“Your Grace.” Colin bowed abruptly as the duke stood, his rounded spectacles and soft brown hair framing his heart-shaped face. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance. I apologize for not sending word before calling on you.”
The man waved his hand toward the chair before him. “Do sit. I always relish the opportunity to meet and discuss locales of great British import. What do you know of Sheerness?”
Colin took a moment to take in the room around him, the walls were covered in maps spanning from England to Denmark and even Sweden and Russia. A wall lined with tomes of all sizes held titles of world travel and history. On any other day, he’d ask to walk the room and explore Atholl’s fine collection.
But not this day. He was here on important business, though whether he should clue the duke in on that fact had still not been decided.
Sitting, Colin noted Atholl scrutinizing him from behind the large desk, its impressive size making the duke appear no larger than a child in comparison.
“My family is from Sheerness, or at least my grandpapa and grandmama on my father’s side hailed from the area.” Colin was satisfied when the man nodded at the information, making it unnecessary to share any further details surrounding his family’s past in Kent. “I have heard you are purchasing property there.”
A simple, innocent enough inquiry, but the duke’s eyes narrowed sharply.
“Yes, well, the area is a prime locale for the import and export of goods.” Atholl made a show of fussing with a stack of papers on his desk. “I have purchased several properties which I plan to utilize in the future.”
“Have you been to Sheerness?” Colin spied the portrait hanging behind the duke’s chair: five young children—a boy and four girls—all with red hair of various shades, cuddled around a mop-haired hound. “My grandmama speaks of the vast coastline and scenic walks. Mayhap you’ve taken your children there?”
Colin was baiting the man. He, himself, had never ventured to Sheerness. His father, the Earl of Coventry, was determined to erase their family’s past, and doing that meant expunging everything his grandmama held dear, everything the woman had taught him growing up, including the connection to Porter “Fair Wind” Parnell, a known smuggler.
The duke chuckled at Colin’s mention of family travels to the far reaches of Kent.
Atholl shook his head. “No, no, the children are too old to enjoy time away from London. Heavens, where would my son continue his fencing lessons or my daughters secure an adequate musical instructor, let alone a dressmaker in Kent?”
In the portrait hung behind Atholl, the children appeared to vary from ages seven to possibly twelve summers. Still rather young, as families went, though at the duke’s age—certainly as old as Colin’s father—toting around a brimming family of seven would be a task only a brave man would undertake.
Colin did his best to smile and laugh along with the man. If he hoped to bring any useful information back to Molly, he needs must be at ease in Atholl’s presence—playact he was only here due to their mutual interest in Sheerness, not because his family’s most treasured—and hotly debated—item was likely in this very room.
Chapter 4
Ophelia could not remove her narrowed gaze from the closed door of the study the stranger had been escorted into by the Atholl butler. Here to meet with her father—but for what purpose? The man’s appearance in her home, of all places, was highly suspect. Especially after Mr. Oliver had been nonresponsive to Ophelia’s questions upon first seeing him at the bookseller’s.
And for a second time, he hadn’t noticed Ophelia’s presence where she and Lucianna had pressed themselves against the stairwell wall to remain unseen.
Ophelia waved over her shoulder to her friend. “I think I will remain home,” she said. “Edith and Lord Torrington will be meeting you, correct?”
“Yes, but—“
“No one likes a fifth wheel, as they say.” Especially Ophelia. After Tilda’s death, she was always the third of their small group—and since Montrose and Torrington had joined and made them five, she was the unneeded extra wheel of their carriage. There if needed, but forgotten more often than not.
“Shall we be off?” Roderick asked. “I believe she is duly occupied, and we have a bridal trousseau to gather before we depart for Scotland.”
Their chatter faded as Ophelia approached her father’s study, quickly pulling a book from the small shelf outside the closed door before she leaned against the wall. No servant would question if Ophelia were seen standing in the corridor with her nose in a book.
