Her eyes widened, then her mouth shut with a near audible snap.
"Miss Greeley, will you and the lads please be seated?" he continued, indicating the sofa. "I am sure you must be tired after your journey."
Pride warred with fatigue upon her drawn features, and for a moment, the young lady looked as if she might refuse. But a sideways glance at the pinched faces of her brothers seemed to make up her mind. Nodding curtly to Nonny and Perry, she moved with a stiff dignity to take up the proffered place.
"Once the Greeleys have had a bit of refreshment, perhaps we may all discuss this situation in a civilized fashion."
"Civilized!" huffed his great aunt. With a snap of her wrist, she raised her lorgnette and made a show of surveying the dusty faces and travelworn garments of the three siblings.
"Speaking of civilized, I should ask that you kindly refrain from such outbursts, Aunt Hermione." Prestwick's voice was measured, but the show of calm authority masked the cross currents that were pulling at his own emotions.
Of all the cursed luck! he swore to himself. Greeley was not an uncommon a name—it had never occurred to him that the tattered travelers might be related to his rackety uncle and repellent cousin.
His mouth thinning to a taut line, the duke continued to regard the hostile faces seated before him in grim silence. He had been just as displeased as the young lady to discover that Fate had once again tossed them together. Between the scheming of his relatives and the impending visit of his Society friends, he had enough tricky shoals to navigate without having the feisty Admiral of the Amazons sail into his life again.
After all, she was naught but Trouble—a headstrong hellion who managed to churn up storm waves wherever she went. And, if truth be told, he was still a bit angry and offended at her tempestuous dismissal of his parting gesture, for it had been so stormy, he had never even had the chance to voice his thanks for saving his life.
Yet a sideways glance at her defiant face tempered his lingering ill feelings. Beneath the martial expression, he saw the rippling of apprehension in the depths of her eyes, and it made him feel a bit ashamed of himself. Here she was, a young lady alone and without influence pitted against a hostile branch of the family, one possessed of power and prestige. And despite being unsure and afraid, she had the raw courage to walk into a nest of vipers.
His teeth set. That her outrage was motivated by loyalty and a sense of honor rather than greed and a selfish desire for privilege only added to his grudging admiration.
The duke twisted uncomfortably at the signet ring on his pinkie, unable to keep from wondering whether he would have even half the same strength of spirit.
"You must forgive Grandmama, for she only speaks up out of concern for the family name," said Harold smoothly. "I'm sure once you have heard the facts, you will agree that your own kinsman's claim is the legitimate one, Twick."
Prestwick saw indignation swirl up a storm in Zara's eyes at the oblique insult.
"As you suggest, cuz, civility dictates that we extend the hospitality of Highwood Manor to these young people." Harold gave an oily smile. "Until they decide on... a more permanent place of residence."
The arrival of the tea tray forestalled further comment.
Seeing his great aunt make no move to play hostess, the duke had the maid serve the new arrivals with the steaming beverage and a generous selection of the cook's pastries before responding to his cousin's statement.
"Perhaps we should begin with you telling me the facts."
"Why, I should be happy to." After shooting a triumphant look at Zara, Harold gave a dismissive tweak to the tail end of his cravat. "It is really quite simple. This Parthenon's claim to being next in line for Uncle Aubrey's title and lands is valid only if their father actually married their mother." He gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders, nearly causing the seam of his fitted coat to split. "Which our lawyers say is doubtful. Highly doubtful."
"Doubtful?" murmured Prestwick. His brows winged upward. "I would hope they have proof of such a serious assertion."
His cousin's face lost a touch of its smugness. "Well, er, yes. I imagine they do. After all, Greeley was a loose screw, choosing to gallivant across the Continent and consort with unsuitable people, like... artists and Italians. It would be only natural that such an unreliable fellow would not bother with the basics of propriety."
"And what have you to say in answer to my cousin Harold, Miss Greeley?"
