“Now, what have we here?” Imogen asked softly with a playful click of her tongue. “Two lost little rabbits?”
She knelt, ignoring the protest of her sore knees on the hard stones, making herself small so as not to frighten them. She offered a gentle, conspiratorial smile and a wink.
The bolder of the two stepped forward, his brown curly locks falling messily just over his impossibly bright green eyes, which still sparkled with defiance.
“We’re explorers. We’ve claimed this territory for the King of France!”
“The King of France might find the Countess of Presholm more formidable than any army in this hemisphere,” Imogen joked, her heart softening at his playful words.
When was the last time I saw a child? Or anyone outside of this cursed cage?
The other boy, smaller and more hesitant, peered out from behind his brother’s shoulder slowly. “And who might you two be then?” She smiled at him encouragingly. “General Tomfoolery and Colonel Calm?”
The bolder boy grinned. “I’m Arthur. He’s Philip. We live next door with the Titan.”
“The Titan?” Imogen echoed as she suppressed a laugh. “Oh my, I do believe you mean His Grace, the Duke of Welton?”
“The one and the same,” Arthur sighed.
“He’s been pacing his terrace, looking quite like a worried bear, not a titan,” Imogen said with a raised eyebrow.
“He’s boring,” Arthur declared.
“He’s rather sad, too,” Philip whispered, his first words barely audible.
Imogen felt a pang of unexpected sympathy. She had only seen glances of His Grace from the confines of Presholm House before today. She could sense how worried he must be for the safety of his nephews. She had to take them back.
She reached out, dusting a cobweb from Philip’s sleeve, an excuse for the caress. “Well, sad bears can be dangerous if they’re startled. And my mistress, the Countess, is even more dangerous if she finds unexpected guests in her hallway. We must get you back over the wall, don’t you think?”
“Oh! But can we come back and visit you?” Arthur asked. “You’re nice.”
“If you are very, very quiet,” Imogen whispered, her green eyes sparkling with a rare trace of her hidden playfulness as she pressed a finger to her lips. “There is a loose stone near the ivy trellis. If you sneak through there, the Titan won’t see you coming from the main road. Be quick now! It’ll be as if you were never missing!”
Suddenly, the heavy thud of heels echoed from the grand staircase. The air in the hallway turned cold, like the rush of a blizzard breeze, as Imogen brought her hands to her cheeks.
“Imogen! Incompetent little wretch, where in the devil are you now?”
“Hide,” she pleaded with the boys as her blood ran cold, pointing toward the deep shadows behind a mahogany sideboard and the heavy drapes of the morning room. “Be quick!”
The boys vanished with the speed of startled rabbits just as Julia Terrell, the Countess of Presholm, swept into the hall like a tempest. Her face was pinched, her silk gown a frustrated rustle against her thin frame.
“I checked the silver in the breakfast parlor, Imogen,” Julia said snippily, stepping close enough that Imogen could smell her heavy floral perfume and nearly choke on it. “There is a smudge on the large platter. A smudge! That platter was my great-grandmother’s!”
“I can explain, and I am most sorry for the mistake, my lady. It will not?—”
“Do you think I keep you here out of the goodness of my heart?” Julia interrupted. “You are here to be useful, not to daydream like the common brat your mother was!”
Imogen bowed her head, her gaze fixed low on Julia’s hem. The insult stung, just as it always did.
It should bother her that she was born the illegitimate daughter of a Viscount and a young dancer with whom he’d had a brief and reckless affair, but it was all that she knew. Her poor mother died within days of the birth, and she was taken in by her father, Viscount Marden and his wife, Julia. The Viscount never acknowledged Imogen publicly but instead allowed his wife to treat her with cruelty and disdain. After Lord Marden passed away, Imogen dared to dream she might finally be free from her stepmother’s punishments, but fortune was not in her favor. Lord Marden was barely cold in his grave before Julia wed another, the Earl of Presholm, and pressed Imogen into working as her maid.
“I apologize, My Lady. I will attend to it immediately,” she replied, her voice a flat, respectful monotone.
“Well, yes,” Julia huffed, clearly upset that she had not gotten more of a rise out of Imogen. “See that you do. And the hearth in the study is a disgrace. If my husband sees it, I shall have you sleeping in the cellar. Honestly, the waste of money your father insisted upon bequeathing you…”
She continued her tirade as she walked away, her voice fading as she ascended the grand marble stairs to her quarters.
Imogen let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. Her heart hammered against her ribs. She waited for a beat, making sure the Countess was truly gone, then rushed back to the sideboard to find the lost boys.
