by Olivia Drake
A few more hours and he’d have set sail for Athens …
Simon thrust his bitterness and regret back into the lockbox of memory. Returning to Cornwall had not been so terrible a hardship. Castle Kevern had been his boyhood home, after all. He knew every inch of these woods, every cave along the rocky shoreline, every hill and meadow and cove. Besides, honor would not permit him to shirk his obligation to watch over the estate for Nicholas.
His brooding thoughts settled on his nephew. The vicar brought Nicholas to the study at teatime every Friday afternoon for a report on his studies. But the boy’s timidity always stymied Simon. As a child, he himself had been a boisterous lad, talkative and unafraid of any adult. Precocious, his late grandmother used to say with a wink.
Nicholas, however, seemed afraid of his own shadow. He seldom offered more than a few halting, mumbled words. Maybe Miss Annabelle Quinn would have better luck in coaxing the boy to talk.
Simon hoped so. She certainly had a skill for persuasion. Only consider the ease with which she had convinced him to grant her a trial period of employment. One look from those expressive blue eyes had scrambled his brain. I’ve a proposition for you, she’d said. He’d immediately assumed that she wanted to be his mistress.
He grimaced. What a fool he was to keep remembering how her womanly body had felt clasped against him—or the way her rain-drenched gown had clung to her bosom. Miss Annabelle Quinn was a servant in his employ. A liaison was out of the question. Besides, what had lust ever gained him but trouble?
The stone turrets of Castle Kevern appeared through the lacework of green leaves and tree branches. From a distance came the sound of the waves against the cliffs, and the air carried the brackish scent of the sea. A sense of homecoming soothed his irritability. After being on horseback since dawn, he looked forward to dismounting. He’d order a tray sent to his study, shut the door, and claim a little peace.
Riding up the drive, he spied a fine carriage parked just outside the castle wall. He recognized the gold crest on the door and groaned through clenched teeth. Visitors. Damn it, he’d be required to play the gentleman. Unless he could sneak in without being seen …
But any hope of escape swiftly vanished as two ladies stepped out of the vehicle.
Chapter 7
“How very magnificent!” Annabelle said as she and Nicholas entered a long room with an arched stone ceiling. Groupings of chairs provided a place in which to view the paintings on the wood-paneled walls. “What is this chamber called?”
The boy uttered an inaudible reply.
After the noontime meal in the schoolroom, she had convinced Mr. Bunting to take the afternoon off. Then she’d asked Nicholas to escort her on a tour. Her purpose was as much to learn her way around the castle as to nurture a friendship between them. For the past hour, they had been wandering through a maze of rooms both upstairs and downstairs: the buttery, the chapel, the great hall, and various towers.
The trouble was, Nicholas had offered little commentary. He’d trudged silently at her side, never speaking except in response to a direct question. Annabelle had been obliged to make most of the conversation. Not that she minded. Only time and patience would convince him to become more comfortable in her presence.
Or at least she hoped that would be the case.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t quite hear you,” she prompted gently. “Would you mind speaking a bit louder?”
“The portrait gallery.”
“Ah, of course,” she said as they strolled over the fine Turkish carpet. “Silly me, I should have guessed from all the paintings here. Can you tell me who any of these people are?”
He lifted his small shoulders in a shrug.
“They must be Kevern ancestors,” she replied for him. A wistful pang crept into her heart as Annabelle tried to pretend she was viewing an unbroken chain of her own forebears. But her relatives had not been aristocrats garbed in finery; they likely had been servants or tradesmen—commoners who lacked the funds to have themselves immortalized on canvas. “You’re quite lucky, you know. I’ve never seen a single portrait of any of my family members.”
Nicholas slanted a cautious glance up at her. Though he said nothing, Annabelle thought she saw a glimmer of curiosity in his somber green eyes.
“May I share a secret, Your Grace?” she confided to encourage his interest. “It’s something very important. But you will have to give me your solemn promise not to betray my confidence. Can you do that?”
After a moment of consideration, he gave a wary nod.
