by Olivia Drake
For as long as she lived, Annabelle would never forget the thrill of seeing Lord Simon take charge that day in the schoolroom. His wrath had been a sight to behold. He had seized Mr. Bunting and given him a verbal thrashing. He had come to the defense of his nephew in no uncertain terms. He had cast out the vicar even though it meant admitting he himself had made a mistake in hiring the man.
At the time, she’d believed the incident had softened Lord Simon’s heart. She’d hoped he finally would unbend and begin to show affection for Nicholas. She hadn’t been daunted even when he’d walked out the door with nary a word to the boy.
But as the days had progressed, the truth became disappointingly clear. Lord Simon had not altered his habits one iota. Just as before, he exhibited little interest in Nicholas. The aggravating man avoided the nursery, and Annabelle had caught only an occasional glimpse of him in the corridors of the castle. She did give him credit for joining them in church on Sundays, though afterward he always escorted them straight to the coach, then went to chat with Lady Louisa and her friends. It was as if the young duke didn’t exist outside the regimented weekly meetings.
Just stay out of my way. Both you and the boy.
Annabelle told herself to be satisfied. Nicholas was much happier now. Like all children, he deserved to be safe from harm. Yet he also needed love from a family member, not merely from the hired governess—no matter how fond she’d grown of him.
On the rug, he galloped his toy horseman through the ranks of the infantry. Smiling, she combed her fingers through his flaxen hair. “You may play for another half an hour, Your Grace. Don’t forget to put away your soldiers before you go to bed.”
For the first time, he glanced over at her dress. “You look pretty. Are you going to a party?”
“Just downstairs for dinner. Can you say good night to me now?”
He scrambled up to throw his thin arms around her neck. That in itself was a sign that he’d changed from the timid boy she’d first met. Feeling blessed to have earned his trust, she returned his hug, silently vowing to give him all the affection his uncle had denied him.
But Annabelle knew she couldn’t give up. Somehow, there had to be a way to make Lord Simon realize that his duty to the child required more than merely providing an education. It was past time the man became a loving father to Nicholas.
* * *
Several minutes later, she paused in the corridor outside the dining chamber. The murmur of voices and the clink of dishes drifted from the arched doorway. A sudden qualm gripped Annabelle. Although she’d taught etiquette and deportment, never in her life had she attended a society event. She’d almost prefer to be wearing a maid’s uniform and toting a tray of champagne glasses.
Nonsense, she scolded herself. These aristocrats were no better than her merely because of an accident of birth. Character mattered far more than bloodline. She would simply act as if she belonged among them.
Her chin held high, she stepped into the doorway—and paused in dismay.
Several footmen were chatting to one another as they laid out the silverware and crystal on the long, linen-draped table. Another servant lit the candles in the silver candelabra. At the far end of the room, the housekeeper fussed over one of the lush flower arrangements.
Where were all the guests?
Mrs. Wickett glanced at Annabelle standing in the doorway. Her lips thinned, and she came bustling forward, the ring of keys jangling at her waist. “Miss Quinn! ’Ee don’t belong here.”
“But … Lord Simon invited me to dinner. Am I too early?”
“Indeed so,” the housekeeper said, her plain features drawn in a disapproving look. “His lordship’s guests have gathered in the drawin’ room. They shan’t come to the table until the gong has been rung.”
The middle-aged woman eyed her as if she were a bumpkin just fallen off the turnip cart. Annabelle strove for a pleasant expression. Her mistake in coming to the dining chamber was especially galling since Mrs. Wickett had never warmed to her like the rest of the staff. She seemed to carry a grudge for some unknown reason, and Annabelle only hoped that in time, the woman would cease to view her as an outsider.
“Thank you,” she said with a gracious smile. “I do beg your pardon for the interruption.”
As she turned to go, Mrs. Wickett muttered in a rather nasty tone, “’Ee needn’t have such airs, missy.”
“Airs?”
The housekeeper stepped into the corridor, out of earshot of the other servants. Knobby fingers clutching the white apron cinching her waist, she thrust her face close to Annabelle’s. “’Ee might have cajoled Lord Simon into oustin’ the vicar from the schoolroom. But don’t ’ee think, because o’ one dinner invitation, to work thy wiles on the master. I won’t tolerate such wickedness from my staff.”
