If the Slipper Fits

by Olivia Drake

Flummoxed, Simon found himself staring down at a miniature portrait of the late Duke and Duchess of Kevern. George wore his crimson ceremonial robes and ducal coronet. Beside him, Diana looked exquisite in pale Grecian robes, a diamond tiara nestled in her blond hair. They appeared eternally young and beautiful, caught forever in watercolors.

  Expecting to feel a wave of cold bitterness, Simon instead found himself studying the pair with a dispassionate eye. Their images stirred only a trace of melancholy in him. In truth, his gaze lingered longer over his brother’s familiar features than those of the woman beside him. Simon had to admit he missed the brother who had been his rival in everything from sculling to hunting to skirt-chasing.

  But that didn’t mean he forgave George. Some wounds cut too deeply ever to heal.

  Nicholas took the miniature and replaced it on the bedside table. He stood there a moment, tracing his fingertip over his mother’s face. “Mama was so pretty. Papa always called her his angel.” He turned to give Simon a troubled look. “Is that why God called her home to heaven … because she was supposed to be an angel?”

  The question left Simon utterly stymied. What was he to say to that when he knew Diana had been shallow and frivolous, willing to betray one brother in order to win the other? It didn’t seem right to make up a lie just to placate the boy.

  Nicholas watched him as if he expected Simon to know all the answers in the universe. The boy looked so small and forlorn that Simon felt compelled to comfort him. He knelt down and pulled his nephew close in a quick hug.

  “I don’t know, son. I truly don’t know.”

  The boy’s arms hesitantly circled Simon’s neck. A lump stuck in his throat. He had never imagined himself embracing George’s son. Yet it felt strangely like having a part of his brother back.

  If only you could see how blessed you are to have family in your life.

  Yes, he did see now what Annabelle had meant. He had regarded Nicholas as a burden thrust upon him by a cruel twist of fate. He had not wanted to acknowledge the blood tie that bound them. But perhaps it wasn’t too late to undo that mistake.

  A movement in the doorway drew his attention. As if his thoughts had summoned her, Annabelle stood there watching the two of them. She had tidied her appearance and looked every inch the strict governess again. Her rich brown hair was drawn into a severe bun and covered by that ugly spinster’s cap. He much preferred her windblown and hatless, her face tilted to the sunshine.

  Their gazes met, but he couldn’t quite read those lovely blue eyes. She addressed Nicholas. “The luncheon tray has arrived, Your Grace. It’s waiting for you in the schoolroom.”

  Nicholas obediently trotted to her side and out of the bedroom. As she turned to follow the boy, Annabelle flashed a mysterious half-smile over her shoulder at Simon. Then she vanished.

  That brief curve of her lips ignited his blood. In any other female, he would have thought it a come-hither look. But Annabelle wasn’t an accomplished flirt like the ladies who chased after him. She was strong, principled, self-reliant—and she expected those around her to behave accordingly.

  Did she still think him hard-hearted? He hoped not. He did so want to win her esteem …

  Irked with himself, Simon jumped to his feet. How pitiful for a man of his rank to be craving a word of praise from a servant. He must be stark, raving mad. Indeed, Annabelle had stirred a bedlam of emotions in him, the chief of which was …

  Lust. It had to be lust.

  To hell with propriety. He wanted her in his bed so he could find relief from this burning obsession. He would kiss and caress her until she was moaning with need, begging for the ultimate release. Beneath all that prim garb, Annabelle was a passionate woman, and a torrid affair would bring them mutual pleasure.

  Yes.

  But first he had to clear up the mystery of the gunman. He had to mete out justice and make absolutely certain that neither Nicholas nor Annabelle faced danger again. Then and only then could he concentrate on seducing her.

  Chapter 18

  Nearly a week later, Annabelle and Nicholas headed downstairs to the library. The duke had learned to apply himself diligently to his morning lessons. Today, he had done so well on his mathematics examination that as a special treat, she had ordered their afternoon tea brought to the library so they could spend a few leisurely hours reading together.

  He hugged a copy of Robinson Crusoe to his chest as they headed down a dim-lit passage. “Are there any other books with pirates in them?”

