by Jaimey Grant
Lord and Lady Greville had yet to make an appearance but Lord Harwood was present with his—for the benefit of the guests—adoring wife at his side. Lady Harwood sent a frosty smile Leandra’s way. Leandra returned it with the poise that had on several occasions been her safeguard. Lady Kathryn and her husband extolled the virtues of their three boys to Lady St. Clair, who agreed with every word spoken, paying Leandra not the least attention.
The Dowager Lady Harwood greeted her stepdaughter with a regal nod designed to nettle that young woman but this tactic failed. Leandra crossed the room and smiled pleasantly at her, unflustered by her late father’s wife. Her sister, Lady Schuster, ignored her completely much as she had done the entirety of Leandra’s life—which bothered Leandra not at all.
Toast and a single egg made up Leandra’s breakfast that morning. She returned to the table and seated herself beside Michaella.
“Good morning, Merri,” her sister bubbled. “What are you planning to do today?”
Leandra absentmindedly smeared marmalade on her toast and considered the question. “I think I may spend some time in the nursery,” she replied thoughtfully. She bit into her toast and grimaced. “I hate marmalade. Why ever did I put marmalade on my toast?”
“I wondered,” Michaella admitted. “I was sure you had never liked the stuff but you seemed so intent when you prepared your toast that I thought perhaps you’d developed a fondness for it.”
“No, I have not. Jem, will you take this and replace it with fresh, please? And fetch me a jar of strawberry jam.” The one-armed footman bowed and departed to do his mistress’s bidding.
Michaella watched him go with round amber eyes. “Do you not think it difficult for him, Merri, to be always running about, fetching and carrying? Why, earlier this morning I saw him polishing silver. He had to sit in a chair and hold the tea service with his knees. I was so amazed he had to ask me if I needed anything before I realized I was staring. I do hope I didn’t make him uncomfortable.”
Leandra shrugged indifferently but her hazel eyes glowed with anything but indifference. “He feels useful, Michaella. I did inquire as to whether he preferred a different position but he has always dreamed of being first footman. We try to treat him as if he has two hands.”
“Oh, I see. It is a matter of pride, then.”
Leandra smiled. “Precisely.”
Michaella took a bite of her own toast, thoughtful wrinkles marring the perfect alabaster of her forehead. “This may seem insensitive, but would it not be easier to hire servants who are better able to perform their duties?”
“Of course it would, dearest. But that does not help those who are injured, those in need. Many of my outside servants were hurt in the war with Napoleon years ago and have been looking for work ever since. These men have families to care for and deserve the chance to do so. I cannot abide the sight of starving children just because Parliament is too busy deciding whether or not trousers are acceptable attire for gentlemen instead of trying to help all these poor men who fought bravely and were unfortunate enough to be injured. Thank you, Jem.”
Jem bowed with a tiny smile on his face, having heard part of Lady Derringer’s calmly uttered words. Although quite young, Jem was one of those injured at Waterloo and had four children and an ailing wife to care for.
“What were we discussing? Oh, yes, plans for today. What are you going to do?” queried Leandra as she spread the preferred strawberry jam on her fresh toast and took a hearty bite.
“I am not visiting the nursery, to be sure,” Michaella decided. “I have not the least desire to be attacked by those savage nieces and nephews of ours and I don’t think Mr. St. Clair’s nephews are any better behaved.”
“You are probably correct,” sighed Leandra. “I want to make sure they are not mistreating the Greville children, however. The baby is only one year old, you know, and can hardly protect himself from the older children and little Rhiannon is so very mild and sweet I fear she will be overcome by their enthusiasm if not their outright villainy.”
As if conjured by thoughts of their children, the earl and his wife entered the room and greeted the company at large. Greville had his arm around his wife’s waist and murmured something in her ear that made her giggle and blush. She moved away from him and sat on Leandra’s other side while he went to fetch them breakfast.