A flush seared Annabelle’s cheeks. So that was the source of the woman’s rancor. She believed Annabelle had designs on Lord Simon. How had Mrs. Wickett formed such a wildly mistaken assumption?
Then Annabelle remembered the day Nicholas had vanished. The housekeeper had walked into the study at the very moment Lord Simon had taken hold of Annabelle’s arm. Mrs. Wickett had seen them standing close together and erroneously concluded they were flirting, not quarreling. In the subsequent excitement of traversing the secret tunnels to find Nicholas, Annabelle had forgotten the incident.
“I’m afraid you’ve misconstrued my character,” she told the woman. “What you’ve implied is utterly untrue.”
Mrs. Wickett gave Annabelle’s gown and hair a scornful scrutiny. “Well! Time will tell, won’t it? One false move, an’ I’ll see ’ee gone from this castle—and the good reverend back in his rightful place as tutor.”
Turning on her heel, the housekeeper marched back into the dining chamber. Her quick steps and rigid posture made it clear that her ill opinion hadn’t altered one iota.
Feeling somewhat rattled, Annabelle headed down the corridor. The notion that anyone could harbor such vitriol toward her cast a pall over the evening. A disturbing thought entered her mind. That day in the study, when they’d stood so close, she had felt an undeniable attraction to Lord Simon. Had Mrs. Wickett’s sharp eyes seen what Annabelle had been afraid to admit to herself?
The buzz of conversation and a burst of laughter emanated from the drawing room just ahead. Annabelle paused in the corridor to adjust the shawl around her shoulders. A part of her wanted to retreat to the safety of the nursery. But that would be an act of cowardice when she had sworn to enjoy this rare evening.
Her head held high, she stepped into the arched doorway. Some three dozen elegantly clad gentlemen and ladies stood in small groups, while a few older women sat gossiping by the fireplace. Her gaze went straight to Lord Simon, for he was the tallest man in the room. His back to her, he was surrounded by several young women, including dainty blond Lady Louisa. They all seemed to be vying for his attention.
The sight of him caused a lurch deep inside Annabelle, and she attributed it to disgust for his neglect of his nephew. The man could spare no time for Nicholas yet he had ample leisure for flirting. How she would love to point that out to him—if it wouldn’t endanger her position in the household. She had to learn to bide her tongue with him, as she’d once done with Mrs. Baxter and the other teachers.
Accepting a glass of champagne from a passing footman, she scanned the party. There appeared to be a few more women than men present. Odd that, for she’d assumed her invitation had been tendered in order to balance out the couples. Perhaps there were additional gentlemen who had not yet arrived.
No one paid heed to her other than a pair of gray-haired biddies with raised eyebrows who whispered between themselves. Deciding to be amused rather than offended, Annabelle seated herself in a chair by a bank of ferns. The governess wouldn’t be expected to mingle, she reasoned. Here, she could sip her first ever glass of champagne and observe the habits of the haut ton from a discreet distance.
The bubbly taste proved a ref
reshing delight. But she was immediately distracted when a young gentleman separated himself from the throng and strolled toward her.
She nearly didn’t recognize him without his clerical robes. Garbed in a forest green coat and tan breeches, his wavy brown hair neatly combed, Mr. Harold Tremayne looked more like a stylish man-about-town than a lowly assistant curate.
He bent low and kissed the back of her hand. “My dear Miss Quinn. Have you come to rescue me?”
Glad to see at least one friendly face, she set down her glass on a nearby table and smiled up at him. “Why, Mr. Tremayne, rescue you from what? I cannot imagine how you could be in any danger here.”
“Until you walked in, I was in peril of dying of utter boredom.” On that absurd statement, Tremayne indicated the chair beside hers. “Do you mind if I join you?”
“Please do. I would enjoy the company.”
He seated himself, taking care not to wrinkle the tails of his coat. “Thank you. As you’re new to the district, too, I suspect you know as few people here as I do.”