  “I don’t know, but we can look.” Adjusting the gray silk shawl around her shoulders, she smiled down at him. “You’re becoming quite the bibliophile.”

  “Bib-what?”

  She repeated the word more slowly. “A person who loves books. Or more specifically, you could be considered a collector of books since every volume in the library belongs to you.”

  A pleased expression dawned on Nicholas’s face. “I do own them all, don’t I? There must be hundreds and hundreds.”

  “Thousands, perhaps. It’s a large room with quite a lot of shelves.”

  “Millions and millions,” he embellished. “Billions!”

  Annabelle laughed. “Well, I hope not quite so many or it will take me forever to find another history of the Celts—”

  As they turned the corner, she came to an abrupt halt. The door to the library was closed. Was someone in there? The servants did their cleaning early since she and Nicholas often came to the library in the afternoon. She could think of no one else who might close the door …

  Except Lord Simon.

  Her heart lurched at the prospect of encountering him. Since the day of the shooting, she had seen him only once, when she’d brought Nicholas to his study for the scheduled Friday meeting. Much to their surprise, Lord Simon had been wearing his full military regalia. He had proceeded to tell them stories about his adventures as a captain in the cavalry. Annabelle had been transfixed by the sight of him in his crimson coat and black trousers, the medals decorating his chest, the sword sheathed at his side. But the fascination she felt was due to more than the outer trappings of the man. She had been deeply touched by his effort to form a bond with Nicholas.

  Unfortunately, four days had passed since then. Four days in which Lord Simon had been busy with his investigation, or so she’d heard from the other servants. Everyone had been aghast at the news of the shooting. Apparently he had called each of them into his study for a private interview to ask if anyone had seen a stranger lurking on the hillside. According to gossip in the kitchen, Lord Simon also had ridden down to the village on several occasions to make inquiries there.

  Was it possible he was questioning someone in the library right now? Or entertaining a visitor? Curiosity flourished inside her.

  “Why is the door closed, Miss Quinn?” Nicholas asked.

  “I can’t imagine, but we shall find out.”

  Annabelle hastened forward to rap on the carved oak panel. She waited a moment but no sound emanated from within the room. Turning the brass handle, she cautiously opened the door and peeked inside.

  No one occupied the vast chamber with its long walls of oak shelves. Rays of sunlight slanted through the leaded-glass windows and fell on the empty tables and comfortable chairs. Logs had been laid in the hearth, though no fire had been lit.

  Disappointment filled Annabelle. Of course, it was only logical to feel let down. She would have liked the chance to ask Lord Simon about the progress of his investigation.

  “Much ado about nothing,” she said to Nicholas as they went inside. “Perhaps one of the servants closed the door by mistake.”

  He stayed close to her side. “Or maybe somebody came through the secret tunnels to spy on us. Do you think it could be a pirate?”

  She smiled, running her fingers through his flaxen hair. “No, darling, the tunnels are a family secret. Only you and your uncle know about them.”

  “And you, too, don’t forget!” He grinned in obvious pleasure at having cau
ght her in a mistake.

  “True,” she admitted, “but only because we had to find you that time you ran away. Now, will you put Robinson Crusoe back on the shelf where you found it? Then you may choose something else to read.”

  He headed off to a section by the windows. Annabelle went in the opposite direction, to the east wall where the history texts were shelved. The well-organized collection gave joy to her heart. She had always loved the library at Mrs. Baxter’s Academy, but the one at Castle Kevern put it to shame. Surely every book ever printed must be shelved here, and Annabelle looked forward to reading as many of them as possible over the coming months.

  A pang touched her heart. In less than a year’s time, Nicholas would go off to Eton and she would leave the castle to find a post elsewhere teaching another child or children. She might never again see Nicholas—or Lord Simon. But perhaps today was too soon to fret about what the future might hold …

  As she walked past a potted plant, something flew out at her. Something large and black.

  She gasped and jumped back, the shawl sliding off her shoulders. The rush of flapping wings filled the air. In the next instant, she realized what it was.

  A bird!

