Map of a Lady’s Heart

by Caroline Linden

  He was so lost in contemplation of her eyes, it was a total shock to receive a splash of water right on his cheek. Quite a lot of water, actually; it ran down his face and wet his cravat, and there was a dismayed gasp as he reached up to wipe his face. “Bridget,” moaned a female voice.

  So much for impressing anyone. But the water made him think of the sea after a storm—hang it, also of maps of the ocean, especially medieval ones with illustrations on every corner, and when he said, “Sea serpent,” a startled hush fell over the room.

  “Am I wrong again?” he asked after a moment.

  “Er—no,” said Justin, sounding a little nonplussed. “You’re correct.”

  “Near enough, anyway,” said Lady Bridget. “It was ‘sea monster.’”

  “I ought to receive an extra point, for being more precise.” Wes pulled off the blindfold, and found he was staring directly at Mrs. Cavendish. She was leaning toward Lady Sophronia but gazing at him, her eyes wide and her lips parted. Their gazes collided and lingered for a moment, then she turned away, a faint pink in her cheeks.

  “Well done, Lord Winterton.” Lady Bridget stepped forward and offered him a towel. “You trounced Lord Newton and won the round. And I do apologize for throwing a bit too much water.”

  “I told you no boy would outsmart a man in his prime,” crowed Lady Sophronia from her perch beside Mrs. Cavendish. “Didn’t I, Viola?”

  Her murmured reply was too low for him to hear, alas, as it came just as the butler entered to announce dinner. Lady Bridget bounded forward. “Hurrah! I’m famished!”

  “Winterton, you may lend me your arm,” announced Lady Sophronia, rising from the sofa. Wes obeyed the command immediately, taking the chance to exchange a quick glance with Mrs. Cavendish. Her eyes glowed with mirth and when she stepped aside to make way for Lady Sophronia, her skirts brushed his leg, sending a charge up his spine.

  Good Lord, what was happening to him? Wes tried to focus his attention on the elderly lady clinging to his arm. She was giving directions to all the other guests, pairing them up in no discernible way. She told Justin, a viscount, to give Lady Alexandra his arm, while Lady Serena was assigned to Mr. Jones, a mere gentleman. But no one seemed willing to argue with her, and they went in to dinner.

  As he pulled out Lady Sophronia’s chair, Wes scanned the table, confirming his suspicion. Sophronia hadn’t told Mrs. Cavendish what to do; he’d hoped it was because there weren’t enough gentlemen present—counting himself, there were only five, while there were seven ladies—but it appeared Mrs. Cavendish would not be joining them for dinner.

  Which was unaccountably disappointing.

  Chapter 3

  The next morning Wes was determined to see if the Duke of Wessex owned the atlas he coveted.

  Logically, the most likely place was the library. Even better, at this time of morning he should be able to explore it in solitary peace. Wes had a vague notion that ladies never emerged from their bedchambers before noon, and judging by the silent stillness of the wing where he and Justin had been settled, neither would his nephew. Excellent.

  After a quick breakfast in the dining room—barren of all other guests, but laid out with enough dishes to feed a regiment—he asked the butler to direct him. The Kingstag library was on the ground floor, set at the rear of the house. It was a long, narrow graceful room, with tall windows looking out on the snow, still falling thickly beyond the glass. Fires were burning in the hearths at each end of the library, and there were comfortable-looking chairs and sofas arranged at artful intervals. At the far end of the room stood a pair of large globes behind a settee, which immediately caught his eye. He made a note to examine them at a more opportune moment.

  Because, unfortunately, he had not discovered the room quiet and deserted. There were a large number of people already there. On the settee before those globes sat Lady Alexandra, smiling and laughing with one of the young ladies Wes dimly recalled meeting last night, and—to his surprise—Justin, who hadn’t willingly risen before ten any morning since they’d left Hampshire. Today his nephew seemed quite pleased to be awake, smartly attired and freshly shaved and vying for the ladies’ attention with another young dandy. Nearer the doorway where Wes stood, Lady Bridget was pacing, waving her arms as she spoke to Mrs. Cavendish, seated on a chair in front of the windows and studying some pages in her hands.

