by Mia Marlowe
“How did you come to work here?” Meg asked.
“Oh, I was born here. My mother was lady’s maid to the previous chatelaine and her mother before her and so on time out of mind. Of course, there’s never been a chatelaine here at the castle for very long. Still, we Cadwalladers stand at the ready when our time for service comes. I’m ever so grateful to have you to practice on, miss, before a new Lady Badewyn takes up the keys to the castle.” She clapped both hands on her mouth. “Oh dear, that didn’t come out right. I’m ever so sorry.”
“Never mind. I take no offense.” Whether Cadwallader knew it or not, Meg was practicing on her, too. This was a good test of how ladylike she could be. She decided she liked her maid. Compared to Cadwallader, Meg was the model of sophistication. “It’s hard to believe you were born here though. You don’t sound as if you’re from Wales.”
When Mr. Bernard had asked for directions to Faencaern at a nearby farm, Meg hadn’t understood one word in three.
“That’s because his lordship isn’t exactly Welsh, you see. Not with a family name like Templeton. When this bit of rock was claimed, the first Lord Badewyn weren’t Welsh either. We’re guessing he were English,” Cadwallader explained. “So when his lordship goes traveling, he sends a teacher. Some years past, Mr. Ingfeldt came to us, to make sure we was up to snuff. As I understand it, folks’ ways of speechifying change over the years. My old mam said his lordship’s father before him sent a tutor for everyone in the castle too, so’s we’d be able to understand him once he finished his traveling.”
The baron had mentioned spending time in Persia, which seemed an odd place to visit to Meg. But Cadwallader made it sound as if Lord Badewyn’s outlandish wanderings were expected, almost required. “His traveling?”
“Oh, yes, you see, all the Lord Badewyn’s down through the years have spent a good bit of their lives somewheres else. They’re born here, o’ course, and after they finish their schooling, they venture abroad in the wide world to seek a wife.” Cadwallader sighed wistfully. “That’s the shining time, my mam tells me, when young Lord Badewyn brings home his bride.”
“And this Lord Badewyn hasn’t done that yet?” The little flutter in her belly was disconcerting. Why should she care if he had claimed a bride or not?
“Well, he did the traveling, but he didn’t come back with a Lady Badewyn. He’ll need to go courting again unless happens he don’t see a need to. After all, you’re here, ain’t you?” She winked conspiratorially at Meg, but then her face crumpled in a frown. “But mayhap you wouldn’t fancy becoming our chatelaine. After all, there’s the curse to deal with.”
“The curse?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t have said that.” Cadwallader wrung her apron in her hands. “I don’t know as it’s really a curse, but it seems as if all the Lady Badewyn’s die in childbed. Ain’t that the saddest thing? I mean, you can see why his lordship would want to take his bairn and travel away from the heartache after that. They all do it, regular as clockwork, I’m told. Then after a time, once the boy is grown—and it’s always a boy, never a girl—the old lord dies in a far country and the young lord comes back, indeed he does.”
If Lord Badewyn had spent all his growing up years traveling, Meg wondered what else he’d learned besides Persian. He certainly didn’t seem at ease around her, what with his long silences interspersed with imperious commands. “So how long has the current lord been home?”
“Oh, nigh onto ten years or so. Long enough for us to get comfortable with his ways,” Cadwallader said. “Only since he didn’t bring home a bride, we expect him to go traveling again any day now.”
Meg hoped not. She’d been treated like a sister by the male members of the Order of the M.U.S.E. and she thought of them as the brothers she’d never had. Westfall or Stanstead never made her belly jitter or her mouth go dry. But when Lord Badewyn had simply looked at her, she’d felt her cheeks heat. Either she was coming down with the ague, or she didn’t feel the least sisterly toward him. Those feelings made no sense, but there was no denying them. They simply were.
Though Lady Easton had tried to teach her many things, Meg’s education in flirting was spotty at best. However, she’d seen it done and taken note. It would be interesting to see if she could flirt Lord Badewyn into feeling less than brotherly toward her. “And what happened to his lordship’s father?”
