Amanda stroked an admiring finger over the smooth surface. "Is it comfortable?"
"To be honest, I don't know, my lady. I have never had occasion to wear one."
"Will you wear it now?" Amanda asked, her eyes lighting at the thought. "Please? I should like ever so much to see a real knight. Wouldn't you, Miss Pringle?"
Nia was examining the helmet. It looked like an epergne to her, and she couldn't imagine how anyone could see anything through the narrow eye slits. "I suppose I am curious," she admitted, slanting Mr. Sanderfore an apologetic look.
His flush deepened and his pale gray eyes began to blink with increasing anxiety. "I . . . that is to say . . . I should like to oblige you, ladies," he stammered, "but I fear I cannot. It would be too confining, and I have a horror of narrow places."
"Oh." Nia, who shared a similar distaste for heights, sympathized with him. "Well, perhaps one of the footmen . . ."
"Miss Pringle!" He snatched the helmet from her hands and clutched it protectively to his chest. "This is a complete set of sixteenth-century battle armor! I am not about to risk it on some silly sprig of a lad who might damage it! Whatever would His Grace say?"
Nothing kind, that much was certain, Nia thought, imagining Wyatt's response should he learn of such desecration. Of course, she mused, picking up one of the heavy gauntlets and slipping it on her own hand, there was no reason he should learn of it. Not if they were very, very careful. She glanced up to find Mr. Sanderfore watching her.
"I quite agree with you that we shouldn't risk something so valuable with a footman," she said, her lips curving in a smile that made the curator take a step backwards. "But as it happens I have another idea . . ."
Wyatt was reviewing the last of his correspondence when the door to his library was flung open and Amanda ran inside, tears streaming down her face.
"Uncle Wyatt! Uncle Wyatt, oh, do come quickly!"
Wyatt leapt to his feet so fast that his chair clattered to the floor. "What is it?" he demanded, rushing around his desk to kneel beside the sobbing girl.
"M . . . Miss P . . . Pringle!" Amanda wailed, casting herself in his arms. "In th . . . the armory! I think it has eaten her!"
Wyatt caught the words "Miss Pringle" and "armory," and then he was on his feet, his heart pounding as he ran up the narrow, stone steps leading to the keep. Not knowing what he might encounter, he envisioned everything from armed intruders to an accident involving any of the keep's deadly weapons. The last thing he expected was to find one of the suits of armor being held up in the center of the room as several people swarmed around it, all in clear distress. No one seemed to note his arrival, and he watched the unfolding drama with disbelieving eyes.
"If everyone would just remain calm," he heard Nia's muffled voice coming from the armor, "I am sure everything will be fine."
"I knew something like this was going to happen," one of the housemaids moaned, wringing her hands. "They'll sack us all for this, you mark my words."
"Perhaps a hammer and some tongs might work," the hapless curator suggested, eyeing Nia speculatively. "I've repaired suits before, and if one is very careful, it is possible to cut the armor open, and—"
"What the devil is going on here?" Wyatt roared, deciding he'd seen more than enough of this farce.
The maid and the curator emitted startled shrieks and whirled around, their faces wearing identical expressions of horror. The sudden loss of support as their arms left her sent Nia tumbling forward, and she would have clattered to the ground had Wyatt not leapt forward in time to catch her. The curator rushed to assist him, and they soon had her balanced again.
"Are you all right?" Wyatt asked anxiously, peering through the visor of the helmet. "Can you breathe?"
If it was possible to die from embarrassment, Nia was certain she would have expired on the spot. Perhaps that might solve the problem, she thought, a trifle hysterical; then they wouldn't need to pry her out of this blasted contraption. They could simply prop her up in the hallway with the rest of the relics. She gave a strangled laugh.
"Nia!" Wyatt panicked at the choked sound emanating from inside the helmet. His hands flew to the clasp that fastened the visor to the body. "Help me get this thing off of her!" he ordered Mr. Sanderfore. "She's suffocating!"
"No! I . . . I can breathe, Your Grace," Nia said quickly, lifting her hands and fumbling awkwardly with the helmet. "It is just that this wretched thing is stuck, and we can't seem to get it off of me."
