“Yes,” she murmured, struck by his enthusiasm. “But you would like to.”
“To visit the stars? No.” His gaze grew distant. “But they are a traveler’s dearest companion. The same stars that shine above home in England also shine above the Indies, the Americas, and China. Every sailor learns to chart his way using them as a guide. In that respect, a map of the stars is more valuable than any map of the land.”
Viola couldn’t stop a small wistful sigh. She was perfectly happy here in England—mostly—usually—but the excitement in the earl’s face as he spoke of sailing the seas and seeing exotic lands and people did plant a tiny seed of envy in her heart. Just to have the chance to go on such a journey would be incredible.
But she did not have that chance, and probably never would.
“You find the prospect appealing,” said the earl, his gaze returning to her with keen discernment.
“A little,” she allowed. “Well—yes, I do. Perhaps not to travel all the way to China, but to see Paris, or Venice, or some of the mountains in Switzerland . . . yes, it does sound thrilling.” She turned back to the shelves to break the moment. Do not be tempted by a wealthy earl’s questions, she told herself. “What would you suggest we give Bridget, if none of these are suitable to being props?”
The earl turned to the bookcase. “Are these all the atlases at Kingstag?”
“Yes.” Too late Viola remembered that the duke had bought another recently as a gift for the duchess. It was a finely bound atlas, with all the trading routes around the globe marked, and the duke thought his wife would be charmed by the drawings and engravings of items from far-off lands. It mirrored the map she had kept of where her goods came from.
But that was to be the duchess’s Christmas gift, and as such could not possibly be flaunted in Bridget’s play. Viola had been sworn to secrecy by Wessex, who was quite pleased with himself for thinking of something so unusual for his wife.
The earl seemed disappointed by her answer. A thin line appeared between his brows as he stared at her for a moment, almost as if he knew her answer wasn’t entirely correct, but he said nothing. After a moment he pulled a book from the shelf. “This one.”
“An almanac of last year.” Viola grinned. “No one will be tempted to read it during the play, I suppose.”
Winterton’s mouth twisted ruefully. “Not in the least.”
* * *
Wes didn’t know what to do. For a moment he’d thought he would finally get a look at the Desnos atlas, to see if it was the one he sought.
There were only a few known editions of the Desnos atlas, all dated from the previous century. They were handsomely illustrated and annotated, which would have made one desirable enough to a wandering soul like his. But the particular atlas he sought had belonged to his father.
Wes had spent hours poring over those maps, listening to his father’s tales of the sights he’d seen in those remote and exotic locations. When the late earl died, the atlas has been mistakenly sold with some other books and Wes had been searching for it ever since, making inquiries of collectors and dealers all over England. After years of no success, he’d heard the Duke of Wessex might have it. The duke’s reply to his queries had been vague and not very encouraging, but Wes was undeterred. He’d learned the duke was a family man, which meant there was a chance he could be persuaded to sell it by Wes’s story—and that was enough chance for him to travel to Dorset, in winter, with his surly nephew in tow. He was determined to have that atlas again.
But it was not in the Kingstag library, and now Viola Cavendish had just said there were no other atlases in the castle. Her face, though, had gone blank for just a moment after she said that, as if remembering something. Perhaps she suspected there was another?
He thought hard about it as they went about the remaining tasks. They delivered the almanac to the players in the drawing room and found the housekeeper, who promised to send a footman to the stables in search of a chain. He trailed after Mrs. Cavendish as she scoured a storage room, finally holding up a battered piece of metal with a pleased exclamation.
“Will this serve as a crown, do you think?” she asked, lifting it above her head.
“Hmm? Yes.” He had to know about that atlas, but was it better to ask her now, or wait until Wessex returned and ask the duke directly?
Some of the humor left her face at his curt reply, and Wes immediately regretted it. “A fine crown indeed,” he said more heartily, reaching for it. “Does it suit me, since I’m to be the doddering old king who wears it?” He set the thing on his head and crossed his eyes.
