by Candace Camp
“Here is the church I am working on, and I’ve already done the inn.”
“It is all wonderful. I cannot imagine doing something like this.” Genevieve could, however, imagine her grandmother’s reaction to her doing so. “Your mother is very proud of you.”
“She’s awfully good. Phoebe thinks it is the most useless thing ever. But Mama has never complained. She tells me I will be the new Bess of Hardwick—though I would not want to marry four men, of course.”
“You must come with me to Castle Cleyre sometime. It is still much the way it was built, though the wall to the south has been taken down.”
“Really? I would like that.” Nell’s eyes sparkled.
“Nell!” They heard a boy’s shout from down the hall, followed by the sound of running feet and the governess’s exasperated cry.
Nell and Genevieve turned as Nigel pelted into the room.
“I knew it was you!” he told Nell triumphantly. “We finished and Miss Wilson said we can play.” He looked over at Genevieve and offered generously, “You can play, too.”
“Oh. Well.” Genevieve looked at him, nonplussed. What did one say to a child? “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
“Nigel! You aren’t to bother Lady Genevieve,” his oldest sister said severely, coming to the doorway behind him. “Miss Wilson said.”
“He’s no bother,” Genevieve hastened to assure her, though from the way the young boy set his jaw and turned to glare at his sister, Genevieve suspected he had little trouble standing up for himself.
“She wants to play with us,” he told Blanche. “I asked her. Don’t you, Lady Genevee?” He stumbled over her name.
“Lady Genevieve,” April corrected in a quiet voice, leaning shyly around Blanche’s side to peer at Genevieve. “Nigel sometimes gets his words mixed up.”
“Well, ’tis a difficult name to say,” Genevieve admitted. “Not as nice a name as April.” The little girl giggled and hid behind her sister’s skirts once again. “Perhaps you could just call me Genny.”
Nigel, unwilling to be distracted from his purpose, went on, “Do you want to be a goat or the troll?”
“I beg your pardon?” Genevieve looked at him.
Nell laughed. “It’s a game the children play in the other wing of the house. Mama has it closed off unless there are lots of guests. There are sheets over the furniture and the draperies are shut. It makes for nice hiding places.”
“Nell’s a good troll. She stomps and growls,” Nigel explained, adding magnanimously, “But you could be the troll if you wanted. Couldn’t she, Nell?”
“She could be the fairy,” April suggested, leaning around her sister again.
“There’s a fairy, as well?”
“There’s whoever you want,” Blanche explained. “Nigel likes to be a goat so he can jump about from chair to chair. I’m a princess. April’s my lady-in-waiting.” Blanche looked down at her younger sister assessingly. “Or sometimes a cat.”
“I like your kitty.” April came up to stand beside her sister.
“You can be a goat, too,” Nigel assured Genevieve, and held out his hand to her. “I’ll show you the best places to hide.”
“That’s very generous of you,” Genevieve told him gravely. “You know, I have never played goats and trolls before.”
“Never?” Nigel looked at her with a mingling of astonishment and pity.
“Never.” Genevieve reached down a little awkwardly to take his hand. “So you can see that I shall certainly need your help.”
“Don’t worry.” He squeezed her hand as he led her from the room. “I’m very brave.”
Sir Myles walked briskly through the rear door and started down the corridor. It had taken longer than he’d expected with the estate manager, and he wondered how Genevieve had fared. He suspected that between Nell’s Latin, Phoebe’s complaints, and Amelia’s managing ways, Genevieve had probably fled to her room by now. He went first to the small sitting room, where his mother most liked to spend her time, and stuck his head inside the door.
“Myles, dear.” Lady Julia looked up from her crocheting and smiled. “Done with the estate manager?”
“Yes. Finally.” He came farther into the room. “Where is everyone?”
“Phoebe is napping again, and Amelia and her boys have gone home. Haven’t they grown tremendously?” She patted the sofa beside her. “Here, come sit with me and chat awhile. I’ve hardly talked to you.”
Myles smiled and joined her on the couch, taking the hand she held out to him.