  Her heart pounding, she stared up at the black crow that circled the high ceiling. It flew to a top shelf and perched there, glaring balefully down at her.

  Nicholas came running to her side. “How did a bird get in here?”

  “I suppose it fell down the chimney.”

  His eyes as round as saucers, he stared up at the crow. “Can we put him in a cage? I could feed him bits of bread.”

  “I doubt there’s a cage large enough in the castle. And I daresay crows are not like little songbirds, anyway. They’re meant to be free outdoors.”

  Nicholas thought for a moment. “I’ll open a window,” he said. “Maybe he’ll fly out.”

  “What a clever idea. Thank you.”

  He went trotting across the library at the same moment that a maid arrived with their tea. It was Livvy, the skinny, freckle-faced girl from the kitchen. “Where do ’ee want this, miss?”

  Annabelle gave a distracted wave of her hand. “Anywhere will do.”

  As the maid toted the tray to a polished oak table in the center of the room, Annabelle watched the crow, still clinging to its high perch. The closed door now made sense—someone must have wanted to keep the bird confined in here.

  But who—and why? Perhaps a servant had discovered the crow, shut the door, and had gone to seek help in catching it …

  The bird abruptly took flight.

  Livvy uttered an earsplitting shriek. The tray slipped from her hands and thumped down onto the table with a jarring clink of china.

  The girl sank into a crouch on the floor, throwing her apron up over her mobcapped head. She cried out, “Oh, no … sweet Jesus save me!”

  Annabelle shifted her gaze from the wheeling bird to frown at the panic-stricken maid. Nicholas had opened the casement window, and now he turned to stare at Livvy, too. The last thing Annabelle needed was for him to become alarmed by the maid’s hysteria.

  “Do be quiet, Livvy. I can scarcely hear myself think.”

  “But … but, miss. ’Tis a crow!” She launched into a fresh torrent of caterwauling.

  “Crow or sparrow, it makes no difference,” Annabelle said firmly. “Better we should concentrate on removing it from here.”

  The bird sailed to the tall casement clock, settled atop it, and let out a single raucous cry.

  Peeking out from the shelter of her apron, Livvy wailed, “’Tis an omen … an omen o’ death!”

  “Nonsense. I’ll hear no more of your superstitions. I’ll wager it is more frightened of us than you are of it.” As she spoke, Annabelle picked up her shawl from where it had fallen on the floor. “Nicholas, kindly move aside and I will shoo it toward the window.”

  The boy nodded, his eyes large as he backed away.

  Annabelle cautiously approached the bird. Stealth mattered little since it watched her with beady black eyes. Odd, the creature did have a malevolent look about it …

  Squelching the irrational fear, she took aim and flicked her shawl at the high perch. The bird squawked and flew away, though not toward the window. It soared to the ceiling, then alighted on the top rung of the ladder used for access to the highest shelves.

  Livvy cowered and sobbed.

  Nicholas trotted forward, his eyes bright with excitement. “I can climb up there and scare him, Miss Quinn.”

  Thank goodness he seemed to view this as an adventure. “I appreciate the offer, but that won’t be necessary. I’m sure I can induce the bird to move.”

  Annabelle went to the ladder and pushed it along the shelves. As she’d intended, the bird took flight with black wings flapping. It swooped down and this time came to rest on the tall back of a chair.

  The chair occupied a dais in an alcove of the room. At once, she recognized the peeling gilt of the arms, the threadbare scarlet upholstery and lumpy seat. It was the chair Lord Simon had occupied on Grievances Day when she had come to convince him to dismiss Mr. Bunting. What had Ludlow, the old retainer, called it? The Judgment Throne.

  How appropriate, for the pesky crow was about to meet its judgment.

  “I’ve an idea,” she murmured to Nicholas. “Stay right here while I try to get closer.”

  She crept toward the crow, tiptoeing to keep from startling it. Across the library, Livvy was still snuffling loudly and Annabelle hoped the sound would cover any slight noise that she might make. She edged around behind the bird. Once she was within arm’s length, she slowly readied her shawl. Then she tossed it over the crow.

