Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  Had she slid on those railings and tried to race to the center of the coil? Had she slipped and fallen to the ground or the stairs and bruised herself? Or had she been too fine and proper for such behavior?

  With a blink, Clara looked at the stairs again, remembering that it had not been her at all. It had been Alexandra.

  Would she forget she was Clara throughout this playing? Would it be easier to do so?

  A warm arm slipped around hers, and she looked at Phoebe beside her.

  “Forgive me, my pet,” Phoebe murmured, her lips barely moving. “What else could I say but that? You covered very well, I must say.”

  Clara nodded once, returning herself to the present, and to the task. “Such a beautiful color on the walls, Stafford.”

  He smiled over his shoulder as he ascended the stairs. “That was a particular request of Lady Adrianna, Miss Moore. She is a bright young woman who knows her own mind, and her brothers do indulge her whims regarding the houses, as there is no mistress to run them.”

  It was all Clara could do not to laugh at the kindly worded statement where Lady Adrianna was concerned. She was an independent girl with a willful streak that terrified every teacher at the school for fear that she might one day raise up the other girls in a rebellion against them, call the local militia to arms for her own ends, or become the greatest actress known on the London stage.

  Heaven only knew what she might have been like in the walls of her own home or with her brothers.

  Stafford led them gallantly through the first story of the house, and particularly to the gallery he was so keen to show them.

  Once she caught sight of it, Clara wondered why Stafford had been so delighted about it, given there was hardly anything in it. Yes, the walls were lovely, and the wallpaper that had so recently been hung was very attractive and fine, but as for the art…

  Half a dozen portraits and one childish watercolor, and that was all.

  The disappointment was profound indeed.

  “Is this it?” Phoebe asked primly, not bothering to keep the disapproval from her tone. “Mr. Stafford, I fear you have misled us cruelly.”

  Stafford, miraculously, only laughed. “Miss Moore, don’t you recognize your own work?”

  “Good gracious!” Clara exclaimed, truly having nothing else to say as she moved closer to see the watercolor he indicated. “What is this doing up here?”

  “Where else should His Grace have hung it?” The butler laughed to himself and gestured to the empty wall space. “The rest of the artwork has either been sold or is being reframed. His Grace will decide what to keep and if he wishes to make any new purchases. Perhaps Lady Adrianna will send some of her paintings to us here to hang.”

  Clara grunted once. “Not likely, I’d say,” she muttered.

  “What was that, Miss Moore?” Stafford asked, coming to her as though she’d said something worth hearing.

  The sound of hooves on gravel suddenly echoed up to them, and, like a hound, Stafford perked up, his attention facing the front of the house.

  Clara looked from him to Phoebe and back again. “Is that an arrival?”

  “Perhaps…” With a quick bow, he left them without another word, his duty seeming to nip at his heels.

  When he had gone, Phoebe huffed quietly. “Well, I’d call that poor treatment, how are we to find your old rooms now?”

  Clara turned back to the watercolor, fascinated by the loving care that had been given to such a childish and, by all accounts, unremarkable work of art. “Why do you suppose the late duke kept this? Not only kept it, but had it framed and hung up here in the gallery? This is a house for entertaining, I’m sure of it, and to have this among the rest…”

  “What rest?” Phoebe chuckled dryly and moved to the window facing the sea, her skirts swishing loudly as they did so. “There is nothing else here, Clara.”

  “You know what I mean,” Clara replied with a roll of her eyes, looking over at her companion. “You can see the hooks where other artwork has been. Why should this be among them?”

  Phoebe glanced over, her naturally wide, blue eyes alight. “Because he loved the girl, Clara. By all accounts, she was as a daughter to him when he had no children at all. Many a parent has taken untidy works of art and treasured them long past all sense.”

  There was something in Phoebe’s voice that made Clara turn fully to give the woman a more thorough look. “Did you?”

  One corner of Phoebe’s full lips quirked, but the emotion behind it was as unreadable as the reason. “I have no children, Clara.” She returned her attention to the window, her slender shoulders moving on an exhale too heavy for her answer.