  No one looked up at his entrance.

  Wes paused in indecision. Retreat in silence and return later, when he could examine any atlases in the room at leisure? Or stay to see what had put that charming little frown on Mrs. Cavendish’s face?

  “It makes no sense, Bridget,” Mrs. Cavendish said. “You’ve written lines for a swan.”

  “Does art need to follow every dictate of logic? No, I say,” declared Lady Bridget. “It is supposed to transport one’s soul.”

  “Obviously,” murmured the other woman. “But you must have some sense of story—”

  “It’s a farce, Viola. They don’t need to make sense.”

  The expression on Mrs. Cavendish’s face—perplexed, thwarted, and amused all at once—made Wes want to laugh. He did laugh, in fact, a bare catching of breath in his throat, but it made the lady look at him, her green eyes wide with surprise. He tried to cover it with a cough, then thumped himself on the chest. “I beg your pardon,” he said.

  “Good morning, my lord.” Mrs. Cavendish got to her feet and handed Lady Bridget the pages with a speaking look. The young lady took them to the desk and began writing, scribbling out one long line. Perhaps the swan had lost his part. “Were you looking for someone?”

  You. The unexpected thought caught him off guard, and Wes coughed again, a little too hard. “No,” he rasped. “I was looking for the library.”

  She smiled. “You’ve discovered it! As have most of the other guests. Lady Bridget is working on her play.”

  “Farce,” said the girl, sotto voce.

  Mrs. Cavendish closed her eyes for a second. “Were you seeking something in particular?”

  “Er . . . A book,” he said, unable to think of anything more intelligent to say.

  She gave him a patient look. Anyone looking for the library would naturally be seeking a book. “Of course. Have you anything in particular—?”

  “No, no, I’ll just have a look around. Don’t mind me,” he said hastily. He strode to the nearest shelf and frowned thoughtfully at it.

  “I don’t say that the play must be a model of logic and wit, but even a farce has some sense to it.” Mrs. Cavendish returned to her conversation with Lady Bridget, her voice lower but still audible to Wes’s alert ears.

  “This scene has sense! See, the pirate arrives to find the swan sick with love for the lonely spinster, which stokes his own affections for her.”

  “But on the next page you’ve got a ghost arriving to deliver a prophecy.”

  “That also makes sense. He’s a ghost because he drowned in a flood. As there’s a pirate and a swan, a flood would affect both of them.”

  Wes choked on another laugh, trying again to make it into a cough. He could just picture the struggle Mrs. Cavendish was undergoing. The ladies behind him fell silent. He realized he was staring at a selection of books about sheep farming, about which he knew nothing and cared even less, and walked to the next bookcase.

  Their conversation resumed, even more quietly. “But Bridget, the prophecy is about who shall marry the prince. Where is the prince?”

  A gusty sigh, presumably from Lady Bridget. “Viola, there must be a prince.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know, I haven’t written that part yet!”

  This time he coughed so hard to cover his amusement, he felt light-headed. It would serve him right if he fainted right here in front of everyone because he’d been eavesdropping. Justin was glaring at him in incredulous outrage, and by the time Wes fished out his handkerchief to mop his stinging eyes, Mrs. Cavendish was beside him.

  “I will ring for the maid
s to dust,” she said. “I do apologize, my lord, I’d no idea it was so unpleasant in here.”

  “Not at all,” he croaked through dry lips. Hoist by his own damn petard.

  “Then let me send for a cup of tea,” she suggested. “I could have it sent to your room, if you wish.”

  “Yes, Uncle, I do think that would be a good idea,” Justin put in from across the room. “You must mind your health, after our long journey here.”

  Wes glared at him as he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket. Mind his health, indeed, as if he were a feeble old man. He might look deranged after this, but he was not feeble. “Entirely unnecessary, Mrs. Cavendish. Some fresh air is all I need. Perhaps I’ll take a turn in the garden.”

