“They had no idea they were doing so, Robinson,” the duke drawled, his eyes tracing his friend’s progress blandly. “And I don’t believe they would have cared if they had.”
Clara snickered at the droll expression on the approaching man’s face as he reached the bottom of the stairs and hurried to them. “Well, introduce me, then, and we might have done with pretense.”
The duke seemed to sigh without actually releasing the breath to do so. “Mrs. Daniels and Miss Moore, might I present Mr. Robinson? A very old friend, and sometimes unintended stowaway, of mine.”
Mr. Robinson was mid-bow when that last comment registered, and he frowned at the duke for it. “Stowaway? My dear Kirklin, I was invited, and I never go where I am not wanted.” He shook his head and gave Clara an apologetic smile. “I apologize for him, Miss Moore. I do not think his manners have much improved from when you last knew him.”
Clara let herself laugh at that and smiled. “Our interaction was so long ago, Mr. Robinson, and I do not recollect a lack of manners from His Grace then. Indeed, politeness and manners were all we had.”
“The manners of a boy are very different to that of a man, Miss Moore.” Mr. Robinson grinned and offered his arm to Phoebe. “Mrs. Daniels, might I escort you into dinner?”
“I beg your pardon, Nat,” the duke interjected without too much fuss. “As the host, I do believe that is my prerogative.”
Mr. Robinson only raised a brow and took Phoebe’s hand, looping it into his arm. “But you always say you never stand on ceremony. How was I to know you suddenly wished to?”
The duke blinked, his expression not changing. His eyes moved to Clara. “He’s got a point.”
“I believe he does,” Clara agreed.
“Hmm.” The duke smiled apologetically at Phoebe. “My condolences, Mrs. Daniels. It would appear you have been claimed by my guest. Can you bear the unintentional slight?”
Phoebe’s lips quirked, her eyes narrowing. “I certainly can, Your Grace. I never take offense when eagerness overtakes the rules of formality.”
Clara coughed a small laugh and glanced back at the duke, who was nodding sagely.
“You are very gracious, Mrs. Daniels.” He turned to Clara and offered his arm. “Miss Moore, I suppose that leaves us to lead the way, if you please.”
Without hesitation, Clara placed her hand on his arm. “Lead on, Your Grace.”
He smiled at her words. “I daresay you could lead me in this house.”
The attempt at familiar humor made Clara’s own smile stiffen as her pulse skipped. “I’ll give you the honor, Your Grace. It is your house, after all.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” His smile remained, which settled her nerves as he led the way into the dining room.
It was elegantly set, far nicer than anything Clara had been privileged to dine at, but not as elaborate as she would have expected a duke’s table to be. Then again, the man had not intended to entertain, so there likely hadn’t been time to enhance things with more finery. As it was, the room was almost luminous with so much candlelight, and it made her smile.
“Why do you smile?” the duke asked her suddenly. “Memories?”
“Mmm,” was all the reply she made as he took her around to her place.
“Not painful, I hope.”
She looked up at him in surprise. “No, not at all. Nothing could be unpleasant about Kirkleigh.”
He gave her a gentle smile and assisted her with her chair, though she did not need it, then moved to his place down the table. Phoebe was situated across from her and Mr. Robinson sat on Clara’s right. No one, she noticed, sat opposite the duke at the other end.
Mr. Robinson caught her staring. “Bit of a tradition, I’m afraid,” he elaborated. “Kirklin’s sister is mistress of all his estates until he marries, and she finds it all a very great joke if her seat is reserved for her alone.”
Clara laughed at that, knowing Lady Adrianna well enough for that to be perfectly apt. “It is sweet of you all to humor her.”
Kirklin shrugged. “It’s not brotherly sweetness, Miss Moore. It’s self-preservation.”
“Amen,” Mr. Robinson added.