  Curious. What could it mean?

  “Whose trunks are these, Stafford?” a new male voice inquired in a too-loud voice, the irritation in it evident even from their position.

  Phoebe turned from the window and came to stand beside Clara. “Oh dear…”

  “What?” Clara asked, her knees already quaking in fear of the reply.

  “Visitors, Your Grace. Miss Moore and her aunt. We did not expect…”

  Phoebe hissed between clenched teeth. “Damn.”

  Clara swallowed hard.

  Footsteps thundered on the stairs, and Clara could only grip Phoebe’s arm hard as they waited for the fury that might lay ahead.

  Chapter Six

  The woman was stunning.

  It occurred to him, belatedly, that both women could be considered great beauties, but the woman clutching her aunt’s arm as though death were nigh was the loveliest creature he’d seen outside of a London ballroom, and indeed, within a great many of them.

  His irritation very nearly abated at the sight of her, and his mind spun with new tactics.

  He still was not particularly pleased at having guests in his home while he saw to the care of this estate as part of his tour, but given the appearance of said guests…

  “Ladies, my apologies,” Hawk said as he bowed, belatedly remembering that he ought to smile on such occasions. “I had no intention of intruding on the day-to-day activities of Kirkleigh. I believe I have the honor of being in the presence of Miss Moore? And her aunt, though I have not been given the name.”

  The aunt, a prim woman with a shocking degree of beauty, given her age, pursed her full lips as she curtseyed. “Mrs. Daniels. I presume you are His Grace, the Duke of Kirklin?”

  Hawk nodded once. “I am, madam.” He focused his attention on the young woman, whose hair somehow managed to be both brown and blond, a notion that distracted him immensely. “Miss Moore.”

  “Yes.” She relinquished her hold on her aunt’s arm and laced her fingers very properly before her, but made no other movement.

  And, apparently, had no intention of speaking further.

  Something about her name rang in his memory, and he found himself staring at her with more intensity as he struggled to place her. “Miss Moore…”

  One of her trim brows rose. “Yes, Your Grace?”

  Hawk pressed his tongue to the back of his teeth in thought, then shook his head. “I pray you’ll forgive me, but I’m afraid I cannot recall how I should know you. Would you have the goodness to enlighten me?”

  Miss Moore smiled, and though it was small, there was something mighty and moving about it. “Miss Alexandra Moore, Your Grace. I was the ward of your uncle, the late duke. I lived at Kirkleigh for some years in my childhood.”

  She was… she was that Miss Moore? He didn’t know why it hadn’t occurred to him before, but he hadn’t exactly been thinking about her as the years passed. Apart from fulfilling his uncle’s final wishes where she was concerned, as laid out in his will, Hawk could safely say he had not given her one moment of thought since they had last met. He’d been all of fifteen and she perhaps ten, and, as he recalled, he had been more intrigued by his uncle’s horses than his ward.

  The years had been far better to her than to him.

  “Of course!” Hawk said at once, relaxing as much
as he was able now that he knew her identity, though the discomfiture of having her in his house and being such a beauty was still very much engaged. “I do apologize, Miss Moore, it has been several years.”

  Her smile spread, revealing near-perfect teeth. “It has, Your Grace, so I think you may be forgiven for not recognizing me. And I did rather unexpectedly present myself to Kirkleigh, which is hardly good manners.”

  The surprisingly low timbre of her voice was utterly charming and surprisingly natural. He felt himself growing more at ease with each passing word, though it should not have been at all shocking to be at ease in his own home. To be at ease before a beautiful woman of relative status, however…

  “I presented myself unexpectedly to Kirkleigh, also,” Hawk admitted, returning her smile just enough to be apologetic. “Poor Stafford, more than one set of unexpected visitors is really too much. And for Mrs. Clayton to be away, as well…”

  Miss Moore’s hazel eyes quickly flicked to the butler, who had followed him upstairs, her smile turning more amused. “I daresay he will rally.”

