by Jenn LeBlanc
He’d only decided to examine the maze in the gardens as part of the estate mapping he’d been hired to complete, and now he realized the duke’s concerns were more than valid. He felt as though he might explode, more from embarrassment than anything. He couldn’t imagine trying to explain his way out of this predicament. Of course, that was supposing he found his way out to begin with. He’d thought it would be an interesting challenge and the day was perfect for a long walk in the garden, but now the delicate petals peeking out from the hedgerow mocked him, as did the thorns hidden behind the mask of green leaves. It was in that moment he determined that the best course of action was to level the site. He was sure the duke wouldn’t mind.
He cornered again to find another dead end and, turning back, came face to face with what he believed could only be an angel. Her gown was long and full with delicate detailing covering the bodice—the sort of gown which would definitely inhibit any kind of cleaning, scrubbing, or cooking required of a maid. “Who are you?” he asked.
The girl looked at him without a word, her eyes wide and unblinking.
This was decidedly not her duke. Her duke—what made her think that? Gideon—no, Roxleigh. This was not Roxleigh. Definitely not Roxleigh. She shook her head to clear her thoughts.
This man wore chocolate brown trousers that were pulled snug to his boots and a light blue shirt and dark blue waistcoat with a brown jacket. She thought about how even Roxleigh’s attire seemed severe in comparison. This man was traditionally attractive, though currently a bit disheveled, his dark blond hair sun-streaked and a bit unkempt, some of the curls falling over his forehead. She noticed his eyes, such a light blue they looked almost grey, ringed with a deeper blue halo. They were honest and trusting, and she smiled.
He spoke again, rousing her from the analysis. “Pardon, miss,” he said. He straightened his jacket and swept his unruly curls back in place. He seemed flustered. “Uh, begging your pardon, miss, I am Amberly Shaw. I’m here to map the gardens and manor for the Duke of Roxleigh. I wasn’t aware there were any other guests here in the maze, or at the manor, for that matter.”
She didn’t reply; instead, she patted her throat gently with one hand and lifted her other in a fist, circling it over her heart and mouthing I’m sorry.
A hint of amazement flashed in his eyes, and he responded with a sign of his own.
She examined his gestures, similar to what she knew but too fast for her to keep up with.
She gently touched his hands to still them, but he drew back at the contact.
Francine shook her head and tried to explain. Slowly she signed that she could hear, she just couldn’t speak.
He nodded. “I apologize, miss. I assumed you were deaf.”
She smiled and spelled her name. But he didn’t understand. She realized the alphabet had to be different. She turned and stood next to him, using her finger to spell her name on her palm.
“Miss Francine?” he asked, and she nodded. “It is an honor to make your acquaintance, Miss Francine. Are you a guest?”
She nodded again, still smiling. She pointed to him and then motioned with both hands, as though she were holding something between them, and then let it fall.
“Am I lost?” he asked. He considered his response. He could admit defeat and be rescued by a woman, or he could feign intelligence only to have her discover his idiocy for herself soon enough. He chuckled. “Yes, quite. I am quite lost,” he said, looking down and kicking the toe of his boot in the grass.
She smiled broadly at his admission. She pointed at him, made two fists and held them together, sweeping them in a circle away from her body, then questioning him with her eyes, she pointed to herself.
He sighed heavily. “Yes, please rescue me,” he said under his breath, then louder: “Yes, I would very much like to accompany you.”
She smiled as he proffered his arm, and took it, then paused and turned toward him. She held one hand up like a tunnel and pushed her other hand through it, then pulled it back out, looking at him.
“Good question. Is there something inside the maze I should see?” he asked.
She nodded vigorously.
“Well then, by all means, let us go in, and then we shall go out.”
She took his arm again and led him to the fountain.
Mrs. Weston took the note from the runner, expecting only to learn that Meggie had arrived safely in Kelso. What she discovered, however, chilled her to the bone. She pointed at the messenger, then at the ground to stay him. “You have one more errand,” she said, and he nodded, waiting at the service entrance for her to return.