“The old lord died at some place called Ankara, or so Malachai tells us. But his lordship wasn’t alone in his sorrow. Young Lord Badewyn’s uncle joined up with them somewheres along the way because he came home to Faencaern Castle with his lordship and has been here ever since,” the maid said. “Mostly.”
Something was definitely off about Cadwallader’s story, but the maid didn’t seem to see it. Meg rose and paced the room, an unconscious echo of the Duke of Camden when he was trying to puzzle something out. “Since the old lord was dead, and the new one had been gone since he was a babe in arms, how could you know for certain it was he when he returned?”
“Oh, that’s easy. All the Lord Badewyn’s have a definite look about them, indeed they do. Cut from the same bolt of cloth and no mistake. Handsome as the devil, every single one. When you visit the gallery, you’ll see it for yourself.” Cadwallader’s expression turned pensive. “Then there’s the birthmark.”
“What birthmark?”
“Yes, a truly unusual one. All the Badewyn’s right-wise born bear it.” She took Meg’s hand and traced a pentagram on her palm. “’Tis a red five-pointed star on their…well, in an unmentionable place, but Malachai checked and his lordship has one right enough.”
Meg’s cheeks burned, wondering what unmentionable place Cadwallader meant. Her imagination flitted to several, but she tamped it down. No good can come from imagining a man’s unmentionables. “You’ve brought up this Malachai several times. Who is he?”
“Oh, you’ve met him, miss. It’s him what let you in. Not that he usually serves as a porter, you understand. Malachai is the steward here at Faencaern. It was a mark of favor that he opened the door to you and your man-servant, indeed it was.”
Meg didn’t like the idea of people believing Mr. Bernard was her servant. As they’d traveled together, she’d enjoyed thinking of him as her grandfather far too much. It was hard to equate the scruffy, surly Malachai with the always correct and kind Mr. Bernard, yet they both held the same highly responsible post on their respective estates.
The deep sound of a gong resonated through the castle.
Cadwallader’s eyes grew round. “What’s that?”
“The dressing gong, I collect,” Meg said. Clearly, the maid had never heard one before. “It means I have one hour to dress for dinner.”
“No, it means I have one hour to dress you,” Cadwallader said brightly. The idea of dressing for dinner might be new to her, but she was quick to embrace the custom. “Now then, miss, sit you down and let me see what can be done with your hair. My old mam taught me a few things, indeed she did.”
Meg surrendered to her capable hands, trying to settle the nervous flutters in her belly. She’d dined at Lord Albemarle’s country house, which might have been considered a dinner party, but Lady Easton had been near to make sure Meg didn’t put a foot wrong. This would be her first formal dinner without any help, her first chance to show she could pass as a lady. The first chance for Lord Badewyn to see her in such a setting. Perhaps she’d be able to undo any damage her bedraggled entrance might have caused.
Meg hoped she’d remember all the rules. She hoped she’d be able to figure out how to flirt without being obvious about it. As Cadwallader might say, indeed, she did.
“Well, Miss Anthony’s arrival has produced one good thing,” Grigori said as he lounged, one shoulder against the doorjamb that led from the great hall that could accommodate everyone in the castle to the more intimate chamber that was used when the number of diners was small.
“What’s that?” Samuel tugged at the sleeves of his dark jacket. He wasn’t sur
e, but he suspected too much of his cuffs were showing. He wouldn’t normally care about such things, but Miss Anthony had been living in a duke’s household. And something in her smile made him not want to disappoint her on her first night with them.
“You’ve abandoned that old frock coat of yours for something that might fit into this century. I salute you, son.”
“I didn’t do it for you.” When it was only him rattling around the castle, it didn’t matter to Samuel what he wore. Faencaern was very nearly its own little world, with none coming or going. Only Grigori popped down to London from time to time and tried to bring back news of fashionable trends. Samuel couldn’t care less. So long as his clothing kept him decently covered and warm in winter, he was content. And if donning hopelessly out-of-date attire irritated Grigori, so much the better. But now that Miss Anthony was here, Samuel felt honor bound to present a more au courant face to the world. “And don’t call me ‘son.’ You’re supposed to be my uncle, remember.”