Their food was brought in and served, creating enough of a diversion for Clara to find her bearings again. The gentlemen were engaging enough, and it would be only too easy to slip into her own nature and behavior rather than focus on being Miss Moore. If she were not careful, the two would blend all too well, and she would find herself tangled in knots.
“Mrs. Daniels,” Kirklin said after a moment, giving her a scolding look, “I did say you did not have to change for dinner.”
“I always feel better when I change for dinner, Your Grace,” Phoebe said without effort. “More the thing, if you will. Clara, on the other hand, might not even remember to eat, let alone change for it, so engaged would she be in other matters.”
Clara’s cheeks flushed at the comment, which was more true than anyone could know, though it was true for Clara herself, not necessarily Miss Moore. Would Kirklin know that?
Mr. Robinson looked at her with mild interest. “Forgive me, Miss Moore, but I thought your given name was Alexandra. Was I mistaken?”
“No, you were not,” she quipped even as her heart began to race with some anxiety. “My name is Alexandra Claire, named for my mother. Papa thought it too much to have two versions of Alexandra in the house, so he wished to use Claire for me, and Claire became Clara.” She wrinkled up her nose on a laugh. “It’s a silly convolution of a name, is it not?”
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Mr. Robinson boasted. He pointed up at Kirklin freely. “Kirklin over there has the given name of George, but he hasn’t been called George since probably age three. His father was Marquess of Hawkendale, but it was Little Georgie who took on the nickname of Hawk. It suited once his father passed, God rest him, and he assumed the title, but when he inherited the dukedom, the nickname remained.”
Kirklin raised a brow, no doubt at having his life so revealed. “Or there is Charles Nathaniel Allen Robinson, who prefers to be known as Nat, and thus align himself with a rather pestering insect of the same name. How apt.”
The comment made all around the table laugh, including the man in question.
“When did you come to stay at Kirkleigh, Miss Moore?” Mr. Robinson asked, taking a sip of his wine. “How old were you?”
Clara chewed her bite of potato carefully, aligning her thoughts with the story she knew. “I discovered I had been made ward of the late duke after my parents died when I was seven years old, and shortly thereafter was sent for. I had been staying with my aunt, Mrs. Daniels, who was not yet married, when the duke himself came for me.”
Phoebe smiled sadly, inclining her head. “I was an unmarried woman of no means. It broke my heart, but I could not take care of my Clara girl under those circumstances, and my late sister knew it well.”
“I can only imagine,” Mr. Robinson said sympathetically. “Very good of you to think of what was best for her in spite of your feelings.”
“Thank you, Mr. Robinson,” Phoebe replied, her voice breaking just enough. Her smile at Clara spread further. “And my dear girl was more than amply looked after.”
Clara nodded in agreement. “I was. I never once felt anything other than cared for under Uncle Kirklin’s guidance.”
The present duke made a noncommittal sound as he chewed his own meal. “He certainly doted on you. Never inclined to marry or have children of his own, but I think you might have made him regret that decision later on.”
“He would have made a wonderful father,” Clara murmured, glancing down at her plate, wishing she had known someone as wonderful as the late duke in her own life.
What a difference that might have made.
Suddenly aware of the silence at the table, Clara looked up and forced a smile. “I was here at Kirkleigh until I was thirteen, at which time I began at Miss Masters’ School. When I had finished there, my aunt wrote to Uncle Kirklin to
request that she might take me abroad, as her circumstances had changed, and afterward see to my care herself.”
“And he agreed,” Mr. Robinson murmured, shaking his head in wonder.
“He agreed,” Clara confirmed. “He was beginning to be unwell himself and did not like the idea of my tending him throughout it all, nor of my missing any experiences he would have given me had his health permitted. I could not refuse his wishes for me. It would seem so very ungrateful…”
Phoebe gave her a kind look, if a little scolding. “Dear girl, he sent you off with that lovely letter, don’t you recall? You read it on our first night in Paris, just as he wished you to. He left you very clear instructions, did he not?”