She guided him to a brocaded chair and then perched on a nearby hassock so they sat at eye level. She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “No one here knows it, but I was orphaned as a newborn baby. I’ve never met my parents, let alone any uncles or aunts or cousins or grandparents.”
Nicholas blinked as if startled by the notion of her as a child, and an orphaned one at that. By some miracle, he voiced an unprompted question. “But … who took care of you?”
“I was left at a school for young ladies. It was lonely at times, but I did have friends to keep me company.”
Mostly among the staff, for the girls at the academy had wanted nothing to do with a charity student—especially not one who was scorned by the headmistress. Annabelle kept that part to herself. It was best not to burden Nicholas with certain wretched aspects of her youth. She only wanted him to understand that she too had experienced the hollow ache of having no parents. “Eventually I grew up and became a teacher. And so here I am.”
Nicholas stared at her. With his hands resting on the gilded arms of the chair, he brought to mind a young prince on his throne. “Papa said that when I grow up, I shall be obliged to sit in Parliament and listen to dull speeches.”
She laughed, pleased that he’d lowered his guard. It was the longest string of words he’d ever spoken to her. “Yes, I suppose you will. Thankfully, that’s still quite a few years into the future.”
He fell silent again, his gaze lowered, and Annabelle wondered if he was thinking about his father. According to Lady Milford, the duke and duchess had died in a tragic accident the previous autumn. Annabelle wished she knew more about the circumstances. Had Nicholas gone to sleep one night only to awaken in the morning to find out they were gone? How bitterly unfair that a little boy should lose the two people he loved most in the world.
“You must miss your papa very much,” she murmured. “Did he often give you advice?”
“He and Mama were away in London a lot.” Clearly reluctant to say any more, he picked at a thread in the seam of his short trousers. His action made her notice the faint redness across his knuckles.
The sight stirred sympathy and anger in her. That dreadful vicar! The last thing a boy like Nicholas needed was to be bullied from sunrise to sunset. Every child deserved to feel safe in his own home, surrounded by people who loved and protected him.
Annabelle yearned to give him that comfort. The first step was to gain his trust. But prudence told her she wouldn’t succeed if she pressed him too much about his past. Better to take things slowly than to upset him with too many questions.
Deciding to change the subject, she rose from the hassock and went to one of the portraits on the paneled wall. “This fine gentleman must have lived in the time of Queen Elizabeth. See the starched ruff around his neck? Only imagine if you had to wear such an itchy collar all day.”
The comment tweaked a shy half-smile from Nicholas. As they walked through the gallery, she kept up a one-sided dialogue, pointing out interesting details about the portraits and adding tidbits of English history. Perhaps it was her imagination, but he seemed more relaxed in her presence now.
“You like to draw,” she observed. “Perhaps one day, you’ll paint a picture that will hang here in the gallery.”
His eyebrows quirked in a thoughtful frown as if he’d never considered such an event was even possible. Then he cast a sideways glance up at her. In a doubtful tone, he said, “I’m
not very good at drawing people.”
“No? Then perhaps you could paint a portrait of one of the horses in the stables. How about it? Is that a worthy ambition?”
“But … dukes can’t be painters.”
“Surely even peers of the realm are allowed to have pastimes. And you’ve a natural talent for sketching. Have you ever taken lessons from a drawing master?”
He shook his head rather dejectedly. “Art is for ladies. Vicar said so.”
Annabelle had yet another reason to dislike Mr. Bunting. “Nonsense. Many famous artists have been men—Rembrandt, Reynolds, Gainsborough.”
Nicholas seemed to like the idea. While he paused to gaze up at a landscape painting of horses in a meadow, Annabelle decided to give him a moment alone to think. She stepped to the bank of tall windows that ran the length of the gallery.
Castle Kevern was not quite like the sketches of fortresses that she’d seen in books. Certainly, there were Gothic arches, battlements, and carvings of fearsome gargoyles. But a previous Duke of Kevern had expanded the central keep so that now it resembled a large country manor house nestled within the massive stone ring of the walls.