“But I suspect that it is Genevieve whose location you are most interested in. She and Nell are upstairs with the children, I believe.”
“The children?” His eyebrows rose. “Are you sure?”
“Hodgings said they were taking their luncheon up in the nursery.” His mother smiled serenely. “It’s nice, isn’t it, that she and Nell are getting along so splendidly? Nell needs a younger woman to guide her. It is much easier to take advice from someone other than your mother.”
“Well, Genevieve knows all the rules.”
“Of course. One would expect nothing else from the Countess of Rawdon’s granddaughter. I remember that woman when I made my come-out; we were all terrified of her.”
“I believe she has that effect on everyone.”
“It is good to see you settled.” Lady Julia smiled. “And your bride is lovely.”
“I agree. And you are a jewel to be so welcoming to her.”
“My dear, she is your wife. What else would I be? One thing I have never been, I hope, is a mother who demands that her children marry as she wishes.”
“No, you have not. But many mothers would feel somewhat . . . aggrieved by our lack of a grand ceremony.”
“I was surprised at the suddenness, but I knew there could be nothing unseemly about Lady Rawdon’s granddaughter. And as long as you are happy, I am well contented. To be frank, I was just as glad not to have to travel to London for an enormous ceremony. Even worse—ride to the wilds of Northumberland.”
“Indeed. One might run into blue-painted savages.”
“Oh, you.” She tapped his arm playfully. “Do not tease your poor old mother.” With another loving pat on his arm, she went on, “Now, go on. Go look for your girl, as I know you are eager to do.”
“You are the best of all mothers.” Myles grinned at her and started away, but at the door, he turned back, his expression serious. “It’s not a love match, you know.”
“Ah, but I know you, my dear.” Lady Julia smiled. “It will be.”
Myles glanced in the music room as he passed it, then trotted up the stairs to their bedroom, fully expecting to find it closed and Genevieve inside. However, the door stood open and the room was empty. A look out the window revealed no sign of his wife in the garden. He continued to Nell’s room, then, frowning, started up the stairs toward the nursery. It was empty as well, but he heard a laugh and a shriek coming from the old wing. The laugh had sounded like Nell’s. Perhaps she knew where Genevieve had gone. A faint, unaccustomed tug of concern pulled at him.
He walked down the hall and stopped. Hearing the whisper of voices, he eased open the door beside him. The corner of the sheet that covered a chair lifted and a small face appeared.
“Uncle Myles!” Nigel leapt out of the chair and hurled himself across the room. “Look, Aunt Genny, it’s Uncle Myles.”
“Aunt Genny?” Myles repeated in astonishment.
“She’s hiding,” Nigel confided. “She’s really good at it—except when she sneezed that time.” He took his uncle’s hand and pulled him across the room, reaching down to yank up the coverlet on the bed. Genevieve peered out at him from under the bed.
“Genevieve!”
Her cheek was smudged with dirt, with several streaks down the front of her dimity gown. A hank of hair had come down and straggled down the side of her neck. Myles stared at her in shock for a moment, then let out a whoop of laughter. Geneviev
e wriggled out from under the bed and stood up, and Myles laughed even harder, clutching his stomach.
Genevieve lifted her chin, looking down her nose at him in her best imitation of her grandmother, and said icily, “And just what is the matter?”
“Oh, Genny.” Myles swallowed his laughter and reached out to pull her into his arms. “My dearest girl. Nothing is the matter. Absolutely nothing.”
Thirteen
As the days passed, Genevieve found herself falling into a comfortable routine. She had often found herself bored during the months at home at Castle Cleyre, but it was altogether different here. Myles took her with him on his rides about the estate, introducing her to his tenants and their families. She visited the poor and ailing with his mother or Amelia, and even, she told Myles with a twinkle, made her duty calls to the vicar’s daughter. She helped Nell with her Latin as well as—more entertaining for both of them—instructing Nell on her form in the saddle. If she wished a quieter pastime, she could sit with Myles’s mother, sewing the fine stitches on baby gowns for Phoebe’s upcoming child. And always, there was the underlying little hum of anticipation, knowing that that night Myles would be in her bed.