“Have you not met all the better families in the parish, then?”
“Being in possession of a person’s name is vastly different from being able to chat with the familiarity of a friend. I vow, within five minutes of my arrival, I’d exhausted my repertoire of comments on the weather and the splendor of the room.”
He seemed to have no trouble conversing with her, and Annabelle suspected he was denigrating himself on purpose to make her feel more at ease. Then another thought distracted her. Since the assistant curate had been invited, did that mean the vicar was lurking somewhere as well?
Annabelle peered at the gathering, but many of the guests were standing in groups and they blocked the others from view. “Did you come alone?” she asked.
“Yes, I’m afraid poor Percival was denied an invitation.”
She tried to hide her relief. It would have been awkward indeed to encounter Mr. Bunting, especially since he’d looked coldly past her in church the past few Sundays. “I see.”
“You needn’t be polite,” Mr. Tremayne said, chuckling. “One can hardly blame you for not wishing him to be present. I understand there was quite the brouhaha in the schoolroom several weeks ago.”
Annabelle blushed to imagine how Mr. Bunting must have railed against her in the privacy of the vicarage. “I’m very sorry you had to hear of it.”
Mr. Tremayne placed his hand over hers. “Rest assured, I don’t think ill of you, Miss Quinn. Quite the contrary. I’ve only one complaint to lay at your doorstep.”
His familiar manner discomfited Annabelle, so she pulled her hand free and laced her fingers tightly in her lap. “What is that?”
“Bunting is no longer absent most of the day. Must you have sent the snarly fellow back to the vicarage to plague me?”
She stifled an indelicate laugh. “Really, Mr. Tremayne. You oughtn’t be making such impertinent remarks. But do tell me, will he disapprove of you for coming here tonight?”
Mr. Tremayne shrugged. “I reminded him that my invitation was due to my connections. You see, my late grandfather was Viscount Merriman—though I am only the second son of a second son. That is why I’ve been forced to earn my bread as a man of the cloth.”
So she’d been right to identify him as a member of the gentry. “You’ve chosen an admirable vocation. Will you take holy orders soon?”
“Next year, if all goes well. Until then, I’m condemned to share quarters with your archnemesis.”
His vilification of the vicar, while gratifying, seemed inappropriate for the setting. “We shouldn’t speak of this here. And please know that I bear no grudge against Mr. Bunting. I would as soon everyone forgets our disagreement.”
“As you wish.” With a genial smile, Mr. Tremayne changed the subject. “It would be proper for us to speak sedately of books, I think. Then anyone rude enough to eavesdrop will be most impressed by our intellects.”
“Now you’re teasing me.”
“What else is a man to do at such an event than tease the prettiest girl in the hopes of making her laugh?”
Annabelle did laugh at his silliness. “I’m too old and sensible to heed such flattery, Mr. Tremayne. Now, perhaps I should not be keeping you from the other ladies. There may be one who is more deserving of your attention.”
“Ah, modesty becomes you. As to the other ladies, I’m afraid they seem far more interested in our host.”
The reference to Lord Simon tempted Annabelle to glance in his direction. As before, a bevy of beauties clustered around him. She had to concede he looked arrestingly handsome tonight in a midnight blue coat, his white cravat a complement to his sun-burnished face and thick dark hair. The other gentlemen in the drawing room paled by comparison to his broad-shouldered strength and cool confidence.
He abruptly turned his head and looked straight at her. Annabelle experienced the burn of those dark gray eyes in the form of a mad pulsation deep within her. She felt overheated and sorely in need of a fan. He didn’t appear pleased to see her here … or did he object to her sitting with Mr. Tremayne?
On her first visit to St. Geren’s Church, Lord Simon had rudely ended her conversation with the assistant curate by rushing her and the duke away to the coach. I didn’t engage your services for you to be flirting with the locals, he’d said.
How ludicrous. If Lord Simon disapproved of her speaking to any one of his guests, he shouldn’t have commanded her to attend this dinner party in the first place.
She aimed a deliberately flirtatious smile at Mr. Tremayne. “It does appear that you’re stuck here in the corner with me. We shall have to find a way to keep ourselves entertained until dinner.”
