Alton turned half around, and those blue eyes that ladies sighed over slanted in Adam’s direction. “Off to Balesborough, are you?” the viscount drawled. “I’m certain Driscoll doesn’t mind me tagging along.”
Driscoll did mind, but he would tolerate it if Isabel agreed to it. “There are people you should meet in the village, Miss de Rossi. We can of course make your introductions later, if you wish.”
“Would these people be alarmed to have Lord Alton included in these introductions?”
He stifled a sigh. “No. I have no reason to think so.”
She smiled. “Balesborough it is, then.”
Adam nodded. “We’d best be off. Billy, bring the horses around, would you?”
“Aye, Mr. Driscoll,” the groom said, hurrying back around the side of the mill where they’d left his chestnut and the black filly Miss de Rossi had claimed. When he came back around, Adam stepped forward to boost Isabel into the saddle before Alton could do so.
“You look like you swallowed a bee,” she murmured, shifting her skirt to step into his cupped hands. “I’m to be wary of Lord Alton, I presume?”
Surprised at her perceptiveness, Adam looked up at her as she settled into the side saddle. “I…” He swallowed back the comment he’d been about to make. “You’ll have to form your own opinion, Miss de Rossi. I will only say that he is known to have expensive tastes, and you have a prosperous estate.”
It didn’t feel gentlemanly to say that last bit, but if Isabel had grown up here or in London, she would have been aware of Alton’s wildly fluctuating finances and his reputation. She shouldn’t be at a disadvantage; nor would she be, while he remained as her steward.
She thanked him with a slight nod before he turned to claim the chestnut. Isabel understood his warning; Lord Alton was seeking a way to increase his finances. Thanks to a very insightful ancestor she would never have to worry about losing Nimway Hall to a husband or a son, but a reckless guardian or spouse could do a great deal of damage to the property’s finances, regardless. Not that Lord Alton had done anything more than appear and invite himself along to the nearest village, but both her mother and her grandmother had warned her that the moment a man learned she had wealth and property, he would be interested.
The trick, she supposed, would be to find one of those interested men who interested her, in turn. And for that she could certainly use the orb – wherever it might be. She bore a birthmark in its shape on the back of her left shoulder, but she couldn’t very well go about baring her skin to say, “look for this somewhere on the property”. But the mark had significance even if she couldn’t show it to anyone else – it told her that she belonged here. And today, that nearly felt like enough.
They headed along the rutted road toward Balesborough, and she found herself between Adam and the viscount. Lord Alton was on his third amusing tale about someone he knew from London, while her steward seemed content to look handsome as he rode silently at her side. While the two men were of similar size and build, in everything else she didn’t think they could have appeared more different. The viscount sported high collars and a precisely-tied cravat, and his light-blue coat and matching blue beaver hat, gray trousers, and brown waistcoat embroidered with tiny yellow flowers looked well fitted and supremely expensive. She could see her distorted reflection in his tassled Hessian boots.
Adam, on the other hand, had donned worn buckskins with scuffed boots, his coat and waistcoat of an unremarkable brown that fit, but would barely be passable at a tavern, much less at a proper gathering. His cravat was clean if simply tied, and he’d neglected to wear a hat at all. From his tanned face, this wasn’t the first time he’d forgone headwear.
Isabel shook herself. It didn’t signify what her steward wore. He was her employee, a man clearly accustomed to hauling on ropes and running from angry bees. While she wasn’t a titled lady, titles had come and gone in her family tree, and she’d grown up knowing that she was a part of the aristocracy. And yes, she anticipated finding her true love and marrying. That didn’t necessarily mean Lord Alton. It certainly didn’t mean Adam Driscoll. The orb would know, if she found a blasted minute to go look for it.
In her daydreams of her first day at Nimway Hall, the orb had appeared in her bedchamber, as it had been wont to do with her predecessors over the decades. It would somehow point her in the direction of her future husband, then she would know how to proceed. Instead of an orb, though, she’d had bees and a millstone. She took a deep breath. Both had been important, and both had been dealt with. This afternoon, after she returned from Balesborough, she would set aside the time to make a much more in-depth tour of the house. Because that was important, too – just on a much more personal level.