Of course, Genevieve reminded herself as one week eased into another, these halcyon days were only temporary. Eventually things would return to normal. They would go back to London and the social whirl. She would grow bored with rural entertainments. Even, at some point, the sensual delights to which Myles had awakened her would begin to pall. That was simply the way things were. However pleasant something might be, it did not last forever. Things changed.
As if to prove her point, one morning as she and Myles lingered over a late breakfast, the butler brought in the morning’s mail. Genevieve recognized her brother’s handwriting and asked, with a smile, “What does Alec say? How is Damaris feeling?”
“I’m not sure. He has not mentioned it.” Myles stopped halfway down the page and went back to read it again, more carefully, his brows rising higher and higher as he read.
“What is it?” Anxiety clutched at Genevieve’s stomach. “Is there something wrong? Grandmama—”
“No; your grandmother is fine, I think. Genevieve . . .” He lifted his head and looked at her, puzzlement mingling with exasperation in his face. “Would you care to explain to me why your brother believes I had something to do with your running into Langdon that night in the library?”
“She told Alec?” Genevieve exclaimed. “Damaris said she would not reveal it!”
“Then it’s true?” He gaped at her, stunned. “You told Damaris I asked you to meet me in the library?”
“I’m sorry, Myles, I know I shouldn’t, but it just—”
“I should say you should not!” Myles jumped to his feet. “Why would you tell her such a thing?”
“I didn’t start out to tell her, but we were talking, you know, and I, well, I was worried that you felt guilty because of what had happened. That you offered because of that, and it really was not your fault.”
“Well, of course it was not my fault! I cannot imagine—”
Genevieve stiffened, her own temper flaring up. “I would not say that, precisely! I should never have gone to meet you, I know, but you were the one who wrote me the note.”
“Note!” Myles stared at her as if she’d taken leave of her senses. “What the devil are you talking about? What note?”
Ice began to form inside Genevieve, and she rose slowly to face him. “The note you sent me that night. The one asking me to meet you in the library.”
“Genevieve. I did not send you a note.”
They stared at each other in silence. Genevieve dropped back down into her chair, as if her legs would no longer hold her.
“You asked me to meet you in the library,” she said, barely above a whisper.
“I did not.” Myles half-turned away, his hand going up to comb through his hair. He swung back to her abruptly. “Why in the world did you think it was from me? Was it in my hand?”
“I—I don’t know.”
Myles seized her wrist, pulling her from the dining room and down the hall to his study. He shoved an account book aside and dug into a stack of papers, hauling one out and thrusting it in front of her face. “This is my handwriting. Did it look like this?”
“Stop waving it about like that!” Genevieve snapped, and grabbed the paper from him. “No,” she admitted. “Well, honestly, Myles, how was I to know it wasn’t your hand? It isn’t as if you’d ever written me before.”
“Of course I hadn’t! I wouldn’t have been penning you secret notes, now, would I?”
“I don’t know why you are bullying me about this. It isn’t as if I made it up!”
“No, you just believed the worst of me,” he shot back. “Good God, Genevieve! You really don’t know me at all, do you? How could you think that I would have asked you to meet me in such a clandestine way? That I would be so careless about your reputation—or any young lady’s, for that matter?”
“It had your name on it!” Genevieve set her chin, feeling beleaguered. “You’re being unreasonable. How was I to know you would not do such a thing? You have always been rash, jumping into things without thinking.”
“Oh, have I? Like asking you to marry me, I suppose.”
Genevieve stiffened. “Are you throwing that up to me now?”
Myles bit back a retort. He took a breath and stepped back. “No, of course not. That was entirely my decision.”
And from his tone, one he now regretted, Genevieve thought, with a sharp pang in her chest. She turned away and walked over to the window to look out, saying carefully, “I beg pardon for misjudging you.”
Myles let out a sigh. “Genevieve . . .”