  “It’s snowing out, you know,” put in Lady Bridget. “Absolutely pelting down. The doors are probably frozen shut. Tea in the morning room would be far more comfortable.”

  “Serena and Mr. Jones are in there,” said Lady Alexandra.

  Bridget’s head came up. “Arguing?”

  Her sister looked surprised. “No, silly, why would they be arguing? Serena despises him. I think they’re rehearsing lines for your ridiculous play.”

  “Farce,” said Bridget.

  “A talking swan is ridiculous.” The young man beside her raised his brows, and she gave him a teasing smile. “Yes, Lord Gosling, I know you play the swan. I’m sure you shall do your best, but you must admit it is ridiculous.”

  “Not in the slightest,” declared Lord Gosling, executing a gallant bow toward Lady Bridget. “All the best actors have played swans. I hope to give the premier portrayal.” Lady Alexandra and the girl beside her burst into laughter.

  Bridget’s mouth thinned. “I shall write something even better for you, Alexa.”

  The other girl rolled her eyes at Justin, who laughed indulgently. Wes could see very well what was happening there: Lady Alexandra was lovely, and competition always sparked a man’s spirit. He tried to send Justin a look of warning, but his nephew deliberately avoided his gaze.

  “Are we all to get special parts, Lady Bridget? I could fancy being a prince,” Justin said. Casually he propped one foot on the base of the globe beside Lady Alexandra’s settee, and rested his elbow on his knee. Wes scowled at the rakish pose.

  “It depends.” Her gaze moved to Wes. “Lord Winterton, what sort of character would you like to play?”

  “I?” he asked, startled.

  “Yes, I’m considering adding an elderly king, in the vein of King Lear. I expect he’ll have to die so his son the prince can become king. Would that suit you? How would you like to die?”

  Justin snorted with laughter. Lady Alexandra smiled, and the other young lady giggled.

  “Bridget,” gasped Mrs. Cavendish. “My lord, perhaps you’d like to see the house?”

  He ought to stay to keep an eye on his nephew. He burned to search the shelves for the Desnos atlas. He did not want to walk away from all the slights on his age and health without protest or at least a show of vigor. Instead he looked into Mrs. Cavendish’s desperate green eyes and said, “Thank you, I very much would.”

  “I hope you feel better, Uncle,” said Justin, as Wes followed her toward the door.

  “Have some tea,” added Lady Alexandra. “Cook makes splendid tea cakes.”

  “And stay indoors!” Lady Bridget said just as Mrs. Cavendish pulled the door shut behind them with a bit of a bang.

  * * *

  Viola heaved a heartfelt sigh and rested her forehead against the door for a moment. It was silent and cool in the corridor, although perhaps it only seemed that way to her. What had got into Alexandra and Bridget?

  Never mind—she knew very well. Lord Gosling was nothing short of beautiful, and had the most perfect manners she’d ever seen. Viola suspected the dowager duchess had invited the young viscount in case Serena and Frye never made up their estrangement, but Alexandra seemed to have taken matters into her own hands. Add in the also-handsome Viscount Newton, and things could only get dangerous. Viola devoutly hoped the other young people would join them soon and defuse the subtly competitive air between the two gentlemen.

  In the meantime she had to deal with the Earl of Winterton, who had just been insulted and practically ordered out of the library. Bracing herself, she turned to face him.

  He had a right to be very put out; instead he was grinning, and as their eyes met, he began to laugh. In sheer relief, Viola gave a gasp of laughter herself.

  “I’m sorry,” she began, trying to regain her dignity, but the earl waved one hand.

  “For being a sensible adult in a room full of silly young people? I assure you, your offer of a tour could not have come at a more opportune moment.” He made a face. “I could almost feel myself aging and sinking into senility. In a few more moments I would have been relegated to dozing in the corner with a cap on my head, tended by a nurse.”

  She laughed. She couldn’t think of anyone less likely to be found dozing in the corner in need of a nurse than Lord Winterton. Today he was even more handsome than before, if that were possible, his blue eyes dancing with mirth. “The young ladies are a trifle high-spirited at times.”