“Uncles are so stodgy. Wouldn’t you rather I show myself to Miss Anthony like this?” For a blink, Grigori’s form shimmered and he reappeared as a gangly youth with the first wisps of a mustache along his upper lip. Coltishly handsome, he was still recognizable as himself, but seemed to be only about fifteen years old. “I can be your long lost nephew.”
His voice even cracked as if on cue.
“Stop it,” Samuel said through clenched teeth. “You’ll upset the help if any of them see you like that.”
Only Malachai knew the whole truth about the strange doings at Faencaern Castle. With the ward of the Duke of Camden in residence, the last thing Samuel needed was for his footmen and maids to fly into hysterical fits over Grigori’s transformations.
“Oh, all right.” Grigori faded out for a moment and then came back as a distinguished, hawkishly handsome gentleman in the final years of his prime, his usual manifestation. “I can see you’re going to be no fun at dinner at all. But here comes someone who promises to be a feast.”
Miss Anthony appeared on the winding stairs and began to descend. She was a vision in pale blue, a bit of softness the old castle hadn’t seen in years. Samuel’s mouth went dry at the sight of her, but before he could stir himself to action, Grigori strode across the open space to meet her at the foot of the staircase.
“Good evening,” he said, sweeping a deep courtly bow. “You must be the duke’s ward, Miss Anthony. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Good things, I hope.” She glanced from Grigori to Samuel and back again.
Probably noting how alike we are. Looking at Grigori was like seeing his own face fifteen or twenty years hence.
“Why good things?” Grigori asked with a waggle of his brows. “Wicked things are so much more interesting, don’t you think?”
Instead of being offended, she rewarded him with a sweet smile. “I’m sure I wouldn’t know from experience, but I have heard rumors to that effect.”
She extended her hand to him, palm down, and he brushed her gloved knuckles with his lips. Her gloves were thin, lacy confections, with more skin showing through them than was covered.
Why did women wear such tempting things? Samuel’s insides did a slow burn, but his feet seemed rooted to the spot.
“You must be Lord Badewyn’s uncle. I’ve heard about you, too.”
“Wicked things, I hope,” Grigori said, almost parroting back her response.
“Not yet,” she said with a laugh, “but I haven’t been here long.”
Her pointed glance in Samuel’s direction invited him into the conversation and pulled him toward her. He wondered if he’d have ever unstuck his feet if she hadn’t sent that look of entreaty his way.
“A debutante who doesn’t feign shock over a bit of light-hearted silliness. Isn’t she charming, Badewyn?” Grigori turned back to her and bowed sharply from the neck. “Since my nephew seems to have lost the power of speech, allow me to introduce myself. I am Grigori Templeton, at your service.”
He still hadn’t released her hand, blast him.
“There now, didn’t that sound nice?” Grigori was saying. “Actually, I make it a point of honor not to be in servitude to anyone. It’s my one virtue.”
Miss Anthony smiled again, a dimple carving a sweet indentation in her left cheek. “There are those who might argue your one virtue is a vice,” she said teasingly.
“None whose opinion matters to me,” Grigori cut a swift look at Samuel and then back to Miss Anthony. “However, I’ll toss aside my scruples and offer my services to you, my dear. May I escort you into the dining room?”
Samuel found his tongue. “As Miss Anthony’s host, that’s my job.” Holding out his arm, he stepped between them, demanding wordlessly that she take it. He knew he was skirting the edge of boorishness, but he couldn’t bear to see Grigori flirting with her a moment longer. Wasn’t there the least instinct for self-preservation in her, some inner warning bell that should have alerted her to what he was? Since she showed no sign of recognizing the danger, Samuel would have to step in. “Shall we?”
The kitchen staff outdid themselves for dinner. The white soup could have easily graced a duke’s table. Samuel had no cause for complaint over the veal, or the mutton, or the braised chicken. He even liked the Cauliflower a la Flammond. Cook had prepared dozens of dainties and sweetmeats, as well. Even the footmen, who had no practice serving at table most of the time, made a creditable job of serving the dinner.
