“One learns what one must, and I’ve over thirty years of practice,” she said placidly, her French accent now less distinct. “Still, I am waiting. . . .”
“You have the persistence of a bee. To answer your question, I do not know. Something about the way she thrusts that little stubborn jaw of hers forward and looks at me with those strangely mottled green-and-gold eyes of hers has me wanting to throttle her. She is an irritating little creature. Full of pluck but much too given to going her way and to hell with the world.”
He walked over to a silver tray on the sideboard that contained a decanter of sherry and several glasses. He picked up the decanter and opened it, then paused, musing almost to himself. “I’ve seen that sort of independent stubbornness in a few soldiers, and they were always the first to die.”
Had she been a man, he mused, no doubt a heroic early battlefield grave would have been her fate. But she most definitely and delightfully was not a man. But how did a man control a woman possessed with her brand of waywardness? An interesting puzzle.
“You are that afraid Miss Leonard is in danger?” she asked, as she watched her son pour the sherry into two glasses.
“What? Oh, pardon, Maman, my mind was wandering. Do I think Miss Leonard is in danger? Yes. You’ve seen the text of that note she received. From what Cruikston said, it is obvious she does not take the danger seriously. She has to realize there is danger, but not just in this instance. She has to learn her limitations. I doubt she believes she has any!” His voice reflected astonishment and disbelief. He tossed off the last of his sherry.
Lady Nevin smiled. It appeared her son had at last discovered a woman worthy of him—not that he recognized that, of course. It should prove an interesting visit.
“Fitzhugh and Lucy will be down soon. You’ve not told Lucy of the reasons behind Miss Leonard’s visit?” Deveraux asked.
“You requested I not do so. I told her Miss Leonard decided to accept the long-standing invitation you extended in December. I do believe you are unfair to your sister. She is no longer a child. Her discretion can be trusted.”
Deveraux shook his head. “The fewer who know the truth, the safer for all.”
Lady Nevin shrugged Gallically. “Oh, I have given permission for Chrissy to join us at dinner this evening. She is excited.”
He nodded. “She should help to diffuse any awkwardness.”
Remembering the sparks that flew between her son and Miss Leonard, the countess smiled wryly. “Perhaps,” she murmured as she raised her sherry glass to her lips. “Perhaps.”
It was nearly an hour later before Leona and Maria followed Mrs. Henry back through the winding maze of corridors to the main staircase and downstairs. Leona was apprehensive, but not for how she would get along with Nigel Deveraux—for she was sure that was impossible. Her concern was for the other inhabitants of Castle Marin. What did they know, or think they knew, about her? She was a stranger thrown into their midst so they might protect her. It was all so ridiculous. They did not need a reminder of the horror they lived through three months ago. Her presence was bound to churn up unwanted memories and buried guilts. And how would they see her? Certainly, they would know how she had rescued Chrissy’s. Would they view her as some oddity? Some man-hating woman with republican notions?
Though she was not prone to caring what others thought of her, for she went her way regardless, she unaccountably found herself wanting to be accepted by these people. Of course, her reasons, she told herself, were perfectly simple. She knew staying with the Sharplys would be filled with acrimoniousconfrontations with her brother-in-law, which would distress her sister. Noting the marital gleam in Miss Cruikston’s eyes, she had deduced staying at Furleigh House would be uncomfortable in the extreme, and Leona did not wish to hurt as fine a man as Sir Nathan Cruikston. At least at Castle Marin, the Deverauxs could look upon her staying with them as a payment of debt. That was an idea Leona could accept. Left with the Castle Marin alternative, without proof of good or bad, she could only hope circumstances would be more congenial than her other two choices.
Remembering Deveraux’s attitude when she arrived, she doubted it.
At the bottom of the stairs stood a paunchy gentleman Mrs. Henry introduced as Purboy, the butler. He led them across the hall to the elegantly appointed yellow-and-white Chinese drawing room.
“Miss Leonard!” squealed Chrissy, jumping up from a Chippendale chair positioned next to a chess table with ivory and onyx carved pieces. She ran to Leona and threw her arms about her and then Miss Sprockett. “Oh, I so hoped I’d see you again! Uncle Nigel said you might come to visit.”
Visit? Confusion dimmed Leona’s smile for a moment, but Chrissy didn’t notice as she led her over to Lady Nevin. Leona glanced up to find Deveraux looking at her with a shuttered expression on his face. Ever so slightly, he shook his head. She dipped her head in understanding. Chrissy did not know of the circumstances that brought her to Castle Marin. Fleetingly she wondered if the others did. With determination, she broadened the smile she bestowed on her hostess.
“I hope you are not too tired from your journey?” Lady Nevin said.
Leona laughed. “Tired? How could I be in that beautiful well-sprung carriage? I’ve never had a more pleasant journey.”
“Bon.But you must meet my daughter and her fiancé. Miss Leonard, Miss Sprockett, this is Lady Lucille—my Lucy, imp that she is,” she said, winking merrily. “And this gentleman, soon to be my son—only because I have made him strictly promise not to take my daughter far from me—is Monsieur David Fitzhugh.”
“Oh, Maman,” scolded Lady Lucille, blushing delicately.
“A pleasure, Miss Leonard,” Mr. Fitzhugh said, bowing over her hand.
Attired in a long-tailed jacket of blue superfine, a cream-and-blue striped waistcoat sporting two fobs dangling from an elegant gold-chased watch chain, and impeccable biscuit-colored pantaloons, he was the epitome of the elegant dandy, though the twinkle in his brown eyes banished the notion that all dandies were arrogant, vain fellows. “During the journey last December from Crawfords Dean to here, Chrissy bent my ear with your exploits. I don’t know what to believe! I give you fair warning, Chrissy’s tale has creatively improved with each telling, and the locals have expanded on it from there.”
“I’m almost afraid to ask how!”
From his place by the fireplace, Deveraux laughed harshly. Languidly straightening, he walked toward her. “The last version—overheard at the farrier’s—was that you climbed up six stories in a blizzard to rescue Chrissy from her tower prison, single-handedly overpowered at least two, if not three kidnappers, and just as you thought you had safely escaped, you were forced to fight and kill a rabid dog,” he drawled.
“Gracious,” murmured Maria, thunderstruck.
Deveraux looked over at her and grinned, his smile transforming his entire face. “You also figured in the tale, Miss Sprockett. After the fight with the dog, Miss Leonard became lost in the blizzard. You, worried at your friend’s long absence, braved the blizzard to go out and search for her and lead her and Chrissy to safety.”
“Oh-h-h,” breathed Chrissy, “what a great story!” Everyone laughed.