Flipping open the cover, she settled on a page about halfway through the book…a title on…oh, bother, the history of English imports from the Turkish Isles. While her presence with a book would not be viewed as peculiar, seeing her enthusiastically reading a volume on commerce and trade certainly would.
Ah, well, she was committed.
Besides, it was not necessary for her to actually read anything in the tome, only use it as a ruse to keep her true intent a secret.
She side-stepped several inches until her shoulder rested against the doorframe of the study and then crossed her ankles as if she were merely enjoying a few moments of silence for reading. However, her head was tilted ever so slightly toward the closed door, and her breath was held as she attempted to catch any stray words that might make their way through the closed portal.
Blast it all, but her father had always been a quiet man, never raising his voice in anger nor in exuberant joy. Level-headed, calm, and cool—all the things Ophelia strived to be but never fully achieved.
Her father’s light chuckle sounded, accompanied by that of the stranger.
Rarely did her father allow himself the luxury of a moment of fancy—he worked hard every day to make certain the Dukedom was enough, would always be enough, for the care of the many Fletcher children. With four siblings—Jacob, Sarah, Elizabeth, and Jennifer—Ophelia could only imagine the pressure upon her father to see them all wed with proper families of their own, all while keeping Jacob in line to continue running the Dukedom after Atholl no longer could.
The laughter died quickly, and with it the sounds from within. If Ophelia moved any closer, she’d be perched in the doorway of the study, and eavesdropping was certainly not a proper activity for a young woman of quality. Ophelia bit her lip, keeping her eyes trained on her open book as she pondered her next move.
The man she was now convinced was a lord, had appeared rather tense and irritated at Oliver’s a fortnight ago; however, she heard no shouting or anger from the study at present.
Was it possible that her father knew the man?
The words blurred together on the page before her, though she did not focus enough to sort them out.
“My lady?”
Ophelia yelped and nearly dropped the book when the Atholl butler cleared his throat to gain her attention.
“May I help you with something?”
She glanced around the deserted hallway in search of any excuse to send the servant on his way. “I—well—I was—“ Ophelia closed the book and held it up for the butler to see, as if that should answer his question, but the man only continued to stare at her expectantly. “I was reading this book…and awaiting an audience with Father. Do you know how long he will be?”
“I do not, my lady.” The servant appeared vexed at his inability to give her the information she sought. “His Grace is meeting with Lord Hawke, and I am uncertain how long they will be.”
“I see.” Ophelia did her best to appear perplexed by the situation. “I was under the impression my father had requested my presence while Mother and the girls were otherwise occupied.”
“I will inform His Grace as soon as his guest departs, my lady.”
“Wonderful.”
The pair stood, staring at one another, clearly waiting for the other to depart.
Blessedly, a commotion in the foyer had the servant hurrying back to his post. It was likely only Montrose or Luci, returned to collect something th
ey’d forgotten.
Alone once more, Ophelia glanced about quickly before boldly pressing her ear to the door. Her pulse increased at her daring act—something her father would punish her severely for if she were discovered.
And her cunning paid off in spades as bits of the conversation floated through the door, though many words were muffled.
Sheerness…a coveted book…smuggling…
The stranger’s words were cut short by her father. “No, no, exports and shipping via the area’s dock are all that hold my interest, though I can tell you that talk of age-old smugglers and pirates from the area has always piqued my curiosity.”
Her father had an interest in anything other than matters of legitimate business?
She was uncertain which surprised her more; her father’s bout of laughter a few moments before, or his admittance of curiosity regarding anything historical and, dare she say, adventurous.
The butler’s raised voice sounded from down the hall in the foyer.
Ophelia drew away from the study door in case her father came out to investigate the commotion. It was advantageous Luci would be departing soon for Scotland, for if she continued making a ruckus in the duke’s home, he may very well bid her find accommodations elsewhere.