“Good morning, Merri,” she said brightly. “Lady Michaella.”
Michaella greeted the countess with a shy smile, then returned her attention to her breakfast.
“So when do you suppose Hart will return?” Aurora smiled up at her husband and accepted the plate he set in front of her. She buttered her toast as she waited for Leandra’s response.
“He said a week, perhaps longer.”
“And you are missing him dreadfully, I think,” murmured Aurora for Leandra’s ears only. It wasn’t a question.
“In a way,” she admitted. She caught a look of commiseration on Greville’s face and smiled. “The truth is,” she went on as her lips threatened to curve ever further upward, “I am anxious to murder him.”
Silence greeted her words. It dawned on Leandra that her listeners did not share her joke. Greville’s dark eyes studied her, brow furrowed, while his wife’s expression revealed her shock and alarm.
“It was a sort of jest,” she assured them hurriedly. “I don’t actually want to murder him, it’s just that…that…”
Aurora patted her hand. “Just what, dear?”
“I would very much like to ring a peal over his head if I can’t actually strangle the man. His mistress arrived claiming he asked her to come here.”
Aurora slapped a hand over her mouth to hold back a laugh and Greville chuckled before he turned his complete attention to his heaping plate.
“Oh, dear. That wasn’t very well done of him, was it, my love?” Aurora asked her husband. She looked at Leandra. “Hart was ever one to follow his own path. It was very bad of him to invite her here, to be sure, but do not take it to heart.”
“She didn’t even know he had married,” Leandra informed her. “And John Coachman thinks her carriage was tampered with. I thought it was odd at the time.” She paused, frowning as she contemplated recent events. “She claimed that Hart invited her and yet she was surprised that he wasn’t here. Then she claimed that her carriage axle was broken.”
Greville’s eyes twinkled merrily. “The little cat was lying. What was her name?”
“Nicolette,” Michaella offered shyly into the conversation. “Stark said her name was Nicolette and she was demanding entrance. He seemed so very embarrassed by the whole situation and I determined that she was a…well, you know.” She blushed at her own temerity, glanced at her mother to make sure she hadn’t been overheard, then addressed herself to the remains of her toast.
Greville grinned. “Just so. Nicki has been a harpy for years. I wonder that Hart was able to put up with her unfaithfulness for so long.”
“Is a mistress required to be faithful?” She knew it was not a proper subject, but at the moment, she didn’t care.
“If she is the Duke of Derringer’s mistress, yes,” Greville told her simply.
Leandra made her way to the nursery having decided that she would at least peek in to make sure all was as it should be. The nursery lay tucked away on the fourth floor, occupying nearly the whole of the south wing. With several bedchambers, a schoolroom, and the actual nursery, it had seen the raising and education of at least two of the dukes of Derringer, as well as the rest of the St. Clair family.
Somehow Leandra had overlooked the entire fourth floor under the mistaken impression that the servants were housed there. She inquired of Stark whether or not the servants’ quarters were satisfactory and having received an affirmative reply, she’d forgotten it.
Now, she was absurdly glad she’d done nothing to the nursery floor. Enchantment flooded her senses as she entered the schoolroom. Evidence of childish contentment lay scattered about the chamber, chil
dish drawings and inexpert paintings on the walls, carvings in the desktops, and books stacked on the shelves of a huge oak bookcase.
Perusing the gold-inked titles on the spines revealed more than just children’s tales. The more recent Miss Austen and Mr. Scott claimed space—an indication that someone was adding to this room even while no children occupied it—as well as common improving works like Mr. Porteous’s sermons and The Book of Common Prayer. This room was clearly the preferred spot for the older children as well as the younger.
She continued to peruse the shelves, smiling at such titles as Sir Jason and the Dragon, Lady Marigold’s Wish, and Turning Frogs into Princes and Other Great Spells.