  “He usually does.” Hawk gestured to the gallery, a rather embarrassing space of emptiness at the present. “You’ll find the gallery rather lacking at the present, I’m afraid.”

  “Not entirely,” Mrs. Daniels murmured, gesturing elegantly to the childish watercolor on the wall, neatly framed in a thin, gold frame.

  Hawk nodded as he saw it himself. “Indeed, the best piece remains.”

  Miss Moore scoffed softly, surprising Hawk and bringing his attention back.

  “You don’t agree?” he inquired, fighting the urge to smile further.

  “I have improved my artistic skills a great deal since then, Your Grace,” Miss Moore said with a directness that startled him further still, yet without any hint of boasting. “The sentimental nature of this piece is, I grant you, irreplaceable, but as for the quality…” She shrugged her slender shoulders. “It can be improved upon sufficiently.”

  “Really,” Hawk mused, curious in spite of himself.

  Mrs. Daniels cleared her throat delicately. “I’m afraid, Your Grace, that we are now in an awkward predicament. My dear niece was hoping that we might stay a few nights here at Kirkleigh while we wait for friends to join us in Kent, but we would not dream of imposing on your kindness while you yourself are in residence. Unthinkable, and we shall remove ourselves as soon as possible to give you the peace of your own home.” She looked at Stafford calmly. “Mr. Stafford, if you would be so good as to direct us and our things to the nearest inn, we shall make ourselves quite comfortable there.”

  One blink of his eyes passed, and then Hawk was shaking his head. “Nonsense,” he said without knowing why. “Why shouldn’t you stay?”

  Both women stared at him with widened eyes. “Why, Your Grace?” Miss Moore echoed in a faint voice. “I am an unmarried and unrelated woman.”

  He indicated her aunt. “With a chaperone. And I defy the idea of being unrelated, under these circumstances. I may be the owner of this place, but it has never been my home. You, on the other hand, spent many happy years here. If anyone should be leaving, it is I.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Miss Moore scoffed incredulously. “We’d never dream of forcing you from your own house!”

  “Exactly.” He smiled politely, the idea having more merit than he’d previously considered. “None of us should have to leave. How long would you like to stay? The house is at your disposal. I cannot say the same for myself, but as you came here for the house and not for me, I daresay you will recover your disappointment.”

  A faint crease made an appearance on Miss Moore’s otherwise perfect brow. “Your Grace, we could not impose…”

  “It’s not an imposition if I have extended an invitation,” he said simply. “Which I have.” He clapped his hands together and rubbed them quickly. “Now, how long were you thinking of staying?”

  Miss Moore bit her lip for a moment, just enough for him to appreciate the fullness of them before she ceased the action. “Just three days, Your Grace. Then we shall be out and about on our tour for a time, though…” She paused and exchanged a look with her aunt, who shrugged before nodding her encouragement.

  “Yes?” Hawk prodded, intrigued in spite of himself.

  The hazel eyes met his again, hesitance rampant in them. “Would it be an imposition if my aunt and I returned to Kirkleigh on occasion? We have a few ventures we’d like to take elsewhere in this part of England, but in between each, when we might prefer rest…

  Hawk was nodding before she finished. “Kirkleigh will be open for you at any given time, Miss Moore. I only aim to be here a week or so myself, so please avail yourself of this place.”

  Again, those captivating lips pulled to one side in a small smile. “Then we shall, Your Grace. Thank you.”

  Why did her smiles make him want to smile also? He was not an overly jubilant person, and he was not prone to smiling without reason, but still the edges of his mouth began to itch with the urge to grin shamelessly.

  He must have been more tired than he thought.

  “Begging your pardon, Your Grace,” Stafford broke in formally behind him. “Are we to expect anyone else to join you? Or any trunks?”

  Right. That.

  In all the fuss after he’d arrived, he’d completely forgotten about the manner of his arrival. He’d rode in from the coaching station, tired of the jolting around the carriage provided, little suspecting what confusion would arise. At least when a coach pulled up, there was a manner of expectation from his servants and belongings to see to.