When Francine stopped at the clearing in the center of the maze, Shaw’s jaw dropped. “This is magnificent,” he said. “I’ve quite changed my mind about leveling the area. Thank you for bringing me here.”
She nodded to him stiffly, wondering what he was getting on about as she rested at the edge of the fountain.
“I had no idea there would be such beauty here. It truly is a peaceful area among the chaos of the labyrinth. It’s simple genius, really, to build a sort of oasis within that horrible maze. The perfect juxtaposition of chaos and beauty— Oh. I do go on. Apologies. It’s a habit of mine to find explanations for types of architecture, of course, but I needn’t bore you with my opinions.”
Francine waved him along and headed toward the fountain to sit at the edge again, letting her mind return to Roxleigh. Shaw was right about the way it was planned. It seemed the manor was a reflection of his personality, difficult on the outside with so much more on the inside if you took the time to find it. But which would come first? It was the old chicken and the egg analogy, of course. Here the manor quite obviously came first, but did the chaos of the manor truly help to shape him as a man? That seemed a bit of a jump.
Shaw followed her to the fountain but remained standing. “You have been here for a while?”
No, she signed, then felt the wrinkle in her brow that mother-number-two always warned her would stick one day.
“Are you a friend of the family?”
She shook her head and slowly signed that she was here as a guest, because of her injury. It felt good to have an actual conversation that wasn’t stunted by coughing fits, pain, and yelling. She sighed. It was ironic; she was in a country where the people spoke English, but she couldn’t speak, and the language that they did share was still desperately in need of some translation. She’d no idea when she would talk again. The last tear in her throat had been so painful that she still winced when she swallowed. She shrugged, quite literally at a loss for words.
“Well, I certainly hope you are recovered quickly, and I’m sure the duke will be a gracious host in the meantime.” He shifted as he thought about said esteemed host. He really couldn’t allow a bad word to reach Roxleigh, and this situation was wholly inappropriate. “Shouldn’t we be heading back to the manor?”
She stood and took his arm, leading him from the maze with little difficulty, which, when she glanced at the set of his jaw, she could tell irked him.
They arrived at the back terrace just as Mrs. Weston walked out from the breakfast room. “Oh, miss, wherever have you been? Carole said you were in the garden, but she lost sight of you.”
“I’m afraid the fault is entirely mine, Mrs. Weston. I must beg your pardon. I was lost in the maze, and Miss Francine came to my rescue.”
Mrs. Weston looked at them in shock. “But, miss, how do you know the maze?”
Francine smiled one of her broad, inviting smiles and winked at her.
“You are a bunch of surprises, aren’t you? Well then, supper’ll be served in a bit. Would you like to go ready yourselves?”
Francine nodded and released Mr. Shaw with a curtsey.
Shaw responded with a bow and then signed a quick thanks for the tour and rescue.
Francine returned the Thank you and walked up the staircase to the private parlor.
Mrs. Weston turned to Mr. Shaw as Francine walked away. “Mr. Sha
w, what was that you did there?”
“The sign, you mean?”
She nodded.
“Oh, well, I was surprised to meet someone who knew sign language, though I believe what she knows is French, or possibly American. I don’t think it could be the German variation,” he mused, more to himself than Mrs. Weston.
“Sign language?” she questioned.
“Why yes, she is quite fluent,” he said. “As am I. I learned it because my younger sister Anna is deaf, though I understand Miss Francine is not.”
“Yes, she is quite able to speak. I mean she has spoken, but she is injured and should not be talking.”
“I see,” he replied distractedly. He wasn’t sure, but her tone seemed a bit admonishing, and he felt the need to be very careful where Miss Francine was concerned.
Mrs. Weston continued. “I hope your rooms are to your satisfaction?”
“I had not actually made it up there yet. I allowed the footmen to take my things, as I wanted to look over the grounds before supper. Then I was lost, Miss Francine found me and, well, here we are.” He opened his arms in a wide gesture.