This last made her laugh aloud. She removed it from the shelf and flipped through it. The contents made her laugh even more. To think someone had actually thought to entertain children with pretend spells and incantations. And she knew they were pretend because some of the spells called for ingredients such as the “tooth of a red fire-breathing dragon of immense size and considerable ferocity” and “seven hairs from a swallow-tailed man-eating carrot.” A carrot?
Turning the page revealed a spell for changing little brothers into lizards. Written next to it in a childish scrawl were the words must surely work for sisters and cousins too. Which of the St. Clair boys had desired to turn one of his family members into a lizard?
Tucked in the back of the book was a folded sheet of vellum. Leandra set the book aside, foreboding sliding over her skin as she opened the sheet.
A little boy with coal-black hair stood over the body of a woman whose beauty was apparent even in such an amateur painting. The boy’s face displayed his shock as he stared down at the pool of crimson beneath the woman’s head. They were on a landing and Leandra, in dawning horror, recognized the landing, the second floor landing in the very castle she now called home. She recalled taxing the servants about a stain there. Blood. Could it be?
The drawing was dated 1796.
She felt prickles on the back of her neck as she stared at the picture. The previous duchess died that year. Only a few weeks in the castle had provided that bit of information to the new duchess, though the staff remained mum about how she died.
The child looked amazingly like Derringer.
It couldn’t be true. Could it? Leandra stared at the vellum in her hand, studied the image minutely, searched her mind for every tiny thread of gossip she’d overheard, and shuddered at her own Gothic conclusions.
It wasn’t possible, she told herself.
Leandra replaced the book on the shelf but held onto the drawing. Her own conclusions terrified her, casting her husband into a whole new light. She needed to keep the image with her, at least until she could shed some light on the mystery she’d fallen into.
The title of another book caught her eye. Or, rather, the lack of title caught her eye. A small, leather bound book peeked from between two larger books, all but hidden from view. Leandra herself would have missed it had she not been perusing the shelves so carefully. She removed it gently and turned it over in her hand. It appeared to be a journal of some sort. Whose, she wasn’t sure. It was of medium thickness and looked to be fairly old.
Opening the front cover, the mystery of ownership was solved. The name “Penelope Marie Watts” was written in a careful copperplate and underneath the name it said “From her father on her tenth birthday, 23 December 1782.” She flipped to the last entry in the journal and found it was dated 2 March 1785. The entry ended in such an abrupt manner that Leandra was convinced there was another journal somewhere. But where?
Her gaze ran over the shelves until it lit upon a spot on the third shelf from the very top. There appeared to be an empty space between two books. She scanned the room and her sparkling eyes fastened on one of the desks. With many grunts and several muttered curses, Leandra managed to drag the heavy desk over to the shelf.
“Damn,” she grumbled as she stood on the desk and reached toward the space. She was about three feet too short.
“Need some help?” asked a deeply amused voice from the doorway.
Heat crept over Leandra’s skin. She scrambled down from her precarious perch on the desk. “Your pardon, Lord Greville. Was there something you required?”
Greville’s eyes gleamed with amusement and all for her. “If we are going to be friends, your grace, I suggest you get used to calling me Levi.”
“It is hardly proper on such little acquaintance, as you well know.”
“You are married to Hart. You will have to get used to impropriety.”
Leandra couldn’t help but smile at that, though a tinge of unease colored her mirth. “Very well, Levi, is there something you need?”
“Is there something up there you need?” he asked, pointing to the shelf she’d been reaching toward. “If you break your neck while I’m on watch, Hart will have my head on a platter. Tell me which book you require and I will fetch it for you.”
She thought about it for a moment and decided that she would much rather ask this gentleman to retrieve the book for her than a servant who might gossip about her find.
Leandra pointed at the seemingly empty space between the books and said, “I think there is a much smaller book between them. Like this one.” She held up the journal in her hand.
Greville nodded once, stepped up on the desk—Leandra was amazed that it supported his weight—and felt around in the space between the books above his head. He pulled his hand out with a triumphant grin and climbed down, handing her the journal with a magnificent bow.
