If the Slipper Fits

by Olivia Drake

  It’s you he runs away from, you he fears. If you showed him a measure of love and kindness, perhaps he’d be more eager to visit you.

  Simon resisted the urge to shift in his chair. He shouldn’t feel guilty for doing his best, given the circumstances. He refolded the paper and tucked it into an inner pocket of his coat. “I’ll instruct Bunting to revise the schedule. Is that all?”

  “No. There is also the matter of the vicar’s teaching methods.” Her skirts swishing, she paced back and forth in front of his throne. “Mr. Bunting doesn’t seem to know how to engage the attention of a child. His lectures are extremely dull. Have you ever actually listened to any of them?”

  Simon shook his head. “I see no reason to do so. Now, enough of this interview. Your time is up.”

  “You aren’t allowed to pass judgment without hearing all the evidence.” Her gaze shifted past him. “Isn’t that true, Ludlow?”

  Simon had forgotten the old retainer was standing a step behind the throne.

  The man made a creaky bow. “Indeed, miss.”

  Annabelle returned her attention to Simon. “There, you are obliged to do this one thing. I would like for you to come upstairs to the nursery and listen to the vicar for yourself.”

  “That would be a colossal waste of my time.” Wondering at her persistence, Simon scowled. “I know what this is all about. You’re trying to get rid of Bunting so you can take over the schoolroom. Tell me, why should I believe you’d be any better at instruction than him?”

  “Because I understand children. And I remember well what it’s like to grow up alone as an orphan.”

  On that unexpected statement, Annabelle turned on her heel and walked away. He hadn’t known anything about her background other than that she had taught at a school in Yorkshire. Did she have no family at all? The answer didn’t signify. She was merely the governess and a cheeky one at that.

  Instead of heading to the arched doorway, she made a slow circuit of the library, peering closely at the shelves. Moodily he wondered at her purpose. It was hardly the moment to seek out a book to read. He was about to say so when the sway of her hips distracted him. He felt beset by the desire to press her down on one of the library tables and sweeten her vinegary lips with a kiss …

  Then he noticed that she’d stopped alongside the fireplace and was running her fingertips over the stones.

  Irked with both her and himself, he barked, “What the devil are you doing?”

  “I’m looking for the entry. You said there was one here in the library.”

  Her meaning hit him like buckshot. The tunnels. Hadn’t he warned her that was a family secret? Apparently not.

  Rising hastily from the throne, Simon strode straight to her side. He caught her eye and frowned a warning to keep silent. Being Annabelle, she parted her lips to speak, anyway. So he reached surreptitiously for her wrist and lightly pressed it in admonition.

  As he’d hoped, his action startled her into obedience.

  He turned his head to address Ludlow. “That will be all. You may go now.”

  The myriad wrinkles on the man’s face settled into an obstinate expression. “The judgment has not yet been rendered.”

  “It will have to be postponed until after I’ve gathered all the evidence. Now kindly leave us. That is an order.”

  “Yes, Lord Simon.” Leaning on his staff and muttering under his breath, the ancient retainer walked at a slow shuffle toward the door.

  The wait for his departure seemed interminable. Beneath Simon’s fingers, the pulse in Annabelle’s wrist beat swiftly. Her skin felt warm and smooth, and he was sorely tempted to run his thumb over the tender palm of her hand. The faint, enticing fragrance of her made him wonder if the scent originated in the valley between her breasts.

  Not that he would ever find out.

  As Ludlow vanished into the outer corridor, she pulled her hand free and stepped back. “Did I say something wrong just then?”

  “Only the family knows about the tunnels. I’d like to keep it that way or God knows the servants will be having trysts in there.”

  “You showed me.”

  That he’d trusted her was a fact Simon still couldn’t fathom. “You were distraught about Nicholas. Besides, you needed to know where to look for him if ever he disappeared again.”

  Annabelle seemed to accept the explanation, though she still looked puzzled. “How did His Grace learn about the tunnels? It wasn’t from you.”

  “George—his father—must have showed him.”