As Lord Alton opened his mouth to begin a fourth tale of London misadventures, she leaned forward to pat the pretty black filly on the withers. “I’ve decided to name my mare Fiore. That’s Italian for—”
“For flower, if I remember my Italian,” the viscount interrupted. “Very appropriate. A flower for a lovely flower.”
She smiled. “Thank you. “What’s your mount’s name?”
“Staffordshire in the Morning Light,” he replied promptly. “Stafford for short.”
“Ah. Very regal sounding.”
“He’s a cousin to Master Jackey, winner of the first Royal Ascot Gold Cup.”
The Royal Ascot. That was a prestigious race here in England, if she recalled correctly. Lord Alton seemed to think very highly of it, anyway. “Marvelous,” she said. That sounded appropriate.
On her other side Adam made a low sound in his chest. Derision? She looked at him. “And what is your horse’s name? He’s very handsome.”
He lifted an eyebrow, his expression equal parts amused and baffled. “Boy, I suppose,” he returned. “Or Horse.”
“He doesn’t have a name?” Now she felt baffled. Goodness, she named everything, including Tinker, the little mouse that lived behind the stove in Florence; Fluff and Squawk, the chickens; and Bach, the bluebird, who’d made a nest outside her old bedchamber window.
“You, sir,” Lord Alton commented, “suffer from a singular lack of imagination.”
“I received the offer of a position, I purchased a mount as I had been using one of the horses from my uncle’s property, and I rode here. He’s a steady, deep-chested animal, but I’ve had other concerns.”
“How very single-minded of you,” the viscount complimented, in the least complimentary-sounding tone ever.
That was mean. “In all honesty, my lord,” she noted, “you didn’t name your mount, either, did you?”
The viscount smiled, attractive and amused. “True enough. I did select one with a bloodline and a name, however. Heritage matters.”
Behind her, Adam snorted. “Now you’ve insulted Miss de Rossi, who has just selected a mare and named her without knowing her bloodline. Well done, Alton.”
“I don’t believe you’re permitted to speak to me that way, Driscoll.”
Adam opened his mouth, no doubt about to challenge Lord Alton’s view of himself. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Isabel said, before either could question the other’s masculinity, “you” – and she pointed at the steward – “work for me. And you” – and she pointed at the viscount – “are, I assume, attempting to charm me or something of the like. Behave, and show me the sights of my property, or leave and I’ll see to it myself.”
Lord Alton inclined his head. “Speak with me later if you’d like a recommendation for a proper steward. I believe I could suggest several who would never consider speaking out of turn.”
Isabel didn’t reply to that. How could she? Firstly, she meant to choose her own man. And secondly, any affirmation would serve to notify Adam Driscoll that he was on the verge of being removed. And at this moment, she needed him. Over the past few hours observing his precise expertise at the mill and his obvious knowledge of Nimway Hall, she’d realized that she couldn’t allow her own sense of…destiny, she suppo
sed it was, to blind her to the fact that she didn’t know how to do a great deal of this. Repairing a vital mill wasn’t the same as organizing and scheduling the household’s meals for the week.
That realization only strengthened as she stood close enough to the blacksmith’s forge to feel its heat and listened to Adam and Joseph Coopering discuss iron content and base depth for the replacement railing. In fact, the entire discussion left her rather light-headed and short of breath. What if her grandmother hadn’t hired Mr. Driscoll to replace old Prentiss? She’d been a naïve fool to think she could arrive at Nimway and magically everything would sort itself out. Smithing wasn’t magic. It was mathematics and hard work. The same with the millstone.
“…meet me for luncheon on Wednesday?” Lord Alton was saying, and she shook herself.
