Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  It was the most soothing sound he’d ever heard.

  What in the world was coming over him?

  Shaking his head, Hawk strode into the study and shut the door firmly behind him, perhaps with more force than he should have, but it served the purpose of establishing proper distance from his guests. He moved around the large, open desk and shrugged out of his coat, draping it neatly on the back of his chair before sitting and staring at the vacant surface before him.

  He was safe in his study, yet there was not much for him to do in here. He hadn’t set up a meeting with the agent, had not determined when, or if, he would see his sister, if he needed to see to any particular estate matters…

  Coming into his study might have been a pointless escape.

  Hawk slumped back against his chair, pursing his lips in thought. He did not have tasks to accomplish, but he could identify his tasks… It would pass the time, and enable him to perhaps quantify the length of his stay with more accuracy.

  As he was desperate to leave, having that in his mind could be rather motivating.

  He pulled open a drawer and retrieved a sheet of paper, nodding in satisfaction as he then dipped his pen in the inkwell and began to write. He scribbled down the items he’d been thinking of, then began listing any and all ideas for how he could be of physical help to his tenants and estate. It was more difficult than he thought, given he had no insight as to what was needed, and he was not as familiar with the tenants. And as for the house…

  Well, unless he wanted to be the one to hang the artwork back in the gallery, he wasn’t certain anything truly needed improvement.

  Perhaps he ought to meet with members of the staff, as well.

  Surely he could help the gardening staff with weeds and pruning, if nothing else.

  The duke who pruned.

  That would be an excellent epithet for himself. He could hear Nat’s laughter about the thing now.

  He frowned as he realized he was actually hearing Nat’s distinctive laughter, and it was echoing in the entryway.

  Hawk glanced at the door, waiting to see if another person’s laughter would join in. He wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about the possibility, but he waited for it all the same.

  The laughter came closer, still alone, and Hawk returned his attention to the paper before him, tapping the tip of his pen on a corner of the page in thought.

  “Hawk! Hawk, where are you hiding?” The door to the study was flung open, and a disgusted snort rent the air. “You’ve been here less than an hour and you’re working already? I thought you said there was nothing to do here!”

  “I never said that,” Hawk told his friend simply, adding an examination of the cove on his estate to the list.

  Nat grunted once. “Yes, you did. You said you would have nothing to do.”

  Hawk gestured faintly with his pen. “You see? Not the same thing.”

  “Explain that to me.” Nat pulled one of the other chairs over and plopped himself into it with his natural inelegance.

  “There is plenty to do in Kent,” Hawk told him, still not looking up. “And a great deal one might do here at Kirkleigh for entertainment, if one chose. But as for my present aims, and what I have found such satisfaction in doing elsewhere, I, myself, will have nothing to do here.”

  Now he looked up and found his friend scowling darkly at him. “That was not an amusing trick, Hawk.”

  Hawk shrugged a shoulder. “It wasn’t a trick. Just proper usage of the English language. Can I be blamed if you haven’t mastered it as you ought?”

  Nat shook his head in continued derision before jerking his thumb towards the rest of the house. “Who else is here? I thought you had no intention of hosting anything or anyone.”

  “I didn’t, and I don’t.” Hawk set his pen down with a short sigh. “But when I arrived, I found Miss Moore and her aunt already here, so it seemed impolite to ask them to leave.”

  “Miss Moore?” Nat raised a brow. “Should I know her?”

  Hawk shook his head. “She was my uncle’s ward; she spent her childhood here.”

  “Did you know her then?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  Slowly, Nat sat up in his chair and leaned forward, pressing the tips of his fingers together and drumming them at a maddening pace. “Really, Your Grace? You did? And she is… unmarried still?”

  Hawk stared at the idiot across from him without emotion, almost without blinking. “She is. And I did. And that is an end of the vein of thoughts currently circulating in your mind.”

  “Oh, I can assure you these veins are heading for some vital organs indeed. Rejuvenated, they are.” Nat laced his fingers and propped them under his chin. “Pity she’s so beautiful, it will make resisting her quite difficult.”

  “I know, and it’s…” Hawk clamped on his lips hard, narrowing his eyes at having been so neatly caught in the obvious trap.

  Nat grinned like the mischievous lad he’d undoubtedly been, but said nothing else.

  Best to move on under the circumstances.

  “The point is,” he continued, “this house was more home to her than it ever was to me, and likely more than it will be. As I intended to be here a very short amount of time, I saw no reason she could not use the house as she wished and remain, if she chose.”

  “Hold, sir.” Nat straightened in his seat and matched Hawk’s suspicious look. “Hold, I say.”

  Hawk held his hands up just a little above the surface of the table. “Holding, sir…”

  Nat dipped his chin in a superior nod of acknowledgement. “Intended, you said. Intended. Past tense. Do you not still intend to remain here a very short time?”

  Bloody hell…

  There was nothing to say to that, and Hawk did not even attempt a rebuttal.

  Nat’s smile was smug and intrigued. “Damned tricky thing, that English language, isn’t it?”

