Finally they reached the first floor, and crab-walked again down the back hallway to the rear of the house. Isabel moved ahead of them and threw open the back door, pressing herself against it as the men eased past her. They made their way around a wildly askew railing and down the shallow trio of steps into the simply-planted garden. Back behind a bed of likely-looking foxglove and hollyhocks, well off the pebble-covered walk, they set down the bundle.
“Thank you, lads,” Driscoll said, squatting to unknot the tangle of blankets. “You’d all best get back inside. The bees likely aren’t too happy at the moment.”
The footmen practically fell over themselves in their haste to return to the Hall. If she hadn’t been able to tell that they were genuinely worried about being stung, Isabel would have found the sight of flailing arms and flapping coat-tails horribly amusing.
“You as well, Miss de Rossi,” her steward instructed.
“Yes, of course.” Why was she still standing there in her night rail and robe anyway, gawping at a man wearing five jackets, at least four pairs of trousers, and she saw now, cravats tied at the base of his gloves and the tops of his boots? “Oh. Your hat.” Swiftly she removed it, then settled it back on his black, wavy hair.
Her fingers brushed his jaw as she straightened the lace, tugging it down to cover his neck at the front and back. He had broad shoulders even without all the jackets, and her palm lingered, seemingly of its own accord, on the sun-warmed wool of the topmost jacket as she fiddled with the lace netting.
She didn’t have much experience with Englishmen; from what she’d observed since her arrival in England, they carried themselves in a much more reserved manner than the men of Florence – but then she seemed to be related to half the men in Italy, so she couldn’t judge a gentleman’s actions by their teasing. This one appeared to be…competent, and not at all like one of the dandies illustrated in Mr. Cruikshank’s drawings. But then Mr. Driscoll wasn’t one of the London haute ton. Perhaps that was a good thing, because she certainly wouldn’t have known how to talk to one of those creatures.
He cleared his throat, the hat tilting up again as he looked at her from his crouched position. “The bees’ll be getting warm out here, and I can’t help but think that won’t be pleasant for me,” he said, his voice pitched low to no doubt avoid further annoying their winged, humming captives.
Isabel shook herself, pulling her hand away from him. “Do be careful,” she cautioned as she backed toward the steps. “Honey would be nice, but not at the expense of your good loo— your good health.”
For heaven’s sake, she’d nearly said his “good looks”. To a man. A stranger. An employee. No one would see her as anything but a flighty, flirtatious, improper girl if she couldn’t even mind her own tongue. Today, tomorrow – she only had a short time to make her first impression on her employees, tenants, and neighbors. She’d already scandalized Simmons by wearing a dressing robe to an emergency, but that didn’t trouble her as much as the idea of Mr. Driscoll seeing her as a nodcock.
He waited until she stood in the back doorway with her hand on the door latch before he stood, slowly pulled off the blankets, and backed away.
For a moment everything remained still. Then bees began pouring from the dresser like black smoke. Driscoll continued to back away, more and more quickly, until abruptly he turned and ran – not for the house, but for the lake beyond the garden. Isabel watched, torn between alarm and admiration of his fine form, as he dove headfirst into the water.
Oh, dear. “Simmons,” she called as she shut the door, only to turn around and walk straight into the butler’s chest. “Oh! Please find me a blanket. And no one is to enter the garden until the bees have had time to settle.”
“A blanket for you, Miss Isabel?” the butler returned, snapping his fingers at a maid, who hurried down the hallway. “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses and decided to cover yourself.”
“It’s not for me, Simmons,” she returned, grateful her mother had warned her weeks ago about the stiff-spined butler. She’d lost the chance to impress him with her decorum – not that she possessed that in abundance – but she meant to win him over with her competence and compassion. And that began with seeing to her temporary steward.
“Of course it isn’t,” he said faintly, glowering toward the doorway.