“I’ve only just arrived, my lord,” she returned, trying not to squeak in surprise. “I would greatly appreciate a week or two to sort myself out before I ride off to luncheon.” For heaven’s sake, she wanted a moment to breathe before men began flinging themselves at her – if that was what this was. It felt like it. Abruptly she wished she’d taken her grandmother’s advice and attended at least one party in London. Or that she’d gone to finishing school. Anything to help her not to feel like a halfwit when a gentleman asked her to luncheon.
Geoffrey’s engaging smile returned. “If it takes a fortnight for your steward to catch you up on the state of Nimway Hall, at the risk of repeating myself I’d venture to say you need a new steward.”
She sent a quick glance at Adam’s broad back, but he gave no indication that he’d heard a word of the viscount’s assessment. It was an unkind thing to say aloud, regardless. She certainly had no idea yet whether Adam Driscoll knew what he was doing or not, but “incompetent” was not the first – or the second or the third – word she conjured when she looked at him. Whatever else he was, though, he was her employee, and therefore under her protection.
“If you continue to insult my steward, my lord, I will have to assume you are also insulting me.” No, she hadn’t hired Adam Driscoll, but Grandmama Olivia had.
“I wouldn’t dream of insulting you, Isabel. I see, though, that I’ve put a foot off the path. I therefore apologize. And I’ll take my leave while you’re impressed with my humility.” Geoffrey swept a bow that she imagined would have been judged spectacular even by the members of the royal court, then exited the barn-like blacksmith’s shop.
Isabel looked at the door through which he’d exited. Yes, he was charming. Yes, his…self-assurance left her a little unsettled. She’d instantly rebuffed any potential suitors since her fifteenth birthday, because she’d known since she could remember that she would be leaving Florence for Somerset as soon as she could do so, and she doubted any Italian count would wish to abide at an estate owned and managed by his wife.
But this was Somerset, and Lord Alton clearly knew who she was and what she owned. It all felt horribly confusing. In that sense, she’d meant what she said; she required more than twenty-four hours to find her footing here. And she’d been silly to expect an instant recognition and affinity.
The conversation behind her had ceased, she realized, and Isabel turned around to see Adam gazing at her, a quizzical expression on his lean face. Wonderful. Now she was daydreaming through conversations to which she should be paying attention. Isabel grimaced. “I beg your pardon?”
“We seem to have lost a viscount,” he observed.
“I think he was bored. And I declined an invitation to luncheon with him on Wednesday.” Why she added that last bit she wasn’t certain, but as Adam nodded and gestured her toward the door, she had the feeling that he approved.
“I have several other things to see to, but it occurs to me that you haven’t had much of an opportunity to walk your own floors at Nimway. Shall we return?”
“Yes, of course,” she said, following him out the door. She certainly had dozens more people to meet, but as she kept reminding herself, she meant to be there for a very long time. Aside from that, hopefully learning the layout of her own home would help settle her thoughts and give her a chance to find her feet again. She was in over her head, and she disliked the sensation of drowning.
Before she could settle into self-pity, Adam put his hands around her waist and lifted her onto Fiore. Thank heavens her grandmother had hired someone to replace Prentiss. Because if the only magic Nimway Hall could provide was pretty sunrises, she definitely needed him here. And if she’d begun to feel a bit…thankful that Mr. Driscoll was lean and fit and handsome, well, she would simply appreciate the view until she found the orb and the man with whom she would share her life.
6
Why are we back in the library?” Jane asked, plunking herself into a chair with a groan.
“Because we’ve been everywhere else,” Isabel returned absently, going up on her toes to see the back of the top shelves, opposite. No orb yet, dash it all. “And the library is the heart of a home, don’t you think?”
“The heart of the house in Florence was the kitchen, if you ask me.” Jane reached over to lift a book off the table beside her. “Someone’s been reading about varieties of grain.”
That would be Adam, no doubt. It felt odd, knowing he’d been living in her home for weeks before she’d ever arrived. The servants had been there as well, of course, but that was different. Simmons’s employment could be measured in decades. Adam Driscoll, on the other hand, was new. New to Somerset, new to Nimway, and new to the unusual mythology of this land. And since he evidently read treatises on grain in his spare time when countless volumes about the Knights of the Round Table, Merlin, and Arthur abounded, she had her doubts about how…open-minded he would be if he discovered that all those ancient stories were true.