He brushed her hands aside, his fingers finding the recalcitrant piece of metal that was responsible for their woes. "It's bent," he said, examining it carefully. "Perhaps I can work it back into shape . . ."
"Er, Your Grace,"—Mr. Sanderfore fluttered his hands nervously—"if I may remind you, that armor was worn by one of your ancestors while fighting the Spaniards in the Lowlands. It would be a shame if it were to be . . . damaged."
"And it would be a greater shame if Miss Pringle were to die while we stand here debating the matter!" Wyatt snapped, pushing on the hasp of metal with his thumb. "Although once we do manage to get her out of this thing, I will be very interested to learn how she got into it in the first . . . got it!"
The metal snapped beneath his fingers and he raised the visor, peering anxiously at Nia's flushed features. "Miss Pringle," he said, his lips curving in a smile composed of equal parts of relief and mischief, "I trust you are well?"
Nia glared up into his blurred features. She'd removed her spectacles so that the visor would fit over her face, but she didn't need to see Wyatt's face to know he was grinning at her. "Very well, my lord," she answered, marshalling as much dignity as was possible. "But do you think you might hurry in getting me out of this . . . this tin?"
"As you wish." Wyatt had to fight to hold back a chuckle as, assisted by an obviously distressed Mr. Sanderfore, he began removing the bits of armor. The helmet slipped off with only a few tugs, and the gauntlets provided no challenge whatsoever. The breastplate was fastened at the side, and Wyatt hesitated a moment as he studied her.
"I trust you are wearing something beneath this, ma'am?" he asked, his eyes filled with teasing speculation. "I should hate to disrobe a lady by accident rather than design."
Nia, who had donned her spectacles, now saw the smile on his face, and was strongly tempted to kick him. Unfortunately her kid slippers were covered with pointed metal shoes, and she could scarcely lift her foot. She had to content herself with a glare. "I borrowed an old set of footman's livery from your housekeeper, Your Grace," she said, emphasizing his title with cool irony. "I assure you, I am properly covered."
"Pity." He gave her a cheeky grin, and then proceeded to remove the breastplate and back piece. When it came time to remove the leggings, however, an indignant Annie intervened.
"I can see to the rest of it, Your Grace," she said, folding her arms across her chest and fixing Wyatt with a stern stare. "There's no need to trouble yourself further."
Wyatt lifted an eyebrow at the maid's effrontery. He'd been about to suggest the same thing, for much as he longed for a glimpse of Nia's legs, he knew it was not at all proper. "Very well . . . Annie, is it not?"
"Yes, Your Grace." The maid resolutely stood her ground.
"Very well, Annie, I shall bow to your practical suggestion." He was grateful Nia had such a staunch champion, and made a mental note to mention Annie's sterling performance to the housekeeper at the first opportunity.
"Come, Sanderfore." He turned to the curator who was standing beside him, the armor cradled in his arms. "We shall leave the ladies to their privacy."
"As you say, Your Grace." The young curator gave a heavy sigh, his expression one of glum resignation as he followed Wyatt out of the keep.
Chapter 11
"Iwish you would stop chuckling, my lord," Nia grumbled less than an hour later as she sat in the duke's private drawing room nursing a restorative cup of tea. "It's not that funny."
Wyatt regarded her over the rim of his cu
p, his lips twitching as he took in her mussed hair and embarrassed flush. "If you say so, ma'am," he drawled. "Naturally a gentleman would never contradict a lady."
Nia glowered at him, strongly suspecting he was mocking her. Her fingers tightened around her cup, and she forced herself to relax them. "I am glad you didn't dismiss Mr. Sanderfore for assisting me," she continued, struggling to keep her voice cool and aloof. "It would have been most unfair to sack him for something that was entirely my fault."
"So you said," Wyatt replied, remembering her heated insistence that it was she, and she alone, who was responsible for the afternoon's contretemps.
Nia saw the laughter lurking in his dark eyes, and hastened to change the subject. "I was wondering, sir, if you would escort Amanda and me into the village tomorrow. I am in need of some necessities, and I know Amanda could do with the diversion."