The duke saw that her hands were shaking slightly as she set down her cup. "That his words are scurrilous lies, sir, designed to deprive Nonny of his rightful inheritance. If my father and mother were happier abroad, it was due to the fact that his unbending family refused to accept his love match and made life miserable here in England."
Her chin came up in a jutting tilt Prestwick had come to recognize all too well. "It is I who have proof. Proof that my parents were lawfully wed. You and your relatives may use your influence and your money to twist the outcome of this dispute, but that does not alter the truth."
Did she really think he was part of a deliberate attempt to cheat her and the lads out of their heritage?
Prestwick sucked in his breath, trying to summon up a surge of indignation. Instead, the air leaked out with an inward wince. Her accusation had stuck a raw nerve, more so because he could not blame her for thinking him in league with his cousin. He turned to the window, only to catch a reflection of the two lads watching him, their pulled features taut with disappointment.
"No matter what you think, Miss Greeley, I have no intention of twisting the truth," he said quietly. "Uncle Aubrey's legal advisor is an honest man—I promise you he shall examine the facts very carefully before coming to any decision." The bell sounded another sharp ring. "In the meantime, while we are awaiting his arrival, you must make yourselves at home here. I shall have Rusher show you upstairs—"
His great aunt make a choking sound as her face darkened to an ugly shade of puce. "Good Lord, Prestwick, surely you don't mean—"
"What I mean is that the Greeleys will be treated with the same respect as you are while they are under this roof," he announced with an emphatic tug at the hem of his embroidered waistcoat. "After all, until the legalities are decided upon, it seems to me that Master Parthenon must be considered to have equal claim to Highwood Manor as Cousin Harold."
Lady Farrington looked as though he had just announced that Lucifer had equal claim to pass through the Pearly Gates as St. Peter. "You were always an odd fish," she grumbled under her breath. "No sense of duty or—"
A poke of Harold's elbow nudged her to silence.
"We will, of course, defer to His Grace's wishes," said his cousin, though the brittle note of his voice seemed to echo his grandmother's less agreeable sentiments.
What he wished, thought Prestwick wryly, was a spade—a very large spade—so that he might dig a hole clear to China and drop the lot of them into it.
"Hmmph!" An aggrieved snort was the extent of Lady Farrington's comment.
"I will see that Rusher has the maids bring up hot water." Turning away from his relatives, the duke addressed the new arrivals. "You have only to ask if there is anything else you require." Seeing the young lady's features were still as flinty as Islay stone, he essayed a bit of humor. "Perhaps a dram of Bruichladdich to bring the color back to your cheeks?"
The fiery tinge of red that flooded her face had naught to do with malt whiskey. "I shall accept your hospitality, for in truth, I have little other choice."
But, noted Prestwick, that did not mean she had to like it.
"At breakfast we can discuss in more detail the particulars of your stay," he offered.
"Very well..." She rose quickly on seeing the butler appear in the doorway, and motioned for the lads to follow her.
The duke was glad to see they, at least, had cracked shy smiles at his earlier attempt at lightening the mood. However, Zara's countenance remained as immutable as Scottish granite. And as she marched past him,
he thought he heard her mutter under breath, "Just as long as they include steering well clear of each other."
* * *
What perverse trick of fate had blown the wind from her sails?
Zara flopped back upon the soft mattress and closed her eyes, too tired to notice the puffs of dust that rose up from her gown. She had expected the hostile sneers, veiled insults and outright threats from her distant relatives. But not even in her wildest dreams had she imagined the possibility that a certain gentleman might be one of them. The sight of his face, looming out from the slanting shadows, had struck her like a thunderbolt hurled down from the heavens by Zeus.
Rendered speechless, she had been unable to do more than stare in unblinking horror. With not a hair out of place or a stitch out of line, he had looked every inch the august aristocrat. While she, with her damp clothing and mouth hanging agape, must have resembled a fish out of water.
A particularly lumpy and unattractive fish.
She grimaced, recalling with dismal clarity the reflection she had caught in the hallway mirror of her tangled tresses, muddy half boots and rumpled pelisse.