Miss Anthony was a gracious guest, making approving comments, seeming to enjoy herself immensely.
The only problem was she was enjoying herself with Grigori.
Samuel supposed he couldn’t blame her. He tried to think of something amusing to say, some topic to introduce that would engage her, but whenever he looked into those changeable blue-gray-green eyes of hers, his mind went blank as a starless night.
Grigori was more than up to filling the void.
Even that might not have been so bad if not for the topics with which he filled it.
“Oh, he was a proper scamp, let me tell you. Samuel positively scandalized the housemaids in Milan by running naked through the villa when he was younger.”
“Good heavens!” Wide-eyed, she stared at Samuel. “Er… How much younger?”
Grigori laughed. “Much younger than you’re obviously thinking. Our Samuel’s no libertine, more’s the pity. He was only five. He slipped out of his clothes because he claimed his ‘skin wanted to breathe.’”
“I can understand that.” Meg shot Samuel a sympathetic glance. “We all feel constrained at times. I know I do.”
Even as a child, Samuel had recognized how odd his situation was and how desperately he needed to keep that strangeness a secret. Finally! Someone who might understand what it was like for him to live such a buttoned-up lie all the time. He could have kissed her.
Grigori’s thoughts, as usual, took a different path. “Don’t let us stop you if you feel the need to dash about the castle in naught but your skin, Miss Anthony.” He waggled his brows suggestively. “Anything to accommodate a guest.”
Her cheeks pinked up prettily. “Oh, no. I didn’t mean that.”
“Of course not,” Grigori said. “But an old man can dream, can’t he?”
This time, she laughed. She flicked her fan on Grigori’s forearm and told him he wasn’t at all old. “Ladies grow old, I’m afraid. Gentlemen just become more interesting.”
Even when he was being outrageous, Samuel’s father could charm anything in a skirt.
How does he do it?
Then Grigori launched into the story about when he took Samuel backstage at the Parisian Opera. Samuel had climbed up onto the diva’s lap and proposed to her because she had the “most beautimous voice in the world.” He’d been all of six that time.
“As you can see, Samuel started early as a lady’s man,” Grigori explained with a laugh.
“I consider myself forewarned.” Miss Anthony’s eyes sparked with fun when sh
e turned toward him. “But tell me, my lord. How is it you’ve remained unmarried when you began proposing at six?”
“I believe it has something to do with the fact that women are smarter than we credit them.” Samuel buried his nose in his wine goblet, hoping to blot out the embarrassing stories, but Grigori went on and on. Finally, the last course of desserts came and went and Samuel decided to end his father’s infuriating stroll down memory lane.
“Allow me to escort you back to your chamber, Miss Anthony,” he said in a voice that brooked no refusal. “The corridors are dark and it would be easy for you to lose your way.”
He might have been rushing the end of the evening a bit, but he wanted to beat Grigori to the punch. The last thing he needed was for his father to spend time with her in a dim hallway. However, even arm-in-arm with a candle to light their way, Samuel could think of nothing memorable to say to the first woman he’d actually wanted to talk to in years.
Miss Anthony seemed able to pick up where Grigori left off. She chattered about how lovely the meal was, about her trip to Faencaern, about how pleasant she found her accommodations at the castle.
“I can only surmise you aren’t well traveled,” he said at that. “Faencaern isn’t the most welcoming of places.”
“Rather takes its cue from its lord, I think.”
“I apologize if I have made you feel unwelcome. That is not my intent.” Of course, if she didn’t feel welcome, perhaps she’d go back to the duke to face whatever unpleasantness she was fleeing. Whatever it was would be safer for her than remaining here.
He opened the door to her chamber and held the candle aloft while she stepped lightly across the threshold. She moved gracefully, as if her feet didn’t deign to touch the floor. As she turned back to face him, he caught a whiff of her perfume, the heady scent of violets, the fresh breath of a summer day. Her little pink tongue swept her bottom lip and his knees nearly buckled. He so wanted to capture that lip between his and suckle it.
The sudden urge shocked him to his toes.