Thinking quickly, wondering if that had been part of the notes from the real Miss Moore, and how she could have forgotten it, Clara nodded, swallowing hard. “Yes, he did. And he said I was not to harbor a moment’s guilt or regret in pursuing that which would bring me joy.”
“Hear, hear,” Mr. Robinson said, raising a glass. “To that which brings us joy!”
They all raised their glasses in a toast. “That which brings us joy.”
Clara glanced over at Kirklin as she brought her glass to her lips and found his eyes on her over the rim of his own glass.
What did he see there that kept his eyes on her? What did he think of this Miss Moore? Did he suspect her? Did he disapprove of her?
What would remaining in this house with him for the next three days bring?
“It’s going to be damned confusing to call him Kirklin when, to you, Kirklin is your departed guardian,” Mr. Robinson pointed out after drinking deeply from his glass. “Perhaps you might call him Hawk? What do you say, Your Grace?”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” Clara protested quickly, her cheeks flaming as she looked at Mr. Robinson in horror. “Such familiarity on so short an acquaintance is unthinkable.” She turned back to the duke. “I will not become confused, I can assure you.”
Kirklin shocked her by only shrugging as he set his glass down. “It won’t offend me in the least, Miss Moore. I shall not feel slighted, disrespected, or in any way affronted should you choose to forego the use of my title here. As I said, consider these walls and everything within them yours. Whatever will increase your comfort will suit me very well.”
The words were kindness itself, but his expression still seemed almost hooded as he spoke them. The paradox of it all left Clara uneasy, despite his saying she ought to be comfortable. Was he doing that on purpose? Or was he simply the sort of man who was goodness at his core but so wrapped in his reserve that one had to look for it to be sure?
Whatever it was, she would take advantage of what he offered, as he was indeed offering it.
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Clara murmured, giving him a small smile. “I will not forego politeness entirely, it is not in my nature. But I will consider myself free to adapt as circumstances allow.”
One corner of Kirklin’s mouth curved, and with it, something in Clara’s stomach turned to exactly the same angle. “As you like, Miss Moore. Just as you like.”
Chapter Eight
There was something about Miss Moore.
He wasn’t sure what, but it was certainly something.
For good or for ill, just something.
When she was in a room, Hawk had to look at her. Not constantly, not regularly, but repeatedly, as it happened, as though she would change from one moment to the next. She was captivating in every moment, there was no mistaking that, and her beauty was only part of the equation. Expressive features, enchanting eyes, an unassuming nature, and that laugh…
He could still hear it in his mind, though it had been a full day since he had heard it.
He hadn’t even seen Miss Moore today, and he could recollect her laugh clearly.
Maddening.
“All right there, Your Grace?” the foreman called.
Hawk waved a hand at him and hefted the position of his hands on the two-man saw into a more secure position. “Ready,” he grunted.
The burly man on the other side of the saw nodded, and the two of them began to work in tandem, Hawk’s arms aching with the amount of work he had put them through already.
He should have come earlier in the autumn.
Not that Kirkleigh required much of him, but there would have been more for him to do if he had. Meetings with his estate agent the day before had proven just as he’d suspected, that all was in perfect order, but now that he’d acquired a new appreciation for the manual labor of his estates, opportunities to exercise those interests were at the forefront of his mind.
How could he have recalled that Kirkleigh was a masterful estate for hops gardens and hazel trees? There was a small fruits orchard as well, but it tended to be only providing for the families on the estate and for the local village markets, if there was a surplus. Being so late in autumn, all of the harvesting had been done, and there was nothing additional to do that might benefit the estate.
Which left winter preparations for his tenants.
Still good work, but hardly as satisfying.
His agent, Mr. Cole, had been baffled when Hawk had asked him to take him around to the tenant houses and cottages rather than the orchards and gardens on the estate. But, Hawk pointed out, Cole was an active man himself and could frequently be found at the smithy’s working at horseshoes or axles, though he was no longer in that trade himself. Sufficiently encouraged, Cole had done as Hawk asked, and both men were now assisting laborers in mending cottages, fixing fences, and chopping firewood.