  Chapter Seven

  Kirkleigh was the most perfect house Clara had ever set foot in. She would even consider it a more beautiful place than the estate that the Miss Masters’ school had settled in, though it certainly was not comparable in size. But the view from the Willow room was one of the coast and the sea, and she could have stared out of the window for the rest of the day and long into the night without finding a single moment wasted.

  Had Phoebe not come in to talk a while, she might have done just that.

  What she had seen of the house so far was no less exquisite. She had every intention of wandering tonight once all of the rest of them were in bed, determined to not only know the house as well as the real Miss Moore would have done, but to appreciate the work of art it was. And tomorrow, if the day was fine, she would explore that coastline she could see so clearly.

  Phoebe had even told her she should draw it, as well as the coves thereabouts.

  Let it never be said that Clara turned down a suggestion for her art that she herself found inviting.

  But first, she must have dinner with the Duke of Kirklin.

  It wasn’t convenient to have him here with them while they were trying to do some preliminary investigating, but adaptation had given them an equal opportunity. The duke had known of Miss Moore’s fondness for the place, so she might be permitted wandering and intrusion for the sake of nostalgia. She could move about without suspicion and without having to worry if she might be disturbing something or someone.

  It really might have been more beneficial that the duke was here, all things considered.

  Phoebe hadn’t given her any insight into more specific tasks as yet, but Clara was sure she would say something before they retired for the night. Pippa had promised them both the exact details that had prompted this investigation of theirs once this first visit was completed, if it was called for. It seemed that she and the other superiors in the covert world wished to protect these early investigations, and the people involved, to such an extent that the larger issues facing them were not elaborated on unless required. Clara could easily see how
that could be maddening, but she was grateful for it. She didn’t want to know more at this point. She didn’t want that window to the darker, more terrifying side of the world to be opened for her.

  Unless it had to be.

  She wouldn’t back out now that she had committed to this project, but she would not be disappointed or upset if it turned out that she was not needed further.

  Spending a few days here at Kirkleigh with the handsome Duke of Kirklin in her vicinity would not be a trial in the least.

  Terrified though she was when he appeared, seeing the initial expression of irritation on his face, she had recognized that he was an exceptionally attractive man. Undoubtedly the most handsome one she had ever seen, which made imposing on his estate a worse crime. He had eyes darker than anything she had ever seen, and dark hair that, due to his riding in, had taken on a windswept look, though she suspected it was usually rather carefully kept. His clothing fit him perfectly, and while she would not necessarily have called his a muscular frame, she would be hard pressed to find anything lacking in it.

  His glower was made more impressive by dark, thick brows, and having it turned in her direction was unsettling in ways she had never known. It shook her kneecaps and twisted her stomach, made her palms sweat, and caused the rims of her ears to catch fire.

  Yet above and beyond all of that, he was a handsome man.

  Once he had begun speaking with them, and his irritation had faded, he seemed a very good sort of man, respectful and a little playful. His insistence that they remain showed kindness, but anyone could be polite and kind upon first meeting. She refused to judge a man upon only the first encounter, especially after travelling and being faced with unexpected intruders into his home, so only time would tell what his true nature was.

  If he showed such a thing to these two visitors.

  It occurred to her that he would know Miss Moore from his youth, and the pair of them might not have had an agreeable relationship. Or they could have been the best of friends. Had Miss Moore fancied herself in love with him? Had he had any inclination towards her in the same way? Had the late duke had any wishes for the pair of them? Nothing official had been set up, she knew that much, but it said nothing about wishes and what might have been.

  She had to play her part as Miss Moore carefully until she understood more.

  The present duke hadn’t said or done anything as yet that gave her cause for concern in that regard, and he had not addressed her by her given name, which she took for a good sign. But there had been several years since their last meeting, as far as she was aware, so it could simply be good manners there.

  Dinner this evening could answer all of those questions.

  Or give her more.

  Clara stared out of the window of her room, exhaling slowly. She was fully dressed for dinner, having opted to change for the occasion as a show of respect, and one of the maids of the house had assisted her with her hair. All in all, she felt rather pretty, her borrowed green muslin fitting nicely and giving her eyes a brighter hue of green. It was perhaps a little plain, but that could be forgiven easily, as dining with a duke had not been on her, or Miss Moore’s, agenda for the trip.

  She prayed it would be enough.

  “Clara? Are you ready, child?” Phoebe’s voice called from the room adjoining hers, knocking softly.

  “Yes, Aunt Fern,” Clara called, smoothing her skirts with quick, anxious strokes.

  The door joining their rooms opened, and Phoebe entered in an array of cream and pink, her complexion heightened by the pink sprigged rosettes dotting her bodice and extending into vines on her skirts. She was far lovelier than Clara could ever hope to be, regardless of age, and Phoebe’s very small smile displayed nothing of whatever emotions lay beneath the pristine mask of her features.

  “You look lovely,” Clara told her, turning from the window and clasping her own trembling fingers before her.

  Phoebe eyed Clara up and down. “As do you, my dear. Simple and unadorned, rather understated. When we return to the Convent, I’ll ask for Tilda to be sent for. To continue this role, you must have more finery.”

