He hurried to the chapel, but when he passed through the fancy entrance cut into the tall hedges, he was surprised by the number of vehicles on the other side. So many people were there, standing outside the small chapel and coming out of it—servants, tenants, local gentry, even that solicitor, Mr. Harrison, who’d tracked him down and was the only person there whom he’d ever spoken to at length.

The coffin was already being carried out of the chapel. He’d missed the service, but at least he could see Agatha Reeves buried. She might have called him by a half dozen wrong names, thinking he was other men she knew, but she’d still been his grandmother, and he wished he could have known her when she’d still had all of her faculties.

A grave had already been dug in the side yard next to the chapel, branches of an oak tree shading it and flowers planted all around it. If not for the gravestones, a visitor might have thought this private family cemetery was a pretty garden. Only Reeveses were buried here. He noticed one grave that was nearly a century old as he slowly followed the procession.

While the coffin was being lowered into the open grave, he moved to stand next to Mr. Harrison, a middle-aged man with brown muttonchops and friendly green eyes. He had offices in the nearby town of Hastings.

Damon nodded a greeting and asked quietly, “How did she die? Peacefully?”

“I’m sorry to say it was likely a painful death.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Well, there’s no telling at what point she died on her fall down those stairs. I was told that a footman was helping her down them, but Lady Reeves thought he was her husband and then recalled her husband was dead. She screamed dreadfully as she tried to get away from the imagined ghost, and then—she tumbled backward.” Harrison sighed. “Nasty business, when your mind plays tricks on you like that. But I’m glad you’re here. I wasn’t sure if you were even in the country. I heard you sent word to Lady Reeves that you were returning to the West Indies. It meant nothing to her, but Mrs. Wright let me know. Such a busybody that woman, but utterly devoted to her mistress.”

“I returned a week ago. I had no idea my grandmother died”—Damon waved his hand at the coffin—“until just now.”

“My condolences, sir. But we will need to speak at the house later. Your grandmother made her will years ago, before her affliction, when she was of sound mind. She excluded the members of her family from whom she was estranged, namely her uncle by marriage and her daughter.”

“Agatha was estranged from my mother? Good God, man, you didn’t think that was something I should know?” No wonder the housekeeper had been so nasty to him!

Mr. Harrison shrugged. “I was the family solicitor, but I didn’t know them well and certainly wasn’t privy to their secrets. It could have been no more than a mother-daughter tiff that never got resolved. But those were Lady Reeves’s instructions when she made the will. She didn’t specify you in the will, but she didn’t exclude you either, so as her closest living relative, her worldly goods are now yours. It’s a long list, mostly properties, even a small castle in Scotland. Oh, and a house in London.”

“Empty?”

“No. It had been her mother’s house. Lady Reeves didn’t stay there often and probably hadn’t been there in years, but a few servants were retained in case she did want to use it.”

He’d rather have Agatha back than another inheritance. “She was Scottish?”

“Her ancestors were, and not to speak ill of the dead, but I always wondered if that was where she got her inflexible disposition.”

“You said she had an uncle?”

“Well, yes, though I doubt he is still alive. He was her husband’s uncle.”

“Why didn’t you mention that before when I asked you if I had any other relatives?”

“Because Lady Reeves warned me never to mention his name on threat of dismissal. He was estranged, after all, from both her and her father-in-law.”

“Why?”

“I asked once and got fired for it. It took months of profuse apologies from me to be reinstated, and I never questioned the lady again. But Giles Reeves would be your great-great-uncle on the paternal side of this family, the older brother of your great-grandfather, whose estate you now own. As I said, I highly doubt he still lives.”

The chaplain had begun saying prayers over the open grave. Damon noticed Mrs. Wright, Agatha’s disagreeable housekeeper, standing on the other side of the grave, crying. Damon moved to stand next to her, facing the chapel.

Agatha had been sixty at least, but Mrs. Wright was younger by some ten years. No gray was in her brown hair yet, but her austere demeanor made her look as old as his grandmother. She’d been his grandmother’s housekeeper for several decades. She might even have worked here when his mother still lived here, but that was just one of the many questions she’d refused to answer for him, so he wasn’t sure.

She was the only one left who might be able to tell him if his mother had ever come back here after she’d left Jamaica and where she was now. He’d ridden to Port Antonio as Malory had suggested and had learned the harbor did keep records, but unless his mother had given a false name, there was no record of her booking passage on any ships leaving from there the year she’d left home or any year after that. He’d visited the inns near the port in case she’d stayed at one, but they didn’t keep records that dated that far back. He’d even checked Port Antonio’s cemetery. It had been a wasted trip.

He wasn’t sure what to say to Mrs. Wright when it had been so apparent on his earlier visits that she disliked him. Perhaps he could begin by reassuring her that she could keep her job if her disposition would improve.

“Come for even more gains?” was whispered spitefully.

“What the devil does that mean?”

“For someone who didn’t know this family at all, you have gained from it rather substantially.”

He turned to face her and said just as quietly, “I would rather have gotten to know my grandmother, to have had at least one damn conversation with her where she didn’t think she was talking to someone else of her acquaintance. Do you honestly think I’m glad about her death?”

“Why wouldn’t you be? She would have hated you as much as she did your mother—if she even knew you existed, but she didn’t.”