She’d meant to sit down with Adam Driscoll immediately after breakfast this morning, meant to thank him for his service and send him on his way. Whether she had any experience managing an estate or not, she didn’t want some stranger telling her what she should be doing. Particularly a stranger whom she hadn’t hired herself. She knew perfectly well how to see to a household, and all she needed was a few days to find her footing here. And time to hire a steward of her own choosing, of course.
But now the steward had rescued a colony of bees for no other reason than that she’d asked him to do so. And he’d more than likely been stung in the process, and was presently paddling about in her lake while she waited in her silly night rail and robe to bring him a dry blanket. Oh, he probably thought her a complete fool. She certainly looked like one. But neither did she mean to leave him out there, soaking wet, while she donned proper clothes and put up her hair.
She shook herself again. Very well. Adam Driscoll’s bravery combined with his absurd hat had earned him another day in her employ. She’d consider what to do with him again tomorrow.
4
Myrrden Lake lay cool and deep and still around Adam as he warily surfaced. A dozen bees had taken the plunge with him, and they floated on the surface with a final defiant leg twitch or two that sent minute ripples out around them.
Despite the cold plunge, this morning had actually progressed much more smoothly than he’d expected. And that truly surprised him – especially with Isabel de Rossi entering the room in nothing but a robe and her night rail. Even with the thing buttoned up to her chin she’d looked…fetching, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and her hands tucked into the huge sleeves.
As that thought crossed his mind she appeared at the edge of the water to wave at him from beyond the boundary of the estate’s garden. Adam lifted a hand in return, grabbed the hat which floated nearby, and dove to swim toward her. Quite a showing he’d made on her first full day at Nimway Hall. First trying to shove a valuable antique out the window, then ending up diving into the lake. And he wore multiple layers of clothes, currently trying to sink him, and had been caught wearing a modified woman’s hat. What a literal stuffed buffoon he must look.
“Were you stung?” she asked, taking a step back from the shore as he emerged from the water. She held out a blanket as if she feared he’d shed his seventy pounds of sodden clothes and would be entirely nude.
“Once or twice,” he returned, though he knew precisely that he’d been stung twice, once on each hand. These hurt like the devil, as had the stings he’d gotten two weeks ago when he’d last attempted the bee extermination. But he wasn’t about to let her know that. Instead he took the blanket from her and ran it over his hair.
“Oh, dear. We should have some apple cider vinegar in the kitchen, shouldn’t we?”
Adam tilted his head at her from beneath the edge of the blanket. “You know how to treat bee stings?”
Miss de Rossi smiled, and he amended his earlier assessment of her appearance. Even still wearing the puff-sleeved dressing robe she didn’t just look fetching; she looked…attractive.
“Bees aren’t exclusive to Somerset,” she commented. “Florence is rife with them, as well.” She gestured him toward the side of the house. “We had several apiaries, and some very fine honey.”
“Florence, Italy?” he asked, shaking himself a little. He was her steward, dammit all. Ogling her was most definitely not professional.
“Yes. I grew up there.”
That explained the slight accent in her otherwise flawless speech. It also explained a few other things. “De Rossi,” he repeated. “Simmons told me that a famous Italia
n sculptor named de Rossi carved that rather impressive fireplace in the dining room. Any relation?”
Her smile deepened. Not just attractive, he amended again. Enchanting. “Marco de Rossi is my father. He and Mama eloped. The fireplace is in her image. It was very romantic.”
Adam swallowed. The attractive, bare-chested lady carved into the fireplace was Isabel de Rossi’s mother? He’d…touched the thing. In admiration of the artist’s obvious skill, of course, but even so. And being Charlotte Harrington’s parents, having to see that carving every time they sat down for a formal dinner? With guests? Was that why they’d retreated to London? He certainly couldn’t blame them for that. But he wouldn’t term anything that led to such a fine house being abandoned for ten years “romantic”. “You’ve seen it, then?”
“Yes. The dining room was my first stop last night. I’d originally planned to go back and look at the fireplace by daylight this morning,” she continued blithely. “Detoured by bees.”