“My dear Miss Quinn, whatever words leave your pretty lips are bound to fascinate me.” He leaned closer, his voice full of fervent emotion. “I can absolutely assure you of that.”
The ardent look on his face disturbed her. Mr. Tremayne seemed a trifle forward in his manners, especially for someone who had dedicated his life to the church. Perhaps his upper-class background had given him a sense of entitlement. If he was one of those gentlemen who viewed the governess as fair game, she would have to take care not to encourage his attentions.
She was casting about for an excuse to escape him when Lord Simon’s voice cut through the buzz of conversation in the drawing room.
“I see our guest of honor has arrived at last,” he said.
Leaving his flock of admirers, Lord Simon made his way to the door as a slim, stately lady in claret-colored silk glided into the chamber. He placed his hands on her shoulders and leaned down to kiss her cheek. The dark-haired woman smiled up at him, speaking words that could not be discerned over the murmurs of the guests.
Annabelle caught her breath in pleasure. “It’s Lady Milford!”
A thought jumped to the forefront of her mind. Could that be why she had been included in the dinner party tonight? Because Lady Milford had requested her presence? Yes, it all made sense now. The invitation had not come from Lord Simon by some magnanimous decree, but because he’d been honoring the wishes of a venerated family friend.
“Do you know her, then?” Mr. Tremayne asked.
The assistant curate was looking rather intently at her, so Annabelle explained, “Lady Milford recruited me for the position of governess here at Castle Kevern. I owe her a debt of gratitude.”
“Ah, I see.”
“Is there something wrong?”
Mr. Tremayne pursed his lips as if he were considering a tactful way to put his thoughts into words. “I’m merely surprised. Her ladyship is hardly the sort to seek out governesses. You see…”
Knowing little about the mysterious woman, Annabelle was intrigued by the prospect of learning more. “Pray go on.”
“It isn’t for the ears of a virtuous young lady like yourself. Perhaps I’ve already said too much.”
“Don’t be coy, Mr. Tremayne. I am hardly ignorant in the ways of the world.”
“As you wish, then. Once upon a time, Lady Milford was mistress to one of Mad King George’s sons, although I don’t recall which one. It stirred up a frightful scandal.”
Lady Milford, a royal concubine? Annabelle was shocked and fascinated in equal measures. Never had she suspected that the kind, graceful woman could harbor such a notorious background.
Across the drawing room, Lady Milford was greeting the other guests. She possessed a rare beauty that was untouched by the ravages of time. Yet her allure transcended the physical. Even in her advanced years, she had an unusual magnetism that had the gentlemen crowding around her and the other ladies staring in envy.
Annabelle glanced at Mr. Tremayne. “How do you know this? Were you a member of the court?”
“My parents moved in high circles. One overhears things as a child.” He paused, his gaze slightly narrowed. “I do recall that she was bastard-born, so I suppose one would expect such a female to carry on illicit affairs.”
Stung, Annabelle compressed her lips. Not a soul here at Castle Kevern knew of her own lack of parentage, so Mr. Tremayne couldn’t possibly guess that he’d insulted her as much as Lady Milford. “Yet she does bear the title of lady.”
“The prince arranged a marriage for her, I believe. To a doddering old lord who didn’t mind if his young and beautiful wife took a lover…” Mr. Tremayne flashed Annabelle a shamefaced look. “I do beg your pardon. I can see that I’m embarrassing you. It’s crude of me to be speaking of such matters.”
Annabelle nodded coolly. Better he should think her afflicted by maidenly modesty than to guess at the true nature of her disgust. He could have no inkling that the gossip he’d imparted had made her all the more loyal to Lady Milford, for they both had suffered criticism because of an accident of birth.
She found herself eager to renew an acquaintance with the woman. Scandal or no scandal, she owed Lady Milford a great deal. Perhaps during the course of the evening an opportunity would present itself for them to exchange a few brief words.
Then the decision was taken out of her hands.
Lady Milford leaned close to speak to Lord Simon. He offered her his arm and they came strolling across the drawing room.