  Winterton assumed a tragic expression. “I suppose I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be young and full of life.”

  “It looks very tiring,” she replied in the same grave tone.

  His grin returned, and the rogue even winked at her. “For those around them, perhaps.”

  Viola laughed again in spite of herself. She was astonished at her young cousins’ behavior, and was enormously relieved that the earl wasn’t taking them much to heart. She ought to have guessed that Lord Winterton, who appeared to be an intelligent and educated man, would seek out the library once confined to the house by the steadily falling snow. Tomorrow she would banish everyone from the room. Perhaps Bridget, if left to write her play without the sly goading of her sister, would embrace some form of sense, or at least hurry up and finish the silly thing.

  “If you wanted a particular book, I shall have a footman brave the room to fetch it,” she said. “The Kingstag library is exceptional, and I’m sure it can supply something to suit you.”

  Winterton stared at her with those blue, blue eyes for a long moment. “I rather fancy a tour of the house, as you suggested. If you wouldn’t mind.”

  “Oh,” said Viola in surprise. She’d offered in desperation, to escape before Bridget said or did anything to give actual offense. “Of course not.” She gestured with one arm. “Shall we?”

  He fell in step beside her, hands clasped behind his back. Viola tried to ignore the awareness that rippled through her. She had given many tours of the castle in her two years here; the duke and duchess entertained a steady stream of guests. This should be no different . . . but it was.

  “The oldest parts of the castle date from the fifteenth century,” she began. “The first duke was given the land for his service to the crown. He was by then a rather elderly gentleman, but his grandson, the second duke, built the central part of the castle.”

  “The Cavendish family has been in Dorset a long time.”

  “Yes.” Viola opened the door they had reached. “This wing of the castle is relatively new, added only fifty years ago and hence quite modern. Here is the billiard room. Some of the young gentlemen have taken to playing in the evening.”

  “A fine room,” the earl said approvingly, studying the carved mahogany table. It was a very masculine room, done up in the highest quality. Viola remembered her first reaction on realizing the castle held a room dedicated solely to one game—a game no one in the family played much—and quietly closed the door.

  “I couldn’t help but notice your name is also Cavendish,” Winterton remarked as they walked onward.

  Her shoulders stiffened involuntarily. She was used to this question, but he must know the answer. She was hardly the first poor relation to be taken in by a family, but it still stung, that reminder—even unintentional—that she ha
d once been mistress of her own home instead of a servant in someone else’s. “Yes. My late husband, actually, was a cousin of His Grace.” She lowered her voice and gave a rueful smile. “A very distant cousin, not one tenth as grand.”

  “Ah—no. I didn’t mean . . .” He grimaced, but with a sheepish grin that made her want to smile back. “I was contemplating how difficult it is to speak to my nephew, and wondering if perhaps you had any suggestions to offer me, since you seem to be in a similar position. Having to advise and reason with your younger relations, I mean.”

  “Oh!” She made a small motion with one hand, embarrassed but also pleased. “I wish I could say yes, but it’s not really the same at all. We’re only distant relations, the young ladies and I, and they rightly look to their mother the dowager duchess, or even to the duchess herself, for advice.”

  “But they don’t openly wish for you to leave the room,” he pointed out. “At least not in your hearing.”

  Viola laughed. “Perhaps that’s because I have no real authority over them. It renders me utterly powerless to spoil any schemes or plots they may have.”

  The earl tipped his head in thought. “Perhaps there’s something in that. On the other hand, Newton has only held his viscountcy for a few months. He’s in desperate want of counsel, whether he admits it or not.”

  “I have long noticed that often, the more desperately someone needs guidance, the better it is to wait for him to ask for it. Urging your excellent thoughts and ideas upon him only gets the bit between his teeth, so to speak, and sets him against everything you say.”

  “I see.” He gave her an appraising glance. “And do you sit by and watch as they make a muddle of things?”

  Viola smiled. As if she had any choice, when it came to Serena, Alexandra, and Bridget. “I find it helps me hold my tongue if I think of the things I did and said when I was that age. It usually quashes my righteous disapproval.”