  Clara had been told that the school was called the Convent in the covert world. She looked down at herself, then up at her faux aunt. “Truly? Why? And who is Tilda?”

  Phoebe’s smile turned far more mischievous. “Yes, truly, and because you are the former ward of a duke who was given a very handsome sum upon his death, and you must look it. And Tilda… Well, she is a dear friend, and you have need of her.”

  That sounded ominous.

  “But why…?” Clara began, only to have Phoebe raise a hand, cutting her off.

  “There is not enough time,” Phoebe said without concern. “You’ll understand when you meet her. Now, shall we go down?”

  Tension surged within Clara, straightening her legs to an almost painful degree. “Is it too late to ask for a tray in my room?”

  Phoebe gave her a sympathetic and knowing look, though there was an edge to it. “I’m afraid so. And it would serve nothing to do so. We need to be on good terms with the duke if we are to explore here, and if we want any hope of coming back.”

  “I know,” Clara sighed, twisting one of her fingers a little. “I just feel so uprooted by having him here. It makes the pretending even worse.”

  “Why should it?” Phoebe inquired as she reached out and separated Clara’s hands. “You’re not going to be interrogated as to things you ought to know, and if there is a question that should have a very specific answer you don’t know, be charmingly evasive. That should be simple enough, you must have much practice doing so for various parents of students, or the students themselves.”

  There was a thought. Clara hadn’t considered that she might already have the training she would need for dealing with the sort of conversation soon required of her. It would not be pleasant lying to the duke directly, so if she could avoid doing such a thing in any way, she most certainly would.

  Charmingly evasive.

  That she could do.

  Just how charming it would be was not for her to say, but evasive was manageable enough.

  Nodding, she turned and moved to the door of her bedchamber, Phoebe following with only the swishing of her skirts as accompaniment.

  “You remember the way down, don’t you, Clara?” Phoebe murmured behind her as they moved out into the corridor.

  “I do,” Clara replied. She forced her pace to be sedate, trying to balance the tight ringlets alongside either ear. She preferred a looser style normally, but she hadn’t the nerve to tell the maid when it had been done. She blinked, bringing herself back to the moment. “Though how we’re to get to the dining room is another question entirely.”

  “Never mind that.” Phoebe hummed a little as they moved down the hall, Clara’s attention drawn by the paintings dotting the walls, each encased in gold frames. “Great families and houses enter the dining room from a parlor or sitting room, which should be sufficiently open for us to see well enough. All you have to do is seem confused and turned around, which would be understandable enough for anyone. Are you listening to me?”

  Clara nodded, though she was far more interested in the intricate carvings on the wood beams above them, the artistry in the moldings and medallions. Even as they descended the stairs, Clara could not help but admire the tapestries, the grandeur of the windows, and the fine grain in the wood that had been selected for the railing of the stairs. There was beauty everywhere she looked, and yet she could not take it all in with the intensity she wished to.

  “Clara, dear, I can see why you are so enamored by the memory of this place,” Phoebe announced in a haughty, airy manner as she took her arm, drawing Clara’s attention to her. “What an enchanting setting for a child to be brought up in. You must take time for yourself to wander its halls, revisit every nook and cranny. Do you think the duke will mind?”

  It was on the tip of Clara’s tongue to tell Phoebe that she hadn’t the faintest idea what
the duke would allow or mind, or what it was like to grow up in this house, when another voice answered first.

  “No, Mrs. Daniels, the duke will not mind.”

  Clara restrained a gasp and turned to look below them as they descended.

  The duke stood there, smiling politely up at them, still in his previous clothing, as he’d intimated, though looking a good deal neater and more formal. And he was more impossibly handsome thus than she’d imagined.

  Swallowing with some difficulty, Clara smiled herself. “He won’t? Are you certain?”

  The duke smiled further still. “I think I can safely say so. But if you’d prefer, I’ll inquire of him later.”

  Clara could not help but laugh at that, though the playful comment did not seem entirely natural to the man who had offered it. Why should that be, and how could she know it?

  He did not say anything else as they finished their path down the stairs, winding around at last and presenting themselves before him.

  His dark eyes took them both in without judgment, his slight smile still in place. “Ladies, you are looking well and refreshed, if I may say so.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace,” Clara murmured, curtseying in greeting. “I hope you have not been waiting on us.”

  He inclined his chin. “No, Miss Moore, I’ve been waiting on another guest entirely. He arrived after we parted, and he’s likely to get lost in his own house, let alone in Kirkleigh. I thought it best I escort him, for everybody’s sake.”

  “Was he also unexpected?” she ventured to ask, continuing to smile at the memory of their previous exchange.

  As she hoped, the duke’s smile curved further still. “He was not. I was well aware of his coming, and when he heard I had other guests, he was far more interested in being here, I assure you.”

  A jaunty whistling met their ears, drawing Clara’s attention up to see a striking, fair-haired man in a deep blue coat ambling down the stairs at an easy lope. The whistling stopped as soon as he saw them, and a quick, easy grin spread across his handsome face. “Kirklin, you should have sent for me in my tardiness. I would never have kept such fair ladies waiting on me.”