“The note said something like, ‘G—I must talk to you. Library. Myles.’ I thought it must be important—well, clearly I did not think or I would not have gone.”
“I should have thrashed that blackguard then and there!” Myles growled.
“You think it was Mr. Langdon who sent it?”
“Who else could it have been? He was in the library, waiting for you.” Myles began to pace. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“I thought you knew! I wondered why you had sent it, but . . .” She shrugged, unwilling to say that she had avoided the topic because she had not wanted him to feel that she blamed him for her predicament.
“I knew Langdon was a cad, but I would not have thought he would stoop to such a level.” Myles stopped his restless pacing. “I am going to London. I intend to pay Mr. Langdon a visit.” He started toward the door.
“I’m going with you.” Genevieve moved to intercept him.
“What? No.”
“No?” Genevieve said in a dangerous tone. “You think to leave me immured out here in the country? Absolutely not.”
Myles sighed. “Genevieve, think. It hasn’t been even a month yet. The gossip won’t have died down, and it will start up harder when we return.”
“No doubt. But the gossip will reignite whenever I return. I have to face them sometime; I won’t let a bunch of rumormongers scare me away. This is my fight, Myles. It was my reputation that suffered. And I intend to find out why. I am going.”
Myles crossed his arms over his chest, and Genevieve was certain he was about to argue the point.
“If you do not take me with you, I shall only go on my own.”
“Devil take it! You would, too,” Myles said, aggrieved. “Oh, very well.” He dropped his arms and strode toward the door, tossing back over his shoulder, “But I warn you—I’m not waiting for you to pack your trunks. We leave in an hour.”
They arrived in London two days later. The servant who opened the door at Rawdon’s house gaped at Genevieve and Myles in surprise, and Genevieve’s grandmother appeared equally astonished. However, the countess quickly pulled her face under control and rose to her feet.
“Genevieve, child, what a surprise.” Her blue eyes were sharp on Genevieve’s face, and she sen
t Myles a quick, suspicious glance. “Sir Myles. I did not expect you for some time.”
“Business called me back to the city, Lady Rawdon, And Genevieve was kind enough to keep me company. I am having Thorwood Place set up for us to live there, but I am not sure it is in a proper condition yet.”
“You must stay here, of course, until your house is quite ready. I fear Rawdon and his wife are not home just yet; they went to the theater with Lord and Lady Morecombe. Pray, sit down. Have you had anything to eat this evening? I am sure that Cook could whip up something.”
Genevieve demurred. It was rather strange to be treated like a guest here in the home that had been hers for so long.
“Sir Myles, no doubt you would enjoy a glass of brandy in Alec’s study after your long journey,” Lady Rawdon went on. “I shall see Genevieve up to your rooms.” The countess’s courteous offer was clearly also a dismissal. Myles took it with his usual good grace, casting a humorous glance at Genevieve before he bowed and took his leave. Lady Rawdon turned to her granddaughter. “You must be tired. You are slouching.” She laid a light hand on Genevieve’s back, and instinctively Genevieve straightened her shoulders.
Genevieve followed her grandmother’s perfectly erect back out the door and up the stairs, keeping to herself the thought that she could find the room in which she had slept for years perfectly well by herself. She knew that her grandmother’s intent was to talk to her in a place free from the prying eyes and ears of servants.
“Is everything all right, Genevieve?” Her grandmother turned to Genevieve as soon as she shut the bedroom door behind them. “This is a terribly swift return from your honeymoon.” She narrowed her eyes, studying her granddaughter.
“Yes, of course. Myles and I are—well, we have gotten along quite well.” Genevieve faltered, aware that she was probably blushing.
The countess’s expression eased. “Good. I am pleased to hear that you are not unhappy. But you must see, dear, that it looks a trifle odd for the two of you to come rushing back to London from your honeymoon.”
“Myles had something he needed to attend to.” Genevieve hesitated. “The fact is, we learned that my running into Mr. Langdon in the library was not by accident.” She explained their discovery regarding the note.