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Given the prior dukes’ penchants for swiving anything in a skirt, he wouldn’t be surprised if he weren’t related to half of the villagers and tenants. Odd that the fifth duke had never remarried or produced additional offspring, legitimate or otherwise. Particularly considering the resentment he harbored toward Keane.

Could the few months of marriage to his mother have truly put him off matrimony so very much?

Half a year. Six months.

That had been the extent of his parents’ union. His mother had been well into her fourth month of increasing before the forced ceremony had taken place, and she’d died weeks after Keane’s birth.

So many questions plagued him.

Questions that would forever remain unanswered.

Keane’s attention snared on a group of Highlanders loudly chortling and slapping one another’s backs a few feet from the fireplace.

Bothan and Lorne.

Displeasure skewed Keane’s brows into a harsh vee. No bloody surprise his uncle and cousin were amongst the rowdier attendees. They’d revel to excess the entire time, and past experience dictated any females below fifty years of age weren’t safe from their groping or vulgar insinuations.

Uncle Bothan Buchannan and his son had been amongst the first arrivals. In point of fact, they hadn’t been invited but had somehow learned of the gathering. Brazen as hell and despite the lack of invitation, a missive arrived a fortnight ago stating their intentions to attend. Given they took after their unsavory Buchannan predecessors, Keane would’ve preferred they’d not.

In truth, he’d rather not acknowledge the kinship at all.

His scowl deepened as Lorne made a ribald comment of some sort and palmed his groin in a crude imitation of sexual congress. Odin’s teeth! There were innocent women and children present. So help him God, he hadn’t a qualm about sending one or both on their way at the slightest provocation.

A rift between Gordan Buchannan and his twin had spared Keane his uncle’s company for most of his youth. However, when Gordan’s health began failing, first Bothan, then his irritating son, had put in regular, unsolicited appearances at Trentwick.

Not that Gordan agreed to see them.

He’d ordered his twin and nephew from the keep each time with the threat of bodily harm should they return. They did, of course—came slithering back, speculative glints in their greedy eyes.

As was his implacable, unforgiving nature, Gordan had remained mulishly obstinate until he drew his last quavering breath, a proclivity which had infuriated Bothan and Lorne alike. Keane had never learned the cause of the dispute between Gordan and Bothan, and his uncle adamantly refused to discuss the reason for the quarrel.

So many, many dark secrets haunted the Buchannans. If Keane were the superstitious sort, he might believe the whispers about a family curse. One irrefutable truth remained, however: if he never saw his uncle or cousin again, he’d not grieve the loss.

Ever vigilant, he slid a glance around the room, taking in his guests and servants.

He’d directed his female staff to keep their distance from Bothan and Lorne and to work in pairs. He’d also instructed the menservants to be extra diligent to protect the women in Keane’s employ.

His uncle and cousin had reputations for forcing their attentions on unwilling lasses and, by God, during this stay, no woman would fear for her virtue. This visit, Keane had gone so far as to assign them isolated chambers away from the other guests’ and servants’ quarters.

His focus lingered on three maids chatting near the hearth before gravitating to a pair of forest green and black liveried footmen roaming the room dispersing beverages and collecting empty cups. The Hogmanay celebration hadn’t been a secret, but he suspected one of his servants regularly passed information to his father’s twin.

Keane expected loyalty from his servants, clan, and tenants, and it was past time he learned the conspirator’s identity and dismissed the traitor. The notion that someone conveyed information to his uncle had been in the back of his mind for months, but he couldn’t conceive which of his servants had betrayed his trust.

Bothan and Lorne always seemed mysteriously abreast of everything that occurred at Trentwick. On more than one occasion, Keane had to remind his opinionated uncle that he wasn’t the duke.

That truth always earned a thunderous scowl and a muttered curse.

In truth, Bothan and Lorne held Keane in no fonder esteem than he did them. Yet, here they were, like pests or vermin. Always appearing when one least desired them to make their presence known, and never disappearing as quickly as one would prefer.

Hands and jaw clenched, he speared his sot of a cousin a lethal glare.

At this very moment, Lorne all but leered at Marjorie as if she were a dockside strumpet. He licked his lips, his focus dropping to the teasing swell of her breasts.

Keane took an involuntary step forward, prepared to throttle the wretch. A broken nose ought to knock the lecherous glint from his eyes.

Then—blast his bloody plan—he recalled his purpose in inviting everyone for the Hogmanay festivities. He would be no better than Lorne or the other generations of Buchannans before him if he planted his fist in his cousin’s lascivious face, damn it all.

Features schooled into an indecipherable mask, Keane permitted himself a long blink. God’s teeth, but it would be magnificently satisfying to feel the bones of Lorne’s prominent nose flatten beneath his blow. He wanted to challenge any man who looked upon Marjorie with anything other than brotherly interest, but he couldn’t very well fight with half the men present and still claim he was a better man than his predecessors.