Most of them were true, anyway. Or based on truths. She was the most recent in a long line of female guardians of this place. And yes, she’d expected to find some evidence of her…specialness by now. In fact, now might be a good moment to test that.
Closing her eyes, she summoned and held onto the thought of the orb, about how smooth the stone must be, how bright the golden claws, how much she needed it to show her the path to her future. Then she held out one hand and turned a slow circle. When her position felt…right, she stepped forward, eyes still shut and finger outstretched, until her finger poked cloth.
Not the cloth that bound books, though. She opened her eyes to find herself gazing at a waistcoat. “I’m sorry to intrude,” Adam Driscoll said, his own lowered gaze on the finger presently jabbed into his chest.
Her cheeks heated as she swiftly bent her finger into a fist and lowered it to her side. What an idiot she must have looked like. “I was… Oh, bother.”
Adam lifted an eyebrow. “You certainly don’t need to explain anything; this is your home,” he said crisply. “Please inform me when you have a moment, and I’ll—”
“I didn’t mean you were bothering me,” Isabel cut in. “Because you weren’t. You aren’t. I was…embarrassed because you caught me acting like a ninny, which is something I generally try to avoid.”
His expression warmed. “I saw nothing the least bit ninny-like. I saw only a young woman becoming acquainted with her home.”
Well, she could dispute that, but it wouldn’t have been in her best interest to do so. “Thank you for saying that. What did you need?”
As she mustered her courage enough to look him in the eye again, his gaze lifted abruptly to meet hers. He’d been looking at her mouth, she realized, a different kind of heat flowing through her. Did he like her mouth? Had he been thinking of kissing her? Isabel shook herself again. Stop being such a nodcock, she ordered.
“It’s not important,” he returned. “Simmons said you’d gone into the library, and I thought you might find this useful.” He lifted a thick book in one hand and held it out to her. “I was looking for a good treatise on wheat. If you require anything, I’ll be at the back of the house breaking up cement. Miss de Rossi.” Incl
ining his head, he turned back for the door.
Isabel looked at the book he’d given her and flipped it open. In the neat cursive of at least a dozen different hands, it listed books, noting when they’d been acquired, which printed edition they might be, and where in the library they were located. One title immediately caught her eye: “Gathered Notes on the Oral History of Merlin’s Staff and Headpiece”. The orb was rumored to be a staff headpiece. Merlin’s staff. Good heavens. In a sense, she had found the orb with her silly spinning and pointing. “Isabel,” she said aloud, lifting her gaze to Adam’s retreating backside.
He stopped, facing her. “I beg your pardon?”
“You gave me leave to call you Adam,” she returned, trying not to sound as rushed and breathless as she abruptly felt. “It’s only fair you should call me Isabel in return.”
A slight smile curved his practical mouth. “Isabel, then.”
The compilation of notes about the orb was, of course, missing, but at this moment that didn’t seem to be the point. Magic was afoot here. She merely needed to figure out how to harness it. And how to stop feeling attracted to an employee.
This was her time, her chance, and while she was beginning to realize that running the household in Florence had been a great deal less complicated than Nimway was turning out to be, it had been a good foundation for what she needed to learn. In other ways, though, her upbringing had left her horribly ill-equipped for being the mistress of an estate. Unlike her mother, she meant to make a match with a proper gentleman. Yes, her parents adored each other, but that was them. Charlotte Harrington at least had had a proper upbringing and had, as odd as it seemed, made an educated, informed choice when she’d fallen in love with Marco de Rossi.
Isabel’s own upbringing had been much less…structured, and filled with artists who, horror of horrors, worked for a living – often for wealthy patrons, as contracted employees. She needed to choose more sensibly than her mother had, because she had a great deal more to prove. And a handsome titled and propertied gentleman like Lord Alton made a great deal more sense than her own steward.
THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1818 - ISABEL Page 6
