Fortune Favors the Sparrow

by Rebecca Connolly

  Did she expect to see the villagers that regularly came to the spring fête the school held? Not only would that have ruined her assignment, but it would have disappointed her, as hardly a one of them would have recognized her or recollected her name.

  What an embarrassing impulse.

  “Miss Moore!”

  How in the world could she be hearing a familiar voice in a place such as this? Still, she turned and looked, smile in place.

  The smile became slightly strained as she saw Mrs. Browning bobbing towards her, wiry frame swathed in lavender silks and lace. The woman’s smile was warm, but somehow, she seemed more angular in her present appearance than she had been that day on the shore when Clara had met her. The attempted pile of her hair had not helped matters, as it seemed to be somehow melting from its heights into a coiled mass instead.

  The urge to adjust her own hair made Clara pinch her thumb and forefinger together beside her. “Mrs. Browning, what a pleasure!”

  Mrs. Browning beamed and tilted her head to one side, making Clara fear that her diminishing coif might slide from her scalp entirely. “You are a vision, my dear. What a pity Kirklin is not here to see it.”

  Clara’s stomach clenched in distress. “The duke is very kind and was a gracious and generous host.”

  “But is he not missing you terribly?” Mrs. Browning pressed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “I could see how fond you were of each other that day, such a sweet pairing.”

  “I cannot presume to know His Grace’s feelings, Mrs. Browning,” Clara said as kindly as she could while the temptation to bare her teeth roared within her. “He was most considerate of my whims that morning, to be sure, but anything else is…”

  Phoebe sighed loudly and returned to Clara’s side with a disparaging look. “Mrs. Browning, how shall I bear to have such a polite and modest niece? She will not allow me to make any such claims myself, though it would be my dearest wish. Forgive me, I know we have not been introduced, but I truly feel that you might condole with me on this matter.”

  “Mrs. Browning, may I present my aunt, Mrs. Daniels?” Clara murmured, wishing she could jab Phoebe in the side with a pointy elbow without causing a reaction.

  Mrs. Browning brightened markedly as she took in Phoebe’s elegant ensemble and bearing and nodded rather sagely. “Indeed, Mrs. Daniels, I believe I do. Good manners on her part, to be sure, but really…”

  “Really, Mrs. Browning, indeed.” Phoebe smiled and gestured towards the room. “Will you take a turn with me, Mrs. Browning?”

  “Of course!” The woman turned at once and Phoebe joined her, gliding in a way that only heightened their difference in comportment.

  If only Minerva could see the comparison.

  Clara got herself some punch, and began to meander on her own, content, for the moment, to not be forced into conversation. Phoebe might soon have Clara in an awkward situation by stirring up gossip, but it would all die down eventually, and with Hawk being away, what harm was there?

  “My niece spoke so warmly of your beach, Mrs. Browning,” Phoebe said loudly as she and Mrs. Browning reached the windows, “and of your generosity in permitting her access to it on such short notice. Might I have the pleasure of walking there myself on Thursday, if the weather is fine?”

  “Thursday would be lovely,” Mrs. Browning conceded without hesitation. “Indeed, I believe we are entertaining the Goldings that day, and it would be no trouble at all to have you, as well.”

  “The beach is always open on Thursdays at Brownings’,” a gentleman in the room chuckled, overhearing them easily. “It is only on Tuesdays that one must face disappointment.”

  Clara’s ears perked up at that, and she moved towards the women as casually as she dared. “Tuesdays?” she repeated. “Why is that?”

  Mrs. Browning gave the man a playfully scolding look. “Mr. Francis would have you think it is always unavailable, but I assure you, it is not so.” She smiled at Clara now. “Every second and fourth Tuesday, rather than host any friends or neighbors on our beach, we give it over to our tenants for fishing and for their own entertainment once the fishing has been done.”

  “Fishing for the markets?” Clara asked with unfeigned interest, though the question itself was not one she cared for an answer to so much as continuing the conversation.

  The generous owners of the beach she was tasked with inspecting had specified days of closure? Whatever for? Why so regular? Why an entire day? It made little sense, and her curiosity was roused into full awareness.

  “If they like,” Mrs. Browning replied with a grand sort of magnanimity, “or purely for themselves. It has long been a tradition at Barcliffe, and they do so love it, we could not bear to part from the way of things. So long as it is not the second or fourth Tuesday of the month, the beach at Barcliffe is always available for all.”

  It was, was it?

  Clara smiled and sipped her punch, the beginnings of a plan starting to form.

  Chapter Fifteen

  He’d grown so used to notes from Clara that notes from anyone else were more an annoyance than they ought to have been.

  A note from his sister, for example, ought not to have sent him into bouts of irritation, and yet here he was, sitting moodily in his study.

  Irritated. And pacing.

  It was rare that Adrianna wrote to him to ask for favors. She wrote to him faithfully once a month, short details of her daily life, but other than that, only when forced. On occasion, she had been so forced and had to give him a report of her behaviors in said letters. She was not particularly poorly behaved, but he had received the odd note or two over the years informing him of certain behavioral quirks and actions that concerned her instructors. He had not had one for some time now, which was much appreciated.