Ophelia’s slippered feet made no sound as she strode down the hall and around the corner into the foyer, a sharp rebuff on the tip of her tongue for Luci. Not only because of her disruptive nature, but also because Ophelia had, for once, been on the cusp of something—a bit of mystery surrounding the strange lord—and now she’d learn nothing more.
Maybe she did not rightfully possess Edith’s inquisitive nature or Luci’s cunning and daring demeanor.
She skidded to a halt the moment she rounded the corner and the foyer came into view.
“…I am a bloody fancy lady, ye yellow-feathered buffoon!”
“Madam, please!” The butler ducked as he tried to push the front door closed.
The pointy end of a stick shot through the opening and whacked the servant soundly on the shoulder, causing his hold to falter and the door to inch open as a footman rushed to assist.
“My heavens,” Ophelia huffed. “Step back and allow the woman entrance.”
The Atholl butler and footman leapt to attention, their movements allowing the front door to swing open—and crash into the wall.
In the doorway stood a tiny, silver-haired woman…swinging not a stick but a cane, her eyes wide with fury as they darted around the foyer in search of heavens knew what.
Ophelia took a hesitant step forward, and the two men retreated, keeping a watchful eye on the situation.
“Madam, may I be of service?” The woman was clearly confused, her cane coming to rest where it should as she stepped back from the open door. “Are you lost?”
Ophelia advanced, her brow pulled together with concern.
The woman tapped her forehead, chest, and nose before dipping her chin to almost touch her chest as she backed away from the door and toward a waiting carriage.
The butler lunged forward and slammed the door shut, collapsing with a groan against the wood. “My many thanks, Lady Ophelia. Bless my mother’s soul, but that woman was as mad as a milk maid without a proper pail.”
“Who is she?” she hissed as the woman let out another round of obscenities outside. Ophelia’s face reddened, and the butler looked away at the crass mention of what the servant could do with his fancy speech and insulting manners.
When the butler shrugged, Ophelia asked, “We should offer assistance, correct?”
His eyes widened, and she sensed the man would not prove to be an ally in this situation. If she meant to confront the mad woman again, it would be on her own.
Ophelia took a deep, fortifying breath and opened the front door to see the woman blindly swinging her cane at the gardenia bush bordering the walk. She couldn’t help but wonder what the plant could have done to anger the woman. The sight was both laughable and perplexing at the same time.
Though Ophelia was sure the Atholl gardener would not feel the same.
When the petite woman saw Ophelia exit the door, she held the cane high, clutched something hanging around her neck, and spat.
She actually spat on the ground between them.
Ophelia glanced behind the woman to the carriage waiting in the drive. The coachman and footman stared at everything but what was happening fifteen feet from them. It was as if only she saw the mad woman with her cane held high, ready to do battle.
“Ye cannot pass,” the woman hissed, nodding to the spittle before tapping her forehead, her chest, and nose. “Your mark of the devil will not be bewitch’n me. Don’t ye be come’n any closer, ye fork-tongued beast.” She punctuated her words by spitting once more and swinging her cane in the empty space between her and Ophelia.
“I am afraid I am uncertain of what you speak, madam.” Ophelia held her hands before her, but did not dare take a step toward the woman.
“Ye, with your hair like the devil, that be exactly what I be expect’n you ta say.”
“My hair?” Ophelia touched the long, wavy lock that hung over her shoulder. What did her hair color signify? “If you find exception with my hair, why are you trying to gain entrance to a home full to brimming with fair-skinned, auburn-haired people?”
“I knew me senses be correct, ye cursed sorcerer.” She swung her cane once more to keep Ophelia back. “Me grandson be in there, and likely be’n hauled straight to Beelzebub himself.”
Ophelia must have appeared as confused as she felt because the woman laughed, a high-pitched, uncontrollable cackle.
“Yes, most certainly the look of a witch confronted with ye own misdeeds.”