“I will show you to your room and send up Aldon to assist you before supper.” She was still inspecting him.
“That won’t be necessary. I can attend myself,” he said as he gathered his hands before him. “But I thank you for your attention.”
“Of course, sir, this way,” she said, and he followed. Shaw reached for the packet Roxleigh had left on the grand table as they passed, headed toward the grand staircase to the first floor.
Gideon examined the cravat then nodded to Ferry, who turned to leave. This was to be a bit of business he wasn’t too interested in conducting. His intention in attending the season was merely to procure a bride. It was his duty, and his Queen had made it clear it was his time. She wasn’t interested in the dukedom slipping to some other branch of the Trumbull lineage, one without as much care for her position.
But now—what now? What were his intentions toward the woman left in his home? He was drawn to her, that much was without contention, but could he act on such without knowledge of her family? He placed both hands against the wall on either side of the large oval mirror and dropped his head. Surely she would remember more soon, but would he like what she said? What if she were already taken, already married? No, she seemed too missish at times for that. And yet she was bold, which harkened of a woman with experience, one also not suited to him.
He straightened and checked his cravat once more. The fact remained he was trained on her for the time being. Until such a time as her fitness for his suit would be disavowed, she was his goal, and this ball—this was merely for his brother’s twisted sense of humor. But he was game—for the moment being.
Gideon descended the staircase to find Sanders staring his brother down grimly in the front entry. Perry paid no heed to the vicious gaze and walked over with a smile.
“Are you sure of this, Perry?”
“Of course I am. Just imagine: the Duke and Viscount Roxleigh unexpectedly arriving for the Dowager Countess of Greensborough’s spring ball. Every tongue, gossip or proper, will be wagging on the morrow,” he finished with a flourish.
“Since when are proper tongues not the ones who carry the gossip?”
Perry laughed, clapping his brother on the shoulder as they walked to the door. Sanders handed Gideon his hat, gloves, and greatcoat, and they left.
The carriage ride to the Marylebone terrace house of the dowager countess was fairly short, and Gideon hoped they would be able to enter without presentation. Both dressed in formal black and white cutaways, the two of them were a sight. No, there really wasn’t much hope of them attending the ball unnoticed, or unmolested.
The rake and the recluse. How charming, Gideon thought.
They were the two most ineligible bachelors in all of England, yet the mamas still tried. Every time he went out, the debutantes batted their eyes as their mothers placed them in his path, like animal traps snapping at his feet.
The carriage ground to a halt at the entry. Gideon exhaled slowly when he heard a commotion outside—presumably, the other guests had seen the crest on the carriage door and were alerting the dowager countess. He glared at his brother.
“Was it not your intention to attend the Season?” Perry asked with a grin.
“Of course it was, but as with all things miserable, I was attempting to delay the commencement.”
“Indeed, as with everything, such as signing over estates, visiting relatives—”
Gideon stopped his brother with another cutting stare.
“Let us be done with this,” he ground out.
“Yes, let us,” Perry said with a magnificent grin. “I cannot wait to see if you are still able to dance.”
“I never said anything about dancing.”
“Of course you didn’t. However, that doesn’t mean it’s not going to happen. After all, it wouldn’t be proper to attend a ball and simply ignore all the ladies who will be vying for your attentions.”
“Of course it wouldn’t,” Gideon muttered, descending the carriage steps.
The dowager countess abandoned her guests to greet the brothers at the front entry. She was stunning regardless of her advanced age, and still moved like a woman of fifty. “Your Grace, my lord, an unexpected treat. Welcome to Greensborough House. Will you be in London long, Your Grace?” she asked as she curtseyed and lifted her hand.
“No, my lady, I return to Eildon soon.” He bent slightly at the waist.
“How unfortunate for all of us. I had heard you would be attending more of the Season. Will you make it to the Grand Prout Estate for the Digby affair?” she asked, obviously fishing; his attendance at her ball and none other would truly be a success.