Oh, yes. The bees. They’d nearly slipped his mind for some reason. “Thank you for your assistance with the little pests. I’d tried relocating them before, but they never cooperated until today. They would settle on the curtains, the furniture, us – anything but return to their hive.” Adam grimaced. “I wouldn’t have been willing to sacrifice the furniture if I hadn’t attempted everything else first.”
She flipped her hand. “I would rather lose a dresser than see anyone stung. But thank you for making another attempt to save the hive. And for jumping into the lake. If any of your…multitude of clothes are ruined, I will of course replace them.”
A chuckle left his lips before he could remind himself that he was still attempting to make a competent first impression – and he’d already worn a woman’s hat and taken a swim this morning. He was currently dripping lake water on the hem of her very puffy dressing gown at this very moment. “They aren’t all my clothes. I borrowed from every large, burly man in the vicinity.” He shrugged wetly. “It seemed to work, at least. The only stings are on my wrists, between the leather gloves and my sleeves.”
He glanced at her again as she looked down at his still-gloved hands. This morning had by no means been a vision of clockwork and efficiency. It had been a bumbling bramble of confusion that by some miracle had ended with the preferred result. He’d thought to be sacked over it. Not praised as a hero.
“It was very clever. And so was that extremely unique hat.”
“I found it in an attic room and added the lace myself. If it was something precious, I—”
“It was a hat,” she broke in. “I daresay you had more use of it than whichever of my female ancestors purchased it.”
From what little he knew of her grandmother, he doubted Olivia Harrington would have been as forgiving of all the chaos. “You managed the bees well.”
She nodded. “We keep bees in Florence. I used to assist old Pietro when he removed the honeycombs. I haven’t done it for years, though.”
They reached the kitchen, and Miss de Rossi sent everyone into a whirlwind of activity – chasing after apple cider vinegar, dry clothes and boots for him, someone to tend to the wet clothes he wore, and Mrs. Dall, the cook, to brew him some hot tea.
They were an efficient household – Simmons saw to that – but Adam could swear the servants practically flew to see to Isabel de Rossi’s orders in a way they never had for him. With this being by her own admission her first visit here, their immediate acceptance and apparent…joy at her arrival stunned him. Servants were always leery of change, and this was a huge change for them. Perhaps, though, they were merely trying to impress their new mistress.
She offered him a chair at the large kitchen table, pulling out the one beside it as well and turning the two to face each other. When she took the second seat and reached for his right hand, he frowned. “I can tend myself, Miss de Rossi. You do not need to—”
“You were injured beneath my roof,” she countered calmly, her fine brow furrowing as she tugged on the damp knots of the old cravat he’d knotted around his forearm to keep bees from crawling all the way up his sleeves. “And you saved countless bee lives with your bravery. Do stop protesting.”
“I… Very well.” His mouth curved, and he didn’t try to prevent it. “The bees might not see me as their rescuer, and I would tend to award you that honor anyway, but I’m pleased I at least made any onlookers laugh.”
The sharp glance she sent him seemed to measure instantly whether he was jesting or not, then to approve with a warm twinkle and a wrinkled nose. “I shall commission a very tiny medal for you to wear on your lapel. A gold bee on a field of red, sword crossed with stinger.”
Adam laughed. “Whether you manage that or not, in my mind I shall always be wearing it.”
At the same time, he began to wonder whether he’d struck his head when he dove into the lake. He generally wasn’t prone to silliness or flights of fancy. They didn’t mesh well with keeping an estate – this estate, in particular – in good order. Bees currently resided in a chest of drawers in the garden. When Miss de Rossi heard about the rest of the Nimway disasters and what a poor showing he’d made in response to them, he doubted she would continue to be amused.
And if she was amused by a chipped millstone, broken garden railings, a slipping irrigation gate, and the other half a hundred things that needed tending, then she didn’t belong there any more than he did.
Then she began to tug the glove off his hand, and he forgot what he’d been worrying over. Somewhere in the busy, logical back of his mind he did note that once Mrs. Dall set the bowl of vinegar and a cloth at her mistress’s elbow the cook slipped out of the kitchen – and that every other servant had already done so.