Wyatt arched his eyebrows at her request. "I would have thought this afternoon's activities would be diverting enough for even the most jaded of palates," he observed laconically, raising his cup to his lips.
She flushed at the hit. "Yes, well, you must remember Amanda spent several months in an orphanage," she said, her eyes darting away from his. "She is used to the company of other children, and I fear she has grown bored and lonely on her own. Naturally, if you cannot spare the time, I could ask your steward to—"
"I didn't say I wouldn't do it," he interrupted. "If you want to go into town, I would be more than happy to take you. In fact," he added, warming to the thought, "we might even stop to take our luncheon at the Pampered Dove. As I recall, the innkeeper always set a respectable table."
"That sounds an excellent suggestion," Nia approved, relieved he seemed so agreeable. "And perhaps while the two of you are lingering over your sweets I can slip out and buy Amanda her gift. I noted a book shop on the square as we drove by, and I thought I would start there. She loves books."
"A gift?"
"For her birthday. She turns seven in a fortnight."
"Good Gad!" Wyatt sat forward, spilling his tea over the saucer as he placed it on the table. "I'd forgotten all about that! Her birthday is in June, isn't it?"
"On the eighteenth," Nia provided, setting her cup on the table and fixing him with a hopeful look. "With your permission I thought we might have a small party for her. Just the servants and ourselves, and Lady Catherine, if she is back from London."
Wyatt nodded his approval. "A party sounds just the thing," he said, feeling a faint stab of guilt for having allowed the matter to slip his mind. "You might wish to consult with Cook as to the menu, but I'm sure whatever you choose will be fine."
An imp of mischief danced in Nia's eyes as she slanted him a teasing grin. "Granting me unlimited power, my lord?" she asked, pushing her spectacles back up her nose. "That might prove dangerous."
He folded his arms across his chest and met her grin with a look of masculine superiority. "Only to you," he drawled, enjoying their verbal sparring. "And only if you are so foolish as to serve stewed turnips or carrots in any form. Either of those, Nia, my sweet, and I'll have you locked into that suit of armor . . . permanently." When he saw her color deepen, he settled back against his chair and gave her his most innocent look.
"Now that the matter of the menu has been settled, what do you think I should buy Amanda for her birthday?"
The village of Chipping Campden was much larger than Nia expected, and far more prosperous. The broad high street was lined with a variety of elegant structures, but it was the huge gabled building at the center of the square that most captivated her. She asked if it was the inn, and was surprised when Wyatt told her no.
"It's the Market Hall, and it was built for the sheep trade," he said, easily shifting Amanda from one arm to the other. "You might have noticed wool is an important commodity in this area. We have several flocks of sheep."
"Lambs," Amanda said, her expression growing hopeful. She snuggled closer to her uncle's broad chest and raised wide blue eyes to his face. "I think a lamb would make a most wonderful pet, don't you, Uncle Wyatt?"
He tweaked her nose with his gloved hand. "I do, poppet, but I fear my housekeeper might disagree. The only lambs you'll find in Mrs. Allison's house are in the stew pot."
Nia winced, anticipating what Amanda's reaction would be.
"She cooks baby lambs?" Amanda demanded, clearly horrified. "Our baby lambs?"
Wyatt evidently realized his error too late, and hastily began to mend his fences. "That is why we raise them, Amanda," he said. "Ours is a working farm, and every animal must contribute to . . ." His voice trailed off as her bottom lip began to tremble, and he sent Nia a desperate look. "Help."
Laughing, Nia took Amanda out of his arms and set her on the paved street. "We shall discuss this later, Amanda," she said, giving the little girl's hand a gentle squeeze. "In the meanwhile your uncle has promised us lunch at a real inn. Won't that be fun?"
"I suppose." Amanda reluctantly allowed herself to be distracted. "But I won't eat any lamb," she warned, her brows meeting in a scowl that was a perfect imitation of her uncle's formidable expression.
Despite the inauspicious beginning, the rest of the afternoon went just as Nia had planned. While Wyatt and Amanda remained at the inn, she slipped out to return to the book shop they'd visited earlier in the morning. She'd seen Amanda lingering over a volume on wildflowers, and decided it would make the perfect gift. Hoping the book would still be on the shelf, she pushed open the door and stepped inside, accompanied by the rather large footman Wyatt had insisted she take with her to "help carry parcels."