  The faint furrowing of her brow vanished. “Well, then. I shan’t give away your family secrets. You have my word.” Pivoting back to the wall, she glided her fingers over the stones again. “So where is the entry door?”

  “There’s no need for secrecy. We’ll take the main stairs.”

  She glanced over her shoulder, her expression exasperated. “That won’t work. We need to use the tunnel so that we can enter the nursery wing without being seen.”

  So that was her plan. “You expect me to spy on Bunting?” Simon shook his head in disgust. “I’m sorry, that seems rather unsporting.”

  “Pish-posh. This isn’t a game. This is Nicholas’s life. Besides, how else are you to witness the vicar as he really is?”

  She picked up a candle from a table and gracefully stooped down to light it at the fireplace. Captivated in spite of himself, he stared at the swanlike curve of her neck and the delicate shape of her ears. Then she stood up again, standing so close he could have caressed her cheek if it wouldn’t have been an act of supreme stupidity.

  She ducked her chin in a pose of earnest modesty. “Please, Lord Simon. Will you show me the entry?”

  Those eyes. They were so big and blue … He couldn’t find a coherent reason why he should refuse anything she asked.

  “You’re looking in the wrong place,” he said gruffly.

  Striding across the library to a wall of shelves, he shifted several old books and felt around for a tiny latch concealed in the ancient wood. When he compressed it and gave a push, a section of shelves moved outward with a loud creaking sound.

  “How very clever,” she exclaimed. “I would never have guessed the door was hidden there.”

  “I’m surprised the hinges haven’t rusted. It probably hasn’t been used in years.”

  Annabelle stepped past him and into the tunnel. “We’d best hurry or Mr. Bunting will be finished with his history lesson.”

  Simon followed, pausing long enough to pull the heavy door shut behind them. When he turned again, Annabelle was already several yards ahead. She had her hand cupped around the candle flame to keep it from blowing out. The faint glow penetrated the stygian darkness.

  Walking at a crouch through the low tunnel, Simon fixed his gaze on her womanly figure. A cobweb caught at her cap, and she brushed it away without any squeamish female histrionics. How like her to have taken the lead. She showed only a cursory deference to his position as master of the house. Any man who wed such a bossy woman would be a fool, indeed.

  Then again, the fellow would be compensated by the pleasurable prospect of taming her to be ridden.

  Simon pushed the distracting thought from his mind. More important things required his attention—such as keeping up with her swift pace. Upon reaching the junction where the tunnels split off, Annabelle headed straight for the one that led to the nursery. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder at him before starting up the steep steps.

  He found it significant that she made no further attempt to persuade him to her cause. Apparently she believed that what he was about to witness would speak for itself. Simon still harbored strong doubts, though. Percival Bunting might be stodgy, but the man was hardly a tyrant. Even if he had devised that onerous schedule.

  On the stairs above him, Annabelle had reached a door concealed in the stone wall. It led into the nursery. Simon took the remaining steps two at a time so that he was right at her heels when she entered a tiny, unoccupied bedchamber.
The nursemaid slept here, he recalled. Being on this floor was like stepping back in time. The air held the same odors of chalk dust and beeswax that he associated with his childhood.

  The muted drone of the vicar’s voice drifted from the schoolroom.

  Annabelle blew out the candle and quietly placed it on a table. Catching his eye, she put her finger to her lips. Then she tiptoed out the door.

  What clandestine nonsense. It reminded him of the highwayman games he’d once played with George when they would attempt to sneak up on a servant with their toy pistols in hand.

  Nevertheless, Simon took care to be silent as he entered the narrow passageway. Annabelle had stopped just short of the open doorway and pressed herself to the wall. From this vantage point, only a portion of the schoolroom was visible. Both Nicholas and the vicar were out of sight.

  At least now, Bunting’s words could be discerned. He was lecturing about the dynastic civil wars between the houses of Lancaster and York that had resulted in the Tudors taking the throne of England. Simon remembered being fascinated by all the court intrigue and the bloody battles of that medieval period. His governess had woven the Kevern family history into the story to make it even more colorful. But all Bunting offered was a dry recitation of dates, a mind-numbing list of Henrys and Richards with little to distinguish one from another.