Drat the King of Spades!
His purse had been a constant reminder of the duke, allowing them to travel over the Scottish border and into the north of England without having to wield shovels or spatulas in exchange for their passage. However, she had managed to keep from dwelling too much on how the burnished gold coins matched the highlights of his softly waving hair. Or how the fleeting glimpses of ocean from the mail coach window reminded her of the infinite shades of blue and green awash in his eyes.
Until now.
Finding herself face to face with the duke had forced her to admit to a disturbing truth—she felt an unwilling attraction to the man, one that she had been fighting since the moment she had grasped his chilled fingers and hauled him into her boat. It was not mere physical appearance that stirred a strange heat inside her. There was no denying the duke was a handsome man, his lithe frame and classic features set off to perfection by the exquisite materials and superb tailoring of his clothing. Yet she had painted plenty of men whose looks were a good deal more striking than his, and had experienced no more than a twinge of detached admiration.
The attraction was more than skin deep. Her skills were with line and pigment rather than pen and dictionary, so it was difficult to compose her mixed emotions into coherent words. As an artist trained to note the nuances of expression, she found his eyes a vortex of brooding intensity, drawing her in so deep she feared she might drown in the whirls and eddies of their current. The ocean hues were rich in their complexity, blending shades of lively intelligence with a tint of dry humor. But it was the dark undertone that caught her eye, a subtle shadowing of pain that she recognized all too well.
After all, it was a tone she saw every day, one that cast a somber tone to her own gaze.
Zara opened her eyes to find herself looking up at the brocade hangings of the carved tester bed. The glint of the late afternoon sun on the golden threads caused her to blink. Perhaps she was merely imagining things.
Or seeing only what she wished to see. Surrounded by the trappings of luxury, swaddled from the bruising demands of day-to-day existence by an unlimited purse, the duke had little reason to feel worry or doubt.
Fool! She added several more silent epithets. Just because they shared an intense interest in music did not mean they had anything else in common. Only a bird-witted peagoose would have tendered the hope, however unspoken, that a starchy Town aristocrat and an outspoken miss might become... friends.
The Duke of Prestwick had not offered friendship, she reminded herself roughly. He had offered pity, dropping a purse at her feet as casually as he might toss a bone to a hungry hound.
The dull throbbing in her head drew a small groan from Zara's lips. Muscles aching from the jostling of the long journey, she finally roused herself from the soft folds of the coverlet. Stripping off her travelworn outer garments she moved to the washbasin and splashed a handful of water over her face. As her lids fluttered open, drops clinging to the lashes like the unshed tears of anxiety she dared not let well up, she could not bite back a small gasp. The small cheval glass showed a haggard harridan clad in a threadbare shift.
Averting her eyes did nothing to buoy her sinking spirits. A look around the bedchamber only brought home with painful clarity the fact that she was not of this world of country estates, family antiques and fancy furnishings. The trouble was, she thought with a sniff, she was not quite sure what world she belonged in. Was she to be constantly adrift on a storm-tossed sea, forced to weather the vicissitudes of hostile relatives and indifferent advisors while trying to keep from foundering upon the shoals of poverty?
The churning of her insides caused a new wave of apprehension to rise in her throat. With it came the cold splash of reality.
She simply could not lose this coming battle. Not if Nonny were to have the Oxford education he dreamed of, not if Perry were to have the proper tutors to nurture his natural intelligence. And not if she were to avoid returning to Italy and taking up the slightly off-color life of a painter.
Which, she assured herself, she would do in a heartbeat rather than be forced into some drab position as a governess or drawing teacher to escape the almshouse.
The looking glass now showed that her eyes had hardened to a hue of polished steel. So she could not afford to see the duke as aught but the enemy. He might wax eloquent on the lyrical melodies of Haydn and the tumultuous genius of Beethoven, but who else would be orchestrating the plot to cast the Greeleys back out to sea?
* * *
"Well, I'll be a monkey. If that ain't the damnedest coincidence."