From her vantage point on the upper-floor gallery, she looked down on a courtyard where a dolphin fountain merrily burbled. The fairy-tale setting sparked her imagination. For an instant, she fancied herself a medieval maiden flirting by the fountain with a knight in shining armor …
The vision evaporated as a trio of people walked into view.
The one in the middle was Lord Simon. Two ladies flanked him, each clinging to one of his arms.
Intensely curious, Annabelle pressed her nose to the wavy window glass. Were the ladies neighbors? Or guests who had come to stay overnight? Whatever the case, they were both garbed in the height of fashion, the younger one in a peach-colored gown with a feathered bonnet on her blond hair, the older woman in stately marine blue.
Lord Simon bore no resemblance to the fearsome ogre of the previous afternoon. As the party strolled across the cobblestones, he was the epitome of the charming gentleman, smiling and talking to the ladies, seemingly entranced by their company.
At least until he looked up at the gallery.
Annabelle’s heart lurched into her throat. Warmth spread upward from her core, bringing a flush to her cheeks. She swiftly stepped back and out of sight. Had he spied her? Maybe he’d just been glancing at one of the birds that sailed through the courtyard.
She willed her pulse beat to slow. It was ridiculous to feel so breathless. Even if Lord Simon had seen her, it wasn’t as if she’d done anything wrong.
Nicholas appeared at her side. Raising himself on tiptoes, he attempted to peer over the high windowsill. “Please, Miss Quinn, what are you looking at?”
“Nothing of consequence.” Unwilling to distress him with any mention of his uncle, she took his arm and drew him away. “Only a seagull. You’ll have to excuse my gawking because I never saw one before yesterday.”
“Never?”
“Never. I grew up far inland. There was no ocean for a hundred miles or more. The biggest body of water was the pond by the village green.” She deliberately kept her voice light and cheerful. “Now, we must complete our tour of the castle before teatime. Are there any more rooms that we’ve missed?”
He cocked his head in consideration. “We haven’t been to the library.”
“Wonderful! I adore libraries.” Annabelle dipped a curtsy while motioning for him to proceed. “Lead on, Your Grace.”
Nicholas obliged by taking her through a maze of tunnellike corridors. It would be a miracle if ever she learned her way around the castle, Annabelle decided. They passed through several arched doorways and went down a flight of winding stairs, their footsteps echoing loudly against the stone walls. She couldn’t help but marvel at the ancientness of the fortress. How mind-boggling it was to imagine all the people who had lived here for hundreds upon hundreds of years. What secrets did these walls hold?
She glanced down at Nicholas as they walked along yet another passageway. The better question might be, what secrets did he hold?
He’d lapsed into silence again, but at least he’d spoken freely to her in the gallery. It was a start, anyway. She wanted him to be tranquil and untroubled as all children should be. Judging by the slight frown on his brow, he looked far too solemn for a boy of eight.
If only she had a window into his soul. What occupied his mind?
All of a sudden, he told her. “Miss Quinn,” he said in a hesitant tone, “do you really think I could learn how to draw?”
“Most certainly. As a matter of fact, I could teach you the basics myself.” At the academy, she’d been required to master each subject in the event the instructor was ill and needed a substitute. Posture and etiquette had been her assigned specialty, but she also knew art, music, diction, and other topics.
The dejected look lingered on Nicholas’s face. “Uncle Simon won’t allow it.”
Annabelle pursed her lips. That curmudgeon mustn’t be permitted to kill the boy’s dreams. Nicholas had a God-given talent that ought to be nurtured and encouraged. Somehow she had to find a way to help that didn’t result in him having his knuckles whacked with a ruler.
Perhaps she could give him art instruction after his regular lessons were finished for the day and the vicar was gone. She resolved to take another look at the schedule that Lord Simon had devised for Nicholas. If she had her way, she’d rip up that wretched timetable and toss it into the nearest dustbin.