  Even worse, the vicar had abandoned the soaring oratory of the pulpit. He spoke in a monotone guaranteed to drive an eight-year-old boy to a case of the fidgets.

  Her arms folded, Annabelle rolled her eyes and shook her head as if to say I told you so. Simon allowed her a wry look. Though it pained him to admit it, she’d been correct in her assessment. He should have been paying more heed to his nephew’s education all these months. He shouldn’t have buried himself in estate matters. Not even if it was damnably difficult to look at Nicholas without remembering Diana’s deceit …

  A shout came from the schoolroom. Bunting had raised his voice in wrath. “Naughty child! Give that to me at once.”

  Simon stiffened, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway. At the sound of a slap and then a child’s smothered cry, he felt Annabelle’s fingers clutch convulsively at his arm.

  She started forward, but Simon sprang past her. He entered the schoolroom to see Percival Bunting leaning over the boy’s desk and saying nastily, “Your uncle will whip you when he hears about this.”

  Simon caught a fistful of the cleric’s robes and yanked him back. “No, it’s you I’ll whip if ever you abuse my nephew again.”

  Bunting’s foxlike face drained of color. A small object fell from his hand and went bouncing across the polished wood floor. “Lord Simon! I—I didn’t see you come in.”

  “Thank God for that or I might never have known what a scoundrel you are.” Simon thrust the man away so that he went staggering into the teacher’s desk. “Collect your belongings and get out. You’ll not be returning.”

  “But my lord—”

  “Do it now lest I see you removed from the vicarage as well.”

  Scowling, Bunting emptied a few things from the desk and slammed the drawer. He made a wide berth around Simon, but glared daggers at Annabelle. She crouched beside Nicholas’s chair, her arm around the boy.

  As the vicar stalked out of the schoolroom, Nicholas slipped from his seat and scooped up what the man had dropped. It appeared to be a miniature cavalryman, one of the set Simon had once played with as a boy. Nicholas scuttled back to the safety of Annabelle’s arms. Wiping the tears from his face, she murmured soothing words.

  She sent a keen stare up at Simon. “His Grace was forbidden to use these toy soldiers. Did that order come from you—or from Mr. Bunting?”

  “Good God, it certainly wasn’t me.”

  Frowning, Simon watched her fuss. Why would she think he’d object to a child playing with old toys? The answer came swiftly. Because he’d never given her cause to believe otherwise. Because he’d been a hard taskmaster toward his nephew.

  It’s you he runs away from, you he fears. If you showed him a measure of love and kindness, perhaps he’d be more eager to visit you.

  His white-hot anger having dissipated, Simon felt the impulse to ruffle the boy’s hair or perhaps crouch down to speak to him. But the force of long habit held him rooted in place. It wouldn’t be fair to build an expectation of affection in the child. Nothing had changed. He still felt a strong aversion to Nicholas. Perhaps if the boy didn’t have fair hair and green eyes, the same refined bone structure as Diana, things would have been different. But reality could not be altered.

  He shifted his gaze to Annabelle. “Well, Miss Quinn. It appears you are now my nephew’s sole teacher.”

  She looked up at him. Her expression showed no gloating, only a profound gratitude. “Thank you.”

  Her appreciation made him uncomfortable, given the way he’d neglected his guardianship. “Thank yourself. I’m indebted to you for your intervention. Good day.” Before he could be tempted to linger, Simon turned on his heel and strode out of the schoolroom.

  Chapter 12

  Three weeks later, Annabelle knelt on the stone floor in her bedchamber and opened her traveling trunk. Although most of her belongings had been unpacked shortly after her arrival at Castle Kevern, she’d kept a few spare items in storage. She quickly rummaged through a pile of fabric remnants, searching for a long strip of blue silk left over from one of her gowns. If she hurried, she could sew the piece into a makeshift ribbon.

