For heaven’s sake, why must they keep talking about him?
“Girls, we really should focus on the herbs we can actually obtain,” Sybil said, perhaps more sharply than necessary. “Exotic plants from ducal gardens won’t help you treat a kitchen maid’s burn or a stable boy’s broken finger.”
“But wouldn’t it be wonderful to see such things?” Jane sighed wistfully. “To learn from someone who has traveled the world and collected?—”
“Miss Sybil!”
The classroom door burst open so violently that it slammed against the wall. Beverly Carver stood in the doorway, her usually neat hair disheveled, her face flushed with panic.
“Beverly, what on earth?—”
“The kitchens!” Beverly gasped, clutching the doorframe. “You must come at once. Marge—the oil—there’s a fire!”
The words hit Sybil hard.
Fire. The one thing every person in a wooden building feared most.
“Girls, stay here,” she commanded, already moving toward the door. “Do not leave this room until I return.”
But even as she spoke, she could smell it—the acrid scent of smoke beginning to drift through the corridors.
Hugo urged his stallion into a steady canter as Vestiaire Castle disappeared behind him. The leather pouch in his saddlebag contained a bank draft substantial enough to fund the orphanage’s operations for months—perhaps years if the woman was as frugal as she appeared.
Lady Sybil Gillies.The name had lingered in his thoughts far more than was appropriate for a man with his responsibilities.
Duty first. Always duty first.
He’d told himself this visit was merely about repaying a debt, but that wasn’t entirely true. Three weeks had passed since Rosalie’saccident, and he found himself… curious about the woman who’d handled the crisis with such calm competence.
She’s nothing like Caroline.The thought came unbidden, followed immediately by guilt. His late wife had been pretty, accomplished in all the ways society demanded. It shouldn’t matter that she’d never shown the slightest interest in healing or helping anyone but herself.
It doesn’t matter. This is about gratitude, nothing more.
But even as he tried to convince himself, he couldn’t forget the way Lady Sybil had looked at him—without the simpering deference most women showed, without the calculated flirtation of silly debutantes or the meddling prodding of ambitious mothers with marriageable daughters. She’d looked at him as though he were simply a man, not a title or a fortune.
Dangerous thinking.His daughters needed guidance, particularly Rosalie as she prepared for her debut.
At eighteen, she was growing more spirited by the day, asking pointed questions about why young ladies couldn’t ride astride or study mathematics or express opinions about politics.
Leah, at fifteen, was developing an alarming fascination with creatures most people found repulsive—spiders, snakes, and other specimens she insisted on keeping in jars.
And twelve-year-old Melanie seemed determined to climb every tree and explore every forbidden corner of the estate.
They need a mother. A proper mother who can guide them through society’s expectations.
The irony wasn’t lost on him. He was considering marriage not for love or companionship but as a practical solution to a practical problem. Exactly the kind of cold calculation that had defined his first marriage.
At least this time I’ll go into it with clear expectations.
The thought of courtship—of enduring the marriage mart’s theatrical displays and mercenary mothers—filled him with distaste.
Perhaps he could find a sensible widow, someone who understood the arrangement would be one of mutual benefit rather than romantic attachment.
Someone like?—
Smoke.
The acrid smell hit him a split second before he saw it—a black plume rising in the distance, coming from the direction of the village.