  This note, however, did not fall into any of his expected categories.

  For some reason or another, Adrianna had developed a desire to do some volunteering with the rudimentary academy that was partnered with the Miss Masters’ school and needed his permission to do so. Perhaps it was due to her position as the sister of a duke, and considering that the rudimentary academy, named for its benefactor, Lord Rothchild, contained some girls from the lowest class in Society. No doubt, the school had received some harsh words in the past when others had so volunteered and their parents wished for them to keep with their own station.

  Hawk would never have done so.

  That was not to say that he wished for his sister to marry across stations, necessarily, though he did not foresee himself cutting her off if she chose to do so. Rather, he thought spending time with such poor girls would be rather good for his sister, or for anyone of a higher station in life. It might grant her a greater appreciation for what she possessed, seeing what others did not possess, and heaven knew that Lady Adrianna Russell could use a greater appreciation for her lot in life.

  Oddly, Adrianna had not included any form or instructions on the permission he needed to give, nor any details as to what her volunteering would entail. She had not asked him to come speak with the headmistress, nor had she expressed what exactly he would need to say in a response.

  His rather tight-lipped sister had exceeded her previously set patterns there.

  It was exactly the sort of thing he would have discussed with Nat, not that his friend had any particular insight into Adrianna, but simply because of his natural understanding of people in general.

  But Nat had been true to his word and departed for Daveney shortly after stating he would do so, leaving Hawk without a single person to commiserate on the strange contents of his sister’s request.

  What in the world was he to do? Reply with some vague permission that said absolutely nothing at all?

  He could hardly write, “I, George Russell, Duke of Kirklin, hereby grant permission for my sister, Lady Adrianna Russell, to do as she likes,” or some such.

  She might take over France if he wrote that. Or become a laundress, though that was hardly likely. Or c
ommandeer a ship and sail to the West Indies.

  He shuddered at the thought, which was not as far-fetched as one might think of her.

  Adrianna had always had a wild, adventurous streak about her.

  No, the fact of the matter was that he could not grant a general permission for such a task. He had every faith in the school, and in those charged with its running, to keep his sister safe and never compromise her reputation in any way, but there were too many questions he still held regarding something as varied as volunteering.

  His sister had stated she wished to begin straightaway, which did not suit his present idea of replying to inquire further as to this project of hers. Knowing his sister as he did, she would have responded in rather agitated tones and found a way to forge his signature on whatever she wished. She would have her way, no matter what he said or how he said it.

  Or when.

  “Your Grace,” his butler, Knox, intoned suddenly, making Hawk jump.

  “Knox,” Hawk managed to say without any strange inflections, moving towards him. “I did not hear you come in.”

  Knox’s thin lips twitched, but, amazingly, he did not smile. “Apologies, Your Grace. A message for you. From Kirkleigh.”

  Heart palpitations stood in the way of Hawk’s immediate action, and he stared with some abandonment at the tightly folded paper laying on a platter in Knox’s gloved grasp.

  He blinked twice, which seemed to settle his heart enough for his legs to function, and closed the distance between them to pluck the message from its platter and stare at the wax seal on the back.

  There was nothing special about it. Not even an impression from a ring or a stamp. Stafford would have used the Kirklin seal, had it been from him.

  Clara had no seal.

  He turned the folded note over and looked at the direction. Sure enough, the hand was hers, and the very slight flourish on occasional letters made him smile freely.

  A soft clearing of a throat brought his head up, and Knox raised a politely questioning brow.

  Hawk would have flushed in embarrassment had he thought about it long enough. “Thank you, Knox,” he said instead, turning away and moving to the window.

  He did not wait for the door to the study to close, nor to see what his butler would do. He broke the seal and unfolded the paper quickly.

  I wonder, Your Grace, if you could direct me to the location of a book on the history of Kent. I am sure there is one in the grand library at Kirkleigh, but alas, I cannot find it. In return, I will relay the answer to your previous request, that of the Maple Room’s bed hangings and their suitability in the room itself.

  The hangings are lovely, and quite suitable. I find they complement the decor, and the wallpaper within. But I suspect, Your Grace, that you knew that already.

  And I would take this opportunity to disagree with you on one point alone: There is nothing unremarkable about the Maple. Not in the room, not in the tree, nor in any other respect.

  Palpitations resumed, and with a furious pace and unparalleled power. He thought a few of his ribs might crack from the force of it as the image of those words in her hand repeated in his mind like the flickering of a candle.

  There was no mistaking her meaning, and the boldness of it caught his breath. He was not put off by her saying so, not in the least, and particularly not when it was so delicately hidden in a way that only he would understand.

  He had likened himself to the maple once, just upon their first meeting, and called it unremarkable. Sturdy and tall, but unremarkable.

  She refuted that now, and he’d have kissed her had she done so in his presence.

  What an impulse to acknowledge!

  He could not take much more of this correspondence between them across the counties. She was growing more engaging, more adorable by the day, and their conversation would have lasted all of five minutes had they done so in person.