She smiled uncertainly. “Very well, sir.”
“Then a crown it is.” He took off the cylinder, which had probably once been part of a chandelier, or perhaps a base for a glass dish. It was tarnished and bent now.
“We should get Lady Bridget’s approval before congratulating ourselves.” She headed toward the door.
“Mrs. Cavendish?” She paused, but didn’t look back. “I apologize,” Wes said. “For my abruptness.”
“Oh no, my lord,” she began, but he made a low noise in his throat and she fell silent.
“May I confide in you, ma’am?”
Slowly she turned to face him fully. “Yes, but . . .”
“But your loyalty lies with Wessex; I know.” He smiled wryly. “You must have wondered what brought me to Kingstag in the middle of winter.” She said nothing, but her green eyes were fixed on him. Wes thought he might drown in those eyes, and knew he was doing the right thing by being honest with her. “I am looking for a particular atlas Wessex may own. He may not, but neither of us knows for certain. I came to Kingstag to see if it’s the one I desire, and if so, if I can persuade Wessex to sell it.”
“What sort of atlas?”
Wes’s face softened in memory. “A very dear one, to me. It’s a Desnos atlas, which are not common, but neither are they very rare. But this one was once my father’s. He died while I was away—Tahiti—and by the time I returned home, it had somehow been consigned with other old books and sold. My mother didn’t know it was anything special, but that was the atlas he showed me when I was a small boy. It inspired my interest in foreign lands, from the wild Americas to exotic China. I would like to have it back, for the notes he wrote in the margins, his observations of other peoples, tales from his voyages—” He stopped, unexpectedly overwhelmed.
“Was he a great traveler as well?” she asked softly.
Wes nodded. “Not as much as he would have liked. He took me on my first voyages around Europe. My mother and sisters stayed home, but he took me, a raw stripling without two ounces of sense.” He grinned, shaking his head at the memories. “As I grew older I went with others and sometimes off on my own, while he returned home to manage Winterbury Hall. Much as I did when he died.”
Mrs. Cavendish crossed the room. “I’m very sorry you lost him, sir.”
“Call me Winterton,” he said, savoring the blush that colored her cheeks. “And thank you.”
“I understand why you wish to reclaim the atlas,” she went on. “I probably shouldn’t say so, but the duke recently bought an atlas, as a gift for the duchess. He isn’t likely to sell it, whether or not it was your father’s. Are you certain the one you seek isn’t among the others in the library?”
“I had a look the other day,” Wes admitted, “and didn’t discover it. The bookseller I contacted in London said he’d sold a Desnos atlas only recently to Wessex.”
Mrs Cavendish looked at him with compassion. “I don’t think he’ll sell it,” she said again.
Wes mustered a smile. “I shall have faith as long as possible.”
“Perhaps it’s not even the same one.”
“Perhaps.” But he suspected it was. “I don’t suppose you could show me the one Wessex bought recently?”
She drew back. “No. I don’t even know where it is. His Grace asked me a few questions when he was searching for a gift for Her Grace, but I had nothing to do
with it otherwise. I know nothing except that he thought the maps and illustrations in it would appeal to Her Grace.”
“The Desnos atlas does have splendid illustrations.”
She chewed her lip for a moment. “I’m sorry I cannot help you.”
Wes opened his hands wide. “I didn’t expect you to do more than you have. I shall have to wait until Wessex’s return to see if it is my father’s old atlas, and if I can persuade the duke to part with it.”
“I wish you luck,” she said softly. “His Grace is devoted to his family. He might understand.”
Wes couldn’t help smiling back. “Thank you, Mrs. Cavendish.”
There was an odd moment as they stood there beaming at each other. Even though she’d all but driven a stake through his hopes, confirming that Wessex likely did have the atlas while at the same time making clear why the duke was very unlikely to sell it to him, Wes found himself feeling happier than he had since arriving in Dorset. There was something about her face that made him want to smile every time he caught a glimpse of her. She was lovely, but it was more than that; her face was full of kindness and humor and so expressive, he could gladly sit and watch her without saying anything at all. But when she smiled at him . . .