He smiled, happy to disappoint. “Yes, of course. Actually, we already sent notice.”
Perry glared at his brother’s callous comment, obviously meant to quell the countess’ preening. “Forgive His Grace’s insolence, my lady. We all know that only the very best affairs are worthy of attendance, especially when one arrives without notice as we have tonight.” She turned to him and smiled politely.
Gideon closed his eyes. He really needed to work on his manners. He cleared his throat. “My lady, may I escort you into the ballroom?” he asked, and it seemed all indiscretions were immediately forgotten.
Lady Greensborough smiled and adjusted her skirts with a flourish, then straightened her frame. After a moment of hesitation she placed her hand carefully on his arm, as though he might bite, and nodded to the butler.
The ballroom doors opened and the butler gained the attention of the guests with three loud whacks of the baton on the floor. “His Grace the Duke of Roxleigh,” the butler announced. And then, with slightly less enthusiasm, “The Right Honorable, the Viscount Roxleigh.”
As they descended the stair, Gideon noticed minor movements from various quarters and leaned toward Perry.
“Cousins,” he said quietly.
“Cousins,” Perry agreed.
They reached the base of the stair and were immediately swarmed by gentlemen looking for polite conversation.
Gideon dropped his arm, prepared to bid a good evening to the dowager countess, when she turned to him.
“Your Grace, this ball is in honor of my granddaughter, Lady Alice Gracin, for her coming out. Perhaps you would favor her with a dance?”
Gideon smiled stiffly. “Of course, my lady, only introduce me before the dance.”
She glanced around the ballroom, finally catching sight of a willowy girl in a white gown, her russet hair piled on top of her head in a mass of vibrant curls. She gestured to her. “I shall find you before the first dance.” He nodded, then turned back to his brother.
Perry winked at Gideon and smiled the charming, wide-mouthed smile that made him such a successful rake.
“Why did you bring me here?” he growled under his breath.
“For the entertainment value, of cours
e.”
“Mine or theirs?” Gideon nodded toward the crowd.
“I’m not quite sure yet,” Perry answered, eyeing his brother carefully.
Gideon growled again, silencing the gaggle of gentlemen who were pooling around them, and walked off.
The group stared after him, then all eyes turned on Perry, who laughed deeply, shaking his head. His brother’s ferocious reputation was intact.
Gideon made it only a few paces before realizing his error. If he’d stayed within the group of men he might have been safe. As it was, he was now surrounded by a much dodgier crowd. He looked from one face to the next, unconsciously counting. “Where are Jerrod, Maebh, Grayson, and Poppy?” he asked. “They’re certain to be disappointed when they learn they’ve missed this opportunity.” He turned to his right in time to see Perry approaching with a splendid smile.
His brother bowed and the group returned the favor, all eyes shifting to Gideon expectantly as he also bowed. His cousins were numerous, as his sire had two brothers and two sisters who were likewise accountable to the Crown. He turned to his left and nodded to Thorne and Isadore Calder. Thorne was Marquess of Canford and future Duke of St. Cyr, and his sister was one of the most eligible young ladies in Britain. Jerrod, Thorne’s twin brother, was one of the missing.
“And Jerrod is?” Gideon asked.
“Jerrod is…Jerrod,” Isadore said simply. Her smooth blonde hair was pulled in a severe chignon with little flourish for decoration. Her sparkling grey eyes reflected the colors of the ballroom—sometimes blue, sometimes green, occasionally dark but more oft light.
He smiled and took her hand, sweeping a kiss across the back before looking up to her brother, whose visage was as hers, with a nod. Their mother, Auberry Trumbull, now Calder, Duchess of St. Cyr, was the eldest of his grandsire’s brood. The next in line was his own sire, followed closely by the delicate Lady Brianna Wyntor, Marchioness of Cheshire, whose two strapping sons, Wilder and Quintin, now stood just left of Perry. Those brothers were among the youngest of the cousins.