“I assure you, Lord Hawke is perfectly safe within.”
“Ye be a crone, a hag, disguised by the Prince of Darkness himself with yer fair skin and heavenly glow. An enchantress is what ye be.”
“Why I never—“
The woman spat once more, cutting off Ophelia’s words as the spittle landed close to the hem of Ophelia’s morning gown.
“Do stop this dramatic display, madam.” Ophelia cocked her hip, her hand settling there. “I demand to know your name.”
The woman’s eyes narrowed to slits. “So ye can put a hex on me? I not be stand’n for it.”
“Do calm yourself before you suffer apoplexy.”
“Is that what your curse be?” The woman faltered back a step, and Ophelia feared she had suffered a malady; however, she continued. “Release me Colin from your evil charms, give us the book, and we be on our way, sure as the day is long.”
“Molly!” The stern voice had the older woman cocking her head to the side and her eyes widening as she glanced around Ophelia. “Put your cane down and return to the carriage this instant.”
The woman’s glare returned to Ophelia, and she spat again, her hand clutching her pendant once more as her cane lowered. However, she made no move to follow through with the last order.
“Now,” the man seethed, and Ophelia recognized the desperation she’d heard in his voice when he was at Oliver’s Book Shoppe. “Please, return to the carriage and cease with your superstitious ramblings.”
Ophelia kept her eyes trained on the older woman as she placed one foot behind the other, slowly backing toward the waiting coach, the cane at her side. It wasn’t until Ophelia backed up and bumped against something solid—and the elderly woman allowed another curse to slip out—Ophelia realized she stood pressed against the chest of Lord Hawke.
Chapter 5
Colin stood rigid as the woman’s soft curves molded to him from his chest to his knees. Her crown of wildly unrestrained auburn hair created a halo above her head and partly blocked his view of Molly. Everything about her made him want to take a half step forward and press more soundly to her back, maybe slip his arm around her waist to hold her close. The scent of lavender mixed with a hint of vanilla drifted between them, distracting him for a brief moment from the spectacle happeni
ng before him—in the Duke of Atholl’s drive, in the most fashionable part of London.
Bloody well fantastic.
He glanced over his shoulder to see several Atholl servants gawking from the open front door.
Blessedly, Molly reached the coach, and a footman assisted her in.
The woman pressed against him took a step forward with a sigh of relief.
“Colin, ye hurry along, lest this fork-tongued heathen with her devil’s curse drag ye straight ta the fiery pits of—“ Molly spat out the carriage window without finishing her words and tapped her forehead.
However, Colin couldn’t continue watching as she perpetuated her usual ritual.
“Miss,” he said, ducking his chin in shame at his grandmama’s outrageous accusations. “I am truly sorry for Molly’s—err, my grandmama’s—behavior.”
When the woman made no move to accept or acknowledge Colin’s apology, he brought his eyes to her as she turned to face him.
The first thing he noticed was the sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. So delicately spaced, as if the hand of a great artist had placed each in the exact spot they would reside forevermore.
“It is you…” The girl from the framed painting behind Atholl’s desk. She was older, more woman than girl, but he was certain it was the duke’s eldest daughter. The painter had captured her cobalt eyes perfectly with their slight upturn at the corners, though he’d flawed unforgivingly at catching the plump curve of her smirk.
“Pardon, my lord?” She swallowed, and her clasped hands quivered.
A tingle of embarrassment swept up his spine at her nervous stare.
Colin cleared his throat and glanced over the woman’s shoulder as renewed humiliation filled him.
“Me lad!” Molly slapped her cane against the side of the carriage as she hung out the open window. “Don’t be fooled by her sinful smile. She is naught but a mermaid responsible for take’n ships ta watery graves at the bottom of the ocean.”
“Your grandmother certainly has a vivid imagination, Lord Hawke.”
The Misadventures of Lady Ophelia (The Undaunted Debutantes Book 3) Page 4