Good lord, he was in trouble.
“We should present the crown to Bridget,” she said.
“Right.” Wes put the makeshift crown on his head, tilted it to a rakish angle, and folded his arms. “As the late, desperately unlamented ruler of this realm, I command it.”
Her face lit up and she laughed. Her nose wrinkled a bit when she did, and his heart gave an odd thump. “You’re taking your demise very well, my lord.”
“Given that I have no choice, I shall accept my fate gracefully, as befits a monarch.” He took the crown from his head. “Perhaps it will serve as a good example for the prince.” As hoped, Justin had been given the part of the prince, although Wes still had no idea what that role entailed. Not that he knew what his own role entailed.
“Lord Newton has made himself very agreeable.” Mrs. Cavendish closed the storage room door behind them as they headed back to the drawing room.
“He is improving,” Wes admitted. Justin had been in excellent spirits since they arrived. Perhaps Anne was wrong to keep him at home so much. Wes certainly hadn’t wanted to be at home when he was twenty. He’d gone to Egypt with two of his mates from university that year.
“He’s charming,” said Mrs. Cavendish diplomatically. “I daresay the young ladies are very pleased you brought him to Kingstag.”
Wes laughed. “At least I did something to redeem myself!”
“Oh no! You are most welcome, Lord Winterton!” She put her hand on his arm. Wes stopped in his tracks, as did she. He stared into her sea-green eyes, and again his heart took a strange leap.
Good lord, he was in trouble . . . and it was exhilarating.
With a muffled gasp she snatched her hand away, and without thinking Wes caught it. “Thank you,” he whispered, raising it to his lips for a kiss. “For I find myself very pleased that I came.”
Chapter 6
After the electric moment with the earl, when he caught her hand and looked at her as if he’d like to pull her back into the privacy of the storage cupboard and kiss her senseless, Viola tried to busy herself with dull tasks in the distant reaches of the castle. Not because she feared the earl actually would pull her aside and kiss her senseless, but because she was coming to hope he might.
Her hand had tingled for an hour where his lips brushed it. After she delivered the makeshift crown to Bridget, she fled the drawing room, even though it left Sophronia completely in charge. The earl had watched her go—Viola could swear his gaze made her feel warm and giddy from all the way across the room—but thankfully he didn’t follow. That was proper, she told herself; she was a servant and he was a gentleman of leisure.
So she ended up sitting in the small room off the duchess’s private parlor where she normally worked, staring out at the snow and wondering about the foreign lands Lord Winterton had been to. Had he seen the ancient pyramids in Egypt, which Stephen said were marvels of engineering? Had he been to India and seen elephants? Lord Newton had told the young ladies fantastical tales of his uncle’s journeys, and as much as Viola reminded herself it was not her place to know, she burned to ask him about all the places she had read of, but would never see herself.
It was true that everything and everyone she held dear was in England. Even more, the dearest person in the world to her, her brother Stephen, relied upon her being prosperously employed, and that was easiest to accomplish in England. She had neither means nor opportunity to go abroad, whether she wished to or not. Unlike the earl.
She sighed, brushing her fingertips over the knuckles he had kissed. Everything about her life was unlike the earl’s. She was an idiot to sit here thinking a kiss on the hand meant anything. He was being polite, or flirting, or even trying to persuade her to help him locate that atlas. Not that she didn’t understand his desire to have it. She’d made sure Stephen got their father’s astrolabe and sextant, and she’d kept her mother’s pearl necklace, which would have paid for a term at Cambridge.
But whether or not the duke would be willing to sell the atlas, if he even had it, Viola knew she ought to stay out of the matter. Her growing sympathy for and interest in Lord Winterton could only get her in trouble.