  In an hour’s time, she was expected downstairs to join a party of guests. The invitation had been delivered by a footman only ten minutes ago. No, it was not precisely an invitation, but rather a terse command from Lord Simon. The brief message had been scrawled in black ink on a sheet of folded paper, followed by his initials.

  You are requested to attend dinner tonight at seven o’clock. S.W.

  The note had caught Annabelle completely off guard. How could the man expect her to ready herself on such short notice? There was no time to stitch a fine gown suitable for high society. One of her everyday dresses would have to suffice.

  She’d already known from the bustling preparations belowstairs that a large number of guests were expected. Some of them would be staying here at Castle Kevern for several nights. When Annabelle had been hired, Lady Milford had mentioned that a governess sometimes was included in social gatherings. But Annabelle had never imagined such a circumstance would actually occur. Lord Simon seldom entertained visitors beyond a few brief afternoon callers. And ever since Mr. Bunting had been dismissed, Lord Simon had ignored her as if she didn’t exist.

  Inside the trunk, her fingers brushed against the fringe of the gray silk shawl that her students had given her as a farewell gift. It might be the perfect touch to complement her dark blue gown.

  A small bundle lay beneath the shawl. Sitting back on her heels, she opened the soft leather pouch and found herself gazing down at a pair of high-heeled slippers.

  Lady Milford had bequeathed these elegant shoes to her. Strange, Annabelle had forgotten their existence until this very moment.

  She reverently glided her fingertips over the deep garnet satin of one shoe. The crystal beadwork glittered in the last rays of sunlight from the high window. It seemed impossible that such fine footwear belonged to her. Never in her life had she owned anything so exquisite.

  The desire to put them on swept through her. But practicality asserted itself. These slippers were more suited to a grand ball than a dinner party in the country. Besides, she lacked the proper gown to do them justice.

  With great regret, Annabelle tucked the slippers back into the trunk. It seemed unlikely that she’d ever have the opportunity to wear them. Still, it was a pleasure to know they were hidden there, waiting like a lovely secret.

  She found the long scrap of fabric and set to work trimming and sewing the edges. Then there was barely enough time to ready herself. At last she wore her best blue silk gown with the newly made ribbon threaded through her ups
wept hair. Filled with jittery anticipation, she peered into the tiny mirror over the washstand and wondered if she’d been too daring to leave off her spinster’s cap.

  Would Lady Louisa and her mother attend tonight’s dinner? The prospect of being near those two fashion plates daunted Annabelle. No matter how much she fussed over her appearance, she would look hopelessly provincial by comparison …

  Oh, botheration, what did it matter? No one would pay heed to the governess except out of politeness. Lord Simon would be too busy fawning over the highborn ladies. Not, of course, that she cared a fig for his company, anyway.

  Barring him from her thoughts, she picked up the gray shawl and headed through the shadowy schoolroom to the ducal bedchamber. Elowen sat dozing in the rocking chair, her chin sunk to the broad expanse of her bosom. Nicholas lay on his stomach in front of the fireplace, playing with his toy soldiers.

  He glanced up, his green eyes alight. “Miss Quinn! I’ve made the Battle of Waterloo.”

  “Oh, my. Let me take a look.” Annabelle crouched down to examine the battlefield, where an array of miniature soldiers lay in a tumbled heap. “I see Napoleon’s men have suffered quite the rout.”

  “The King’s cavalry will kill all the frogs. Pow!” Nicholas swooped his favorite cavalryman into the pile and scattered the pieces.

  Annabelle smiled to see him behave like a typical boy. In the weeks since the vicar had been tossed out of Castle Kevern, Nicholas had blossomed. He was learning his schoolwork by leaps and bounds now that she had tailored the lessons to his age. He was still reserved much of the time but at least his aura of anxiety had eased. For too long, his fearfulness had been honed by Mr. Bunting. Although Lord Simon had never struck Nicholas, the vicar had planted the seed of dread in the boy and watered it with dire threats and false warnings.

  Much of what she’d attributed to Lord Simon had actually been perpetrated by the vicar, from the onerous schedule to the lack of toys in the nursery.