Good Scottish whisky was a welcome change after Mr. Symon’s demonically high-proof absinthe, but the conversation with his brother-in-law left a good deal to be desired. Unlike his jocular discussion with Horatio Symon over shared liquor, there were long bouts of silence, punctuated by awkward attempts on Blakesby’s part to ferret out the truth of what happened to end Rhys’s military career.Finally, Rhys had said bluntly, “Whatever you’ve heard about my time in France, I didn’t do it. However, I’ve undoubtedly done worse since.” He upended his jigger on the serving tray. “Don’t worry. Olivia and I will be on our way tomorrow.”Blakesby had protested and insisted they stay. Braebrooke Cairn was a rambling big estate. There was plenty of room for two families to be in residence, but Rhys knew the baron was merely being polite.He supposed he couldn’t blame Blakesby. If their roles had been reversed, he’d try to shield his family from association with scandal too. Maybe if Blakesby had been a duke or a marquis, someone a bit higher up on the aristocratic social scale, he’d have been willing to backhand convention and embrace his wife’s wayward kin.But Blakesby was only a baron, a lord on the bottom rung of titled nobility.