She was still torn when she went down to dinner. It was part of her duties to help oversee dinner and entertain the guests in the drawing room before and after the meal, but she was not expected to dine with the guests. When it was just family, she was often invited to join them, but during this party she receded to her proper place.
Naturally the first person she set eyes on when she reached the drawing room was Lord Winterton. No one else was in the room yet, so she felt safe enough returning his smile.
“How did the rehearsal progress?” she asked.
His eyes closed for a moment, as if in pain. “Apparently I die a very bloody death, though thankfully off stage.”
Viola giggled before she could stop herself. “I trust you’re quite regal and imposing before that.”
“Pompous and boring, I should say. ‘Let not my subjects make merry,’” he intoned. “‘There is too much frivolity in the kingdom, and I will have an end to it.’”
“Oh my.” Viola wondered what on earth Bridget was thinking. “To what end?”
“Solely to my end,” he replied dryly. “My role is to be pompous and boring, die savagely, then return as a ghost after the prince becomes a far more beloved king, to penitently pronounce that I was wrong to be so pompous and boring, but now I shall rest in peace because the new—much better—king has brought such joy and merriment to my former kingdom.”
Viola burst out laughing.
“I do not recall actually agreeing to be in the play,” the earl went on, although he was smiling now as well. “I suspect my nephew wrote my entire part, and I can only be grateful the rest of the guests shall be actors in the play as well, and not sitting in the audience watching.”
“I am so sorry,” Viola gasped, wiping at her eyes. “Lady Bridget is quite fanciful . . .”
“And Lady Sophronia is even worse!” he exclaimed quietly. “I shouldn’t say this, but I believe she patted me on my—er—hindquarters.”
Oh merciful God. Viola herself had noticed, more than once, that Winterton had exceptionally fine—er—hindquarters. And she knew Lady Sophronia had an eye for such things. “Perhaps it was inadvertent,” she suggested weakly.
Winterton gave her a look. He didn’t think so.
God save her. Viola could feel her face turning red. “I’m so sorry,” she said again, her voice shaking as she tried desperately not to laugh again. She could picture exactly how Sophronia would have lined it up.
Winterton’s face eased. “I took no offense. She reminds me greatly of my grandmother, who used to say she appreciated a pair of muscular calves on a man. Sh
e paid her footmen a bonus if they were strong runners, and not because they could deliver her messages faster. I hope I live to such a great age, when I may say what I like and not care a whit what others think about it.”
“I suspect Sophronia reached that age seventy years ago,” murmured Viola. “Thank you for being such an excellent sport about the play.”
He grinned. “When one travels, one learns to accept the unexpected and make the best of it. Often those surprising turns lead to the most memorable experiences of the journey. I find Lady Sophronia charming.”
Viola let out her breath in relief. No wonder Sophronia had patted his bottom; she must have recognized Winterton would let her get away with it. “I do as well,” she whispered, “but not everyone does.”
Winterton laughed. His eyes were so blue and friendly, and Viola found herself smiling back at him. Again.
The other guests came in then, discussing the play rehearsal in good spirits. Bridget had somehow procured a bucket of white feathers, and stuck them all over a coat and cap for Lord Gosling to wear in his role as a Lovesick Swan. The effect was quite ludicrous, but Gosling took the teasing in stride with a smile, declaring that he thought it a very handsome costume since Lady Bridget had made it herself. Bridget rolled her eyes at his flattery, but Viola could tell she was pleased. Bridget was pleased whenever anyone embraced her mad ideas.
When the butler announced dinner, Lord Winterton made sure to offer Lady Sophronia his arm. Viola’s heart gave a funny little jump at the easy way he had with the older woman. Sophronia was charming and amusing, when approached the right way—any sign of shock or indignation, and Sophronia would dig in with relish, purposely being even more shocking and inappropriate.
Viola went to take her own dinner before it was time to return to the party, to instill some order and decorum to whatever after-dinner activities Bridget persuaded Serena to do.
Map of a Lady’s Heart Page 7