  The large square of fringed gray silk landed dead center on the bird. Instantly, she dove forward to keep the crow from escaping.

  A muffled squawking emanated from within the fabric. She scooped up the bundle and attempted to control the bird’s frantic fluttering.

  Nicholas clapped his hands. “You caught him, you caught him! Hurrah!”

  “Hurrah, indeed,” said Lord Simon from the doorway. “That was quite the impressive feat.”

  Annabelle almost dropped the shawl and its contents.

  Walking into the room, he addressed the maid. “Livvy, I could hear you halfway across the castle. Stop your sniveling at once and go back to your duties.”

  The freckle-faced maid pulled the apron from her head, scrambled to her feet, and made a mad dash for the door.

  Lord Simon continued toward Annabelle, and one corner of his mouth quirked in the charming half-smile that always turned her legs to melted butter. His black hair was windblown as if he’d just come in from outdoors, and he was dressed in a coffee-brown coat over an open-neck shirt, tan breeches with knee-high boots. Even in common garb, he exuded the confidence and authority of a nobleman in his prime.

  As he reached her side, he cocked an eyebrow and glanced down. “Have you decided to keep the bird, then?”

  In her momentary absorption, she’d forgotten the ensnared crow. “Of course not! I’m intending to let it outside.”

  “Allow me.” He took the wriggling bundle from her, walked across the library to the open window, and leaned forward on the stone sill.

  Annabelle hurried after him, as did Nicholas. They were just in time to see Lord Simon unwrap the shawl. The crow tumbled out, then spread its wings and soared into the blue sky.

  “Look!” Nicholas shouted. “It’s free!”

  “What a relief,” Annabelle said, meaning every word. “I don’t know what I’d have done if my method hadn’t worked.”

  “It was unorthodox but effective,” Lord Simon remarked.

  As he handed the shawl back to her, she made a sound of dismay. The bird’s claws and beak had pulled some threads and left a number of small holes in the gray silk. “Oh, drat. It’s ruined.”

  He inspected the damage. “Can you not mend it?”

  “Possibly, though it will never look the same. It was a farewell gif
t to me from the students at the academy.” Burying her dismay, Annabelle summoned a smile. “Never mind, it can be replaced. I’ve been wanting an excuse to visit the village shops.”

  As she folded the shawl, a black feather floated to the floor. Lord Simon gave it to Nicholas. “A souvenir, Your Grace.”

  Nicholas happily stuck it in the buttonhole of his coat. “Miss Quinn said the crow fell down the chimney. I never knew that could happen.”

  “It shouldn’t have. Up on the roof, there’s netting across the opening. It must have come loose.”

  Or had it? Annabelle couldn’t shake a suspicion that someone had deliberately put the crow in the library, knowing that she and Nicholas often came here in the afternoon. But why? To frighten them?

  “What a pity the fire wasn’t lit,” Lord Simon went on as he shut the window. “You could have had roasted crow with your tea.”

  The boy giggled, and Lord Simon grinned at him.

  “Now, there’s a gruesome thought,” Annabelle chided, though it was a pleasure to see how much more comfortable they were with each other now. “I don’t believe I would enjoy that dish very much.”

  “Well,” Lord Simon said, “I daresay it wouldn’t be as unpalatable as eating humble pie.”

  His dark gray eyes studied her with a disconcerting directness. She found it impossible to look away. What did he mean by that statement? He had to be referring to the way she’d scolded him about his treatment of Nicholas, shamed him into visiting his nephew, then tricked him by leaving him alone with the boy.

  Did Lord Simon resent her for humbling him? A man of his high stature surely had taken umbrage at being lectured by a servant. Although she didn’t regret her actions, Annabelle also felt discomfited to think that he might regard her as a shrew.

  How foolish to yearn for his admiration. Such sentiments were better left to noblewomen like Lady Louisa and her friends.

  A confused frown wrinkled Nicholas’s brow. “How do you make a humble pie?”

  “It’s just a silly old saying,” Lord Simon said, giving him a pat on the head. “Now, I see there’s quite an array of cakes on that tea tray. You’d better be quick if you want first choice.”