Leandra curtsied and laughed, reaching for the book. Greville held it just out of her grasp and cocked his head to one side, brows raised.
“What is this?” he asked with apparent bad manners.
Leandra frowned. “It is none of your concern, sir,” she told him haughtily.
Greville just grinned at her. She finally smiled and said, “It is nothing more than an old journal. I thought it might be interesting.”
The earl considered her round, serious face for a moment, nodded, and handed over the book. He bowed. “Please forgive me for teasing you so. I had to know what it was that attracted Hart, you see. He needs more than just a pretty face.”
She started at his candor, blushed at his offhand compliment, then replied, “He had need of a wife to get his inheritance. He was not attracted to me in the least.”
Greville gave her an enigmatic look and offered his arm to escort her from the room. “As you get to know your husband better, Leandra, you will find that there is not a force on Earth that can make Hart do anything he does not wish. I am willing to bet that you were not the first lady he came across and considering all you told Aurora and me last night, by far not the most eligible.”
17
Leandra decided to forgo her visit to the nursery in favor of a morning ride while the weather was still chill and blustery. She enjoyed being out of doors when there was a nip in the air and the threat of rain. It seemed to act as a sort of outlet for her calmly pent-up emotions.
She retreated to her dressing room and had Liza dress her hair more securely and fetch her a riding habit and a warm cloak. After tying a dashing shako with a curling white feather on her dark brown tresses and donning her habit of chocolate brown, Leandra stepped out into the Great Hall and took up her riding crop. Stark smiled indulgently and opened the door for her.
Lucifer’s Lady was soon saddled and stomping impatiently in her desire to be off. Leandra smiled and patted Lady’s nose.
“Patience, my sweet,” she told the horse in a low whisper. She kissed the velvety muzzle and smiled. “You are too beautiful to send yourself into such fits and starts.”
Amazingly—to every stable hand and groom, if not to Leandra—the horse quieted and stood still as a statue as a groom with a crooked nose and disfiguring squint hefted her into the saddle.
“Thank you, Jeb,” she told the groom. He doffed his hat and gave her a shy smile that appeared to be closer to a leer o
n his ugly face. Leandra only smiled brighter and lifted her crop in salute.
“Sum’un ought to go wit ‘er,” she heard the head groom say just before she kicked Lady into a smooth gallop.
The huge black mare with the tiny black-cloaked figure soared over the ground as one being. She directed the animal toward the cliffs that were on the east side of the castle wall. Just when it seemed they would plunge over, Lady came to an abrupt halt.
Leandra stared out over the choppy waters. The waves were gray and green with hints of blue and frothy white caps of sea spray. They crashed on the rocky shore below. Seagulls flew about shrieking their displeasure at the approaching storm adding a strange counterpoint to the music of the surf.
This very sight had enchanted Leandra since the first time she had beheld it two weeks ago. She had been waiting for another chance to see it all over again. Lady would not fret; the horse was as much a storm-hungry being as Leandra.
Giving in to the impulse, Leandra tore her hat from her head and flung it far out over the cliff and into the sea below. She watched it fall, a small smile touching her lips as the hat was swallowed in the crashing waves. A brisk breeze ripped the feather from her hat and carried it far out over the water before it was swept into the sea.
The next things to go were the pins from her chignon. They scattered to the ground at Lady’s feet and the wind whipped Leandra’s hair every which way, across her face, down her back, and over her shoulders. She threw her head back and released a joyful cry.
“Isn’t it the most wonderful thing, Lady?” Leandra breathlessly queried the animal beneath her.
Lady nodded her head as if in agreement, then stamped her foot.
“It would be wonderful, would it not? To ride like the wind and pretend that we have no guests and nothing to worry about ever. To revel in the power of God and admire all His magnificence and beauty.”
The horse nodded her great black head again and snorted.