For a moment she toyed with the notion of ignoring Lord Simon’s rules altogether. But she couldn’t afford trouble. If the opportunity presented itself, she must attempt to somehow convince the man to grant his permission for art lessons.
She turned a bright smile on Nicholas. “Just leave the matter to me. Now, you’ll need better materials than chalk on slate. Have you any proper supplies for drawing? A sketchbook and a set of pencils? Or some paints?”
He mutely shook his head, though his eyes shone with longing. The sight touched her in a visceral way. It was heartbreakingly clear that he hungered for someone to fight his battles for him.
“Well,” she said, gazing down at Nicholas as they walked around a bend in the corridor, “I daresay we shall have to do something about that—oh!”
She stopped short to avoid colliding with a stout maidservant who was heading through a doorway. The girl gasped and quickly stepped sideways. Porcelain cups and plates rattled on the large silver tea tray in her hands.
“Do pardon me!” Annabelle exclaimed. “I didn’t see you—”
At that moment, a small bowl slid across the highly polished surface of the tray. Annabelle lunged and caught it just in time. But she couldn’t prevent the contents from spilling. Lumps of sugar went bouncing all over the floor.
She immediately sank to her knees to retrieve the pieces. Some of them had broken into bits, leaving grainy debris scattered everywhere. Annabelle swallowed a groan. What an unfortunate way to introduce herself to the household staff. No doubt everyone belowstairs would hear about the clumsy new governess.
“I’m ever so sorry,” she said over her shoulder to the maid. “This is entirely my fault.”
Collecting fragments as she spoke, Annabelle crawled around the stone floor at the entrance to a finely appointed drawing room. Several more pieces of sugar had landed on the large Axminster rug. Scooting forward, she reached for a lump that had come to rest against a polished black boot.
A man’s boot. Two of them.
Disbelief iced her veins. Slowly she tilted her head back. Her gaze followed a pair of trouser-clad legs upward over a midnight-blue waistcoat to find Lord Simon staring down at her.
One black brow was cocked in his unsmiling face. His slate gray eyes revealed nothing of his thoughts. Inconsequentially, she noticed how dark his sun-browned skin looked in contrast to his elegant white cravat. Then he cut his gaze toward the fireplace.
Two women sat side by side on
a chaise near the hearth. The same two ladies he’d escorted through the courtyard. One old and one young. Judging by their matching fair hair and blue eyes, they must be mother and daughter. From this close vantage point, they were even more stylish than Annabelle had perceived from the gallery window.
She felt instantly dowdy in her borrowed, ill-fitting gown. Her cheeks burned, though her limbs were frozen. She could only imagine how ridiculous she’d looked while scrambling around on the floor.
With a fatalistic perception of her blunder, she returned her gaze to Lord Simon. Words deserted her. Crouched on her knees, she could only stare up at him in mortified shock.
He stood with one hand on his hip, his deep blue coat pushed back to reveal a trim waist. “Miss Quinn,” he said on a note of droll irony. “May I ask why you are not in the schoolroom?”
Moistening her dry lips, she murmured, “His Grace … was taking me on a tour of the castle.”
Lord Simon looked beyond her. “Where is he, then?”
Annabelle glanced around. The maid was setting the tea tray on a table in front of the ladies. Nicholas was nowhere to be seen. “I … he was with me only a moment ago.”
“Indeed.”
That single word conveyed a host of meaning. Rebuke and scorn and something else. Something that made her feel like the object of a jest—as if her mishap had amused him. The sensation intensified when the younger lady leaned close to her mother and murmured an inaudible comment. Then they both laughed.
The two of them reminded Annabelle of the snootier teachers at the academy. The ones who had delighted in humiliating her at every turn.
She attempted to rise to her feet. But her skirts were tangled and her hands were full of sugar crumbs. To make matters worse, she could feel the lace spinster’s cap coming loose from her slipshod bun.
A steadying hand gripped her elbow. Lord Simon was helping her up. She didn’t want his assistance; she wanted nothing to do with any of these snobs.