It was supposed to take Hawk’s mind off of Miss Moore, but it had not.
Could not.
He’d not slept well the night before, not after the entertaining and engaging supper they’d enjoyed, even though all had retired early. Rather than rest, Hawk had racked his brain for every memory he could drudge up about Miss Moore, searching those moments for any sign of the woman now staying beneath his own roof.
He found nothing significant with which to compare the two.
Oh, there were moments enough with a young Miss Moore in them, but their interactions had been so fleeting that he barely recalled a word of their conversations. If they’d had any. He recalled one particular occasion where her ribbons had grown loose in her golden hair and he’d picked one off the ground for her, though why such an insignificant moment should remain in his mind so particularly he could not have said.
Why hadn’t they come to his uncle’s home more regularly than they had? Relations between the brothers had been cordial, and Hawk, as his uncle’s heir once his father had passed, surely ought to have had some training at the hands of his uncle. Yet nothing of the kind had taken place. Letters from his uncle had arrived, very like the scenario Miss Moore had described with her own letter, but on no memorable occasion had he and his uncle broken bread together and discussed matters of the various Kirklin estates.
He had fond memories of the man, but they were few and far between.
In that respect, he envied Miss Moore, and there was a great deal of guilt for that. To envy an orphan girl, passed to a guardian she had never met rather than stay with her only living relation? To be relegated to the care of an aging duke with no wife and no children, brought up alone in a great house like Kirkleigh…
Yet envy her he did.
His thoughts returned to the present as the saw cut through the last of the log, releasing the tension he had been working against and raising him up from his slightly lowered position. He heaved an exhausted exhale and slumped his shoulders, the fatigue in them beyond anything he could recall.
It was a strangely glorious feeling.
A rumble overhead brought all attention heavenward, and Hawk placed his hands on his hips as he took in the impending storm.
“I think that’s all for today, Your Grace,” the foreman called out again. “The lads will just finish up on the cottage at the end of the lane, and we’ll resume work again tomorrow, weather permitting.”
Hawk nodded at him. “Agreed, Mr. Jacks. ’Til tomorrow, then.” He shook hands with his fellow laborers, then started the walk back up the path to Kirkleigh.
There was a direct enough path through the village, but in his present situation, appearance what it was, he favored the longer, more private route along the cliffside.
It would not do for the Duke of Kirklin to be seen by the public without a coat, cravat, or waistcoat, let alone to be damp with perspiration and the linen of his shirt streaked with dirt from various tasks. White had procured him sturdier linen shirts, as he’d suggested, and it had proven both useful and frugal. His finer shirts would have been ripped to shreds or stained permanently, and he would have had to send out for more, which would have cost a greater sum of money. As he was procuring various trinkets and accoutrements for Adrianna each month, he could hardly condone more expenses on trivial matters, though he could certainly afford it.
Adrianna, naturally, thought it was all coming from the pocket money allotted to her each month, but Hawk had decided very early on in her time at Miss Masters’ that her whims and fancies, to a point, would come from his own funds. Her pocket money would be set aside and saved up so that when she completed her studies, she would have a sum of money for her own ends that was not tied up in her dowry or the estate.
He had not looked at the figures for some time, but it was certainly approaching a rather impressive number.
Hawk inhaled deeply when he neared the cliffside, the crashing of the waves prompting the action, as it usually did. The sea was restless at present, another sign of the weather turning, though no rain fell as yet. The path along the coast was well worn, though overgrown in parts, which shouldn’t surprise him. There were no houses but his this far up, and only his staff would be in residence in his absence. Some of them might have taken the path on occasion, but they would be more inclined to take the path through the village rather than the coast.
Fortune Favors the Sparrow Page 9