  A single rider was far more distressing to the natural way of things.

  He glanced at his butler, somehow still amused. “The coach should be here shortly, Stafford, yes. And with it, Mr. Robinson. If you would please see the Aspen room prepared for him.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Stafford turned to the ladies, smiling far more fondly. “We will have the Birch and Willow rooms prepared for you, Mrs. Daniels, Miss Moore, if that is agreeable.”

  Miss Moore seemed delighted by the notion, though her eyes did return to Hawk quickly. “You’re certain about having us stay?”

  He nodded. “Positive.”

  “And we won’t be in the way?” she pressed. “What if your sister or brother should come for a visit?”

  Hawk chuckled at the very idea. “Then we would be a full house indeed, Miss Moore, but still you would not be in the way. My brother’s preferred room is the Cedar, and Adrianna refuses to sleep anywhere except the Poplar suite.”

  Something almost like a dimple, yet not entirely one, formed on her left cheek with her smile. “And what is the tree of your room, Your Grace?”

  The question seemed somehow more significant and revealing than something as simple as trees of the woodlands. As though the tree his room was named for should somehow resemble him, should say something about his nature or his being; as though she could know everything she needed to by this answer alone.

  Suddenly the conversation was one he’d prefer an escape from, and the meeting less than comfortable.

  “Maple, Miss Moore. Sturdy, tall, and rather unremarkable compared to the rest of the forest.” He bowed to them once more. “If you ladies would join me for dinner, I would be most gratified. You need only change if it suits you, I will not stand on ceremony while you are here. Good day.”

  Without waiting for an answer, he turned and trotted down the stairs, pretending as though he had a great many things to do and a strict schedule to adhere to.

  Truth be told, Kirkleigh was not, and had never been, his favorite house, and his newfound desire to see to repairs and needs, as well as participate in them, had not extended far into the care of this estate. He’d do his duty, of course, and discuss matters with the estate agent and his tenants. He’d ensure that all was prepared for the approaching winter, work alongside a few people, see Adrianna at the school, then scurry off to Elmsley Abbey in Wiltshire for the remainder of the win
ter. It was the last of his estates to see to, apart from the London House, and the one he felt most suited for the approaching holidays.

  Even Nat did not see a point in remaining at Kirkleigh for long.

  Though it was possibly the most aesthetically situated of his houses, it had never quite felt like his.

  It was his uncle’s house. Always had been, and likely always would be.

  He hadn’t been engaging in flattery or sentimentality with Miss Moore; the house was undoubtedly more hers than his. He’d sell it to her in an instant if it wasn’t the traditional seat of the Duke of Kirklin. The moment he discovered how to circumnavigate that issue, he’d give her the first right of refusal for the place.

  Perhaps he ought to start thinking along those lines while he was here. It was certainly worth a discussion with the estate agent, whatever his name was. The place was so efficiently run, he almost never heard from the man.

  In that respect, perhaps Kirkleigh ought to have been his favorite of the estates.

  In truth, once Adrianna completed her studies in the spring, there would be nothing to draw them to Kent at all. It would be wise to reduce the number of his estates in order to give better care to the ones he kept. He could find a buyer of means, and one who would be a responsible landlord to the tenants on the estate. It could be a particularly smooth transition, if he worked it all right.

  The name of the estate should change, if he would be rid of it.

  How did one go about such a thing?

  A laugh from the floor above him wafted down to his ears as he prepared to enter his study, and he paused a step upon hearing it. The laughter possessed the same low, natural timbre Miss Moore had employed, and the music of it struck him. He’d heard poets and lovesick friends describe laughter as musical, and his first inclination had been to think of an aria of sorts.

  This laughter was no aria.

  It was a gentle, favorite lullaby. A quietly hummed tune in unobserved moments. A playful melody one could recall on a carefree stroll. It was a sound of warmth and comfort, something that wound its way into his chest and settled there like a purring cat preparing for a nap.