What the devil? Properly-trained servants – which the employees of Nimway Hall had been up to this point – knew better than to leave a single woman alone in the presence of an unmarried man unless expressly ordered to do so. He certainly hadn’t heard Miss de Rossi do so.
“You’ve been here for what, four weeks now?” she asked conversationally, dipping one corner of the cloth into the vinegar until it was well saturated, then holding out her free hand, palm up.
Taking in a slow breath through his nose, abruptly grateful to still be clothed in five layers of wet, uncomfortable trousers, he placed his hand in hers, palm down. She had a small hand, but her fingers were long and graceful and much softer than his rough ones. Her father was an artist, and he imagined she must be skilled in the arts, as well.
“Yes?” she prompted, placing the soaked cloth firmly against the tender, swollen back of his wrist.
The relief was almost instantaneous. What had she asked him, though? “Yes. Yes, four weeks. If I’d known you were coming, I would have prepared a written assessment already. I had intended to send one to Mrs. Harrington at the end of the month.”
She nodded, her gaze on his hand. “Have you been everywhere?”
“’Everywhere?’” he repeated. “I’ve visited every farm, tenant, and every shop in Balesborough, East Pennard, and West Pennard. Except for the blacksmith in Balesborough. Apparently he went north for a sister’s wedding. The—”
“I meant in the house,” she broke in, her cheeks reddening a little. “Have you explored the house?”
“Of course. I only found one leak, in the corner of one of the attic rooms, and I regret to report that it has yet to be repaired. The bees were using it to enter and exit, I believe, and I didn’t think it wise to trap them inside. Two doors are off plum, and one needs to be rehung, one window in the morning room is cracked, and three of them need re—”
“Did you see anything unusual?” she blurted, dipping the cloth in the apple cider vinegar again and reapplying it.
Adam lifted an eyebrow. She’d lowered her head, so he couldn’t see her expression beneath the disheveled tumble of thick dark-brown hair. If he had to put a name to it, though, he would say she was embarrassed. Over what, though? “Unusual in what way?” he asked in return.
“All in all I found Nimway and its environs to be in remarkably fine condition, if that’s what you’re asking. If not, you’ll have to be more specific, Miss de Rossi.”
She cleared her throat. “In my mother’s time there was an…orb, I suppose, an oval-shaped moonstone of milky white, in a setting of gold eagle claws.” She released the cloth and turned her hand palm up, forming her fingers into claws to demonstrate. “A little larger than my closed fist.” Again she used her hand to demonstrate what she said. “Have you see that anywhere?”
Isabel held her breath as his pretty green eyes lost focus. Surely he’d seen the orb somewhere. If not, she would ask Simmons and, if need be, everyone else who lived within the Hall. The servants, though, would know the tales about it, and they would also know her reasons for wanting to find it. Even her no-nonsense grandmother had acknowledged its existence and its power, and her mother had said the orb appeared when it should, where it should, and to whom it should.
“A crystal ball, you mean?” her steward asked, his large hand flexing a little in hers. “A gypsy’s glass ball?”
“No, no. It’s very old, and has been missing for some time.” For nineteen years, actually, since it had shown Charlotte Harrington her true love, bound her to Marco de Rossi, then apparently vanished without a trace.
But she wasn’t Charlotte. She was Isabel, and now it was her turn. She’d come to be the Hall’s guardian, not just because of the romance of it all, but because Nimway had been without a mistress for ten years. That couldn’t be allowed to continue. Her ancestral home needed a descendant to live here. She would take care of Nimway Hall. And if she happened to be here without a suitor in sight, well, perhaps in return the Hall would take care of her. There didn’t quite seem to be rules, or at least not any that she knew about, but since well before her five-times great grandmother the Hall and its guardian had watched over each other. She was here to do her part. Therefore, the magic would happen. She only needed to wait for it – and to find the orb.
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