"You can say that again," muttered Prestwick. He did as well, substituting a decidedly more colorful adjective.
Stump gave a slight start at hearing such an improper word slip from the lips of his employer.
"Ouch!" growled the duke. "Would you mind not wielding that razor as if you were slicing out blocks of peat with a spade?"
"Er, sorry, sir," intoned the valet, dabbing at the nick with a bit of rolled linen.
Prestwick gave an involuntary wince as the other man resumed his scraping at the soapy lather. Never possessed of a light touch, Stump's current agitation made his zealous ministrations even more uncomfortable than usual. However, knowing the valet would be deeply hurt at being relieved of a basic duty, Prestwick resigned himself to a raw chin, though he did give an inward smile on thinking that his faithful retainer was giving new meaning to the old saying of 'extracting a pound of flesh.'
"You took me by surprise," went on Stump, absently wiping the blade on the sleeve of the freshly pressed coat that hung on the armoire door.
Surprise was putting it mildly, thought the duke. Several glasses of his uncle's finest French brandy, five cantos of Dante's Inferno and a half dozen of Mozart's piano etudes had done little to soothe his unsettled frame of mind. And his sleep had been short and fitful, even though he had not sought his bed until well after midnight.
Why that should be, he could not fathom. The headstrong hellion had been unjust in her accusations. His presence at Highwood Manor had an innocent explanation, if she had bothered to ask. Instead, she had assumed the worst of him...
He shifted in his chair, drawing a sharp rebuke from Stump. "Stop squirmin' like a stuck pig, else you'll end up with your windpipe sliced clean through."
"It might put me out of my misery," grumbled the duke. Fending off any further foray of the honed steel, Prestwick rose and toweled off his chin. "The thought of having to confront a feisty female before I have a chance to enjoy my pot of coffee and one of Monsieur Henri's special omelets is enough to cause an unsettling ache in my stomach."
The sight of the slurry of suds and shaved whiskers upon his brand new hunter green superfine also made him slightly sick, but he swallowed any comment on the ruined garment. "On second thought, I think I shall wear the navy merino instead. It is a bet
ter complement to the biscuit shade of my breeches."
"Biscuit? Now you have started my own breadbox growlin' for breakfast." Stump pursed his lips. "Biscuit, fawn, buff—they all look like a damn light brown to me. But I know better than to argue with your refined taste in color."
His hand shot out and deftly removed the requested coat from its place. "The navy it is."
Knotting a last, intricate loop in the length of starched linen, the duke finished tying his cravat and headed for the door, though in truth, he had little appetite for what undoubtedly was going to be a heated confrontation. After a few steps, however, his teeth set. He could weather the storm as long as the young lady confined herself to hurling insults at his head. But if she dared cast aspersions on the flaky croissants he had ordered his French chef to prepare, the ensuing thunder and lightning would be more than a mere tempest in a teapot!
His stomach growled in loud agreement.
Knowing his aunt's utter lack of taste in cuisine as well as clothing, he had made sure that the temperamental tyrant of his London kitchen had been asked to made the trip north. The sea voyage had nearly prompted a mutiny. Any further assault on the fellow's finely honed sensibilities would likely result in a scorching display of Gallic fury—not to speak of what would happen to the roast beef.
Taking the stairs two at a time, Prestwick was halfway down the corridor leading to the breakfast room when a loud crash, followed by several lesser thumps, sounded from behind the door of the library.
What new squall was brewing? he wondered. Biting back an irritated oath, he decided he had best check that no real disaster was imminent before sitting down to his cup of Jamaican coffee. His steps ground to a halt and his hand reached out for the brass latch.
Whatever he had expected to find behind the paneled oak, it was not the figure of Perry perched precariously at the very top of the shelves, one hand clinging to the rung of the varnished ladder, while the other clutched the remains of a tooled leather binding.
"I—I didn't mean to ruin it," stammered the lad, his face ashen with remorse. "It was heavier than I thought."
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