  Yet he felt as though he had been speaking with her for hours. Years, even. He felt as though he knew her in a way he had never known another living soul. As though their innocent, masquerading, silly notes back and forth had been a real courtship.

  As though he could admit to loving her already.

  His knees shook, and he gripped the ledge of the window to steady himself, the letter creasing with the increased pressure of his hand. Could he love her? Did he?

  Would he?

  He had to see her face again, had to feel the discerning power in her eyes on him, had to feel the touch of her hand. He would know the moment he was in her presence, he was certain, and then he would know what to do and how to act.

  But how would he get to Kent and Kirkleigh? What would be his reason for doing so? He could not say he had been spurred on with the fire of hope from a line in her note, and he could not create some false calamity on the estate when he had recently been there and verified that all was well.

  He began to pace again, tapping the blessed note into the palm of his hand as though it could send the answer to him through the connection.

  What could he do, and how could he do it?

  Elmsley was in perfect hands, and he was superfluous. It would be easy enough to leave now, and he could return with Adrianna for the Christmas holidays when the time was right.

  Along with any other persons who might have an interest in joining them.

  The letter hit his palm once more when he froze, his eyes widening as various words and ideas began to connect in his mind.

  Adrianna.

  He glanced over at his desk where the note from his sister sat, still open, her own neat hand on display as though given by heaven itself.

  He could go to Adrianna.

  She needed an answer straightaway, he needed answers before he could give his own, and the most efficient manner in doing so would be to go to her and ask his questions at once. He could assure himself of this opportunity she wished to take part in, and she would have a prompt answer from him.

  And then he would be free to do as he liked.

  It would make sense for him to stay at Kirkleigh while visiting his sister. It was what he had always done. That was the most expected thing of him, and anything else would have been cause for comment if anyone heard of it.

  There was no need for him to create comment over this.

  No, no, he had best go and see to his sister’s wishes personally, though a letter would have done easily, out of respect for her apparently fervent desire.

  It was exactly what a doting, kind, generous guardian would do.

  And he might as well stay for some weeks and take the opportunity to see his sister more than once. Why, it would be a kindness for his horses and coachmen to remain until the holidays, rather than force them all to make the journey again.

  Weeks at Kirkleigh.

  What a prospect.

  He grinned and clapped the letter into his palm again before turning to stride from the room, swiping his sister’s letter up in the process. “Knox!” he bellowed, his voice echoing in the empty corridors of Elmsley Abbey. “Prepare my coach!”

  “Why in the world are we doing this?”

  “I’ve told you and Fern what I heard. Neither of you made any sort of protest when I did so.”

  “Her name was Flora, not Fern.”

  Clara rolled her eyes and hurried along, her dark skirts rippling against her legs in the cool night breeze. “I know what her name was then, but it does not change what her name is now. For heaven’s sake, Brick, did you or did you not insist on accompanying me when I venture to the beach at night?”

  The man beside her grumbled incoherently, which made Clara smile in spite of her irritating situation at present.

  “I shall take that as a yes,” Clara said primly.

  “I did not mean for us to go out on a fool’s errand,” Brick snapped without venom. “Sparrow, you heard something, and that is all. You’ve no information to prove anything, let alone to presume this will give us anything. In this line of work, you need solid evidence to
take action, not a whim or ideas of a grand discovery.”

  Clara glanced at him, annoyance and embarrassment rising in equal tides. “Would you do me the courtesy of speaking to me as though I am an equal and not a child? I may not have years of experience in doing any of this, and it may be my first mission, but do you really think I would leap to the conclusion of watching a beach in the middle of the night in late autumn during a rather cold spell if I did not think it would prove useful? I may be a woman, Brick, but I am not an imbecile, nor am I prone to flights of fancy or grand ideals.”

  Brick walked silently beside her for a moment, and Clara felt her cheeks heat further still in the night, the temperature all the greater for the chill the air held against them.

  Just when she thought she might have soured him for good, he exhaled roughly. “You’re quite right. I never thought you an imbecile, and certainly know better than to think your being a woman is in any way a hindrance to your abilities. I’ve been tossed on my back more than once by one of the female operatives, and I’m not ashamed to say so.”

  The image made Clara smile, and she managed to look back at her hulking companion almost shyly. “I’d never be able to do that, Brick, nor are you in danger of it from me.”

  He flashed a quick, crooked smile. “With some training, Sparrow, I think you’d be surprised. But I should have known better than to make a senseless comment as I did. I beg your pardon.”

  Clara waved a hand, now embarrassed for an entirely different reason. “I give it, truly. And I cannot tell you why I feel so strongly about this, but I do. My mind instantly began to turn the thing over, and I could almost see the ships coming into the beach by moonlight. I just have a feeling, Brick.”

  “We’ll work with that, then,” he said simply. “Evidence is preferred, but a feeling with solid reasoning is enough.”

  Folding her arms against the brisk wind, Clara nodded. “I’ll get evidence, I’m sure of it.”

  “And your friends, the Brownings?” Brick pressed as they started down the cliffside path at the edge of Kirkleigh lands. “Are you prepared to accuse them of treason?”