The shop was busy, and Nia had to wind her way around several people before she was able to reach the shelves. The book was still there, and she was reaching to pick it up when another hand suddenly shot past hers to pluck it from the shelf. Nia whirled around, fully prepared to do battle, when she found herself confronting an elegant woman dressed in a stylish cape of blue velvet; a bonnet was set coquettishly on her dark curls.
"Oh, I beg your pardon!" the woman said, her gray eyes full of apology as she met Nia's gaze. "Were you reaching for this?"
Nia's ire vanished at the repentant note in the other woman's voice. "As a matter of fact, I was," she said. "I was here earlier with my charge, and noticed her admiring it. Her birthday is in a fortnight, and—"
"Say no more." The book was surrendered with alacrity. "I was merely going to peek at the drawings, and I wouldn't wish to deprive Miriam of a sale. You're new in town, aren't you?"
The abrupt shift in conversation took Nia aback for a moment. "In a manner of speaking," she began carefully. "I am Miss Thomasina Pringle, the—"
"The duke's new governess," the woman finished for her, nodding. "That is, the governess to his little niece. The duke is far too old and set in his ways to benefit from instruction. I am Miss Portia Haverall." She offered Nia her hand. "Lady Catherine Declaire has written me of you, and I was hoping we would meet. You do look like a bluestocking. Good. I feared Kate's powers of observation might be dimmed by the dazzling lights of London."
"She did seem intelligent," Nia replied, warming at once to Miss Haverall's somewhat abrupt manner. She might have added that Miss Haverall herself looked nothing like any bluestocking she had ever encountered. She was quite beautiful, in fact, with delicate features and a slender, dainty build that put one in mind of a fairy. Nia would have taken her for a sweet widgeon had it not been for the sparkle in her remarkable eyes.
"Sharp as a tack, that's Kate," Miss Haverall continued in her light, musical voice, not seeming to notice Nia's perusal. "Although I daresay few people in London would take the time to note it. Society is usually too content with appearances to wonder about what might dwell beneath the surface. Have you found it so?"
"I am afraid I'm not familiar with the ton or their habits, ma'am," Nia apologized as she waited in line to pay for her purchase. "But I suppose you are right. Most of us do tend to take things as we see them."
"Of course
I am right," Miss Haverall replied with no evidence of either pride or modesty. "I consider myself a true scientist, an observer of human nature, and I have oft noted that people will blithely agree with whatever they are told, so long as it is convenient for them. Truth, like appearances, must be comfortable to be acceptable."
"That is an interesting observation," Nia said, much impressed.
"Yes, isn't it? Although I suppose my father would accuse me of paraphrasing Shakespeare. He's why I am here, you know."
"Your father?"
"Shakespeare." She held up a slim volume of sonnets. "Father and I aren't speaking. In fact, he has cut me out of his will."
Nia remembered Lady Catherine mentioning the two weren't getting along, and her heart went out to the other woman. "Oh dear, I am so sorry . . ."
"Oh, it's all right!" Miss Haverall gave a pretty laugh. "This is the third time this year he has disinherited me. He'll put me back in his will once I have proven my theory."
"Oh." Nia was tempted to ask what that theory might be, but she was aware that time was running out and the duke might grow anxious if she didn't return at once. She paid for her purchase and surrendered it to the footman, who had remained stoically at her side during her exchange.
She waited until they were outside before offering her hand to Miss Haverall and a guarded invitation to Perryvale Manor. "Of course I must see if His Grace will allow me visitors," she cautioned, since she'd yet to discuss the subject with Wyatt. "But I shall look forward to seeing you again."
"And I you," Miss Haverall replied with a bright smile. "I'm also looking forward to meeting your little charge. Catherine says she is a perfect love."
"She is," Nia said softly.
"Catherine told me what happened," Miss Haverall admitted, her face taking on a somber expression. "We were all of us shocked. The villagers have been keeping a sharp eye out for strangers, and any man who wanders into town may soon find himself the focus of some unpleasant attention."
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