” he said.

“Thank you. But I suppose there is little to be served by rehashing our family’s sad history. I should get to the point ins. . .