He raced up all the flights of stairs to the main balcony, startling the gardeners working on the hedges and a few maids sweeping the stairs.
Grandmama was drinking tea under a wide garden umbrella but sat bolt upright when she saw him. “Is Isabella sick?”
“No, all is fine.” He rushed past her.
“Why the hurry?”
“Later. Later.”
He barged into his room, scaring his valet who was arranging the suits in the wardrobe. He rummaged through the drawers of his desk. The key had to be…here! He snatched the large brass key and ran at breakneck speed towards the garden and again past Grandmama.
“But, really!” Grandmother dropped her cup, causing it to rattle in the saucer. “This behaviour isn’t dignified for a duke. Dukes never run.”
“Sorry. Sorry.” He nearly slipped as he shot down the stairs. “Bloody hell!”
“I heard that!” Grandmama said.
He raced down all the way to the last terrace.
Isabella was where he’d left her. She was bent over a bunch of pretty yellow flowers, her brow furrowed in concentration.
“Here I am.” He was breathless.
She straightened and eyed him. “Goodness. What happened?”
He waved towards the house. “I’ve just terrorised half of the household and my grandmother.”
She laughed. It was an enchanting sound. “For what reason?”
“A secret garden.” He showed her the brass key. “Over there.”
Her dark eyes brightened. “I’m intrigued.”
“You’d better be. I almost broke my neck running down here.”
He led her down a lateral flight of stairs hidden from view. One wouldn’t find the secret path unless they knew where to look. The passage was so narrow Isabella had to walk behind him. Vines formed a green gallery with a ceiling so thick little sunlight filtered through.
At the end of the path stood a heavy-looking, wrought-iron door that time and the salty water hadn’t managed to attack. The lock screeched when he turned the key. After a click sounded, he pushed the door, revealing yet another flight of stairs, rough and uneven. Purple wild passion vines climbed over a tunnel-like frame, forming a colourful ceiling over them. The flashy flowers nodded their crowns as if in greeting.
“It’s lovely,” she said.
“Be careful. The gardeners don’t come here to clean often.”
Brambles and other plants formed a thick tangle that blocked the passage in a few spots. He had to rip the plants to reach the garden, which wasn’t in a better state but not as jungle-like as he feared.
“My grandfather had this garden built after Grandmama got furious with him. She refused to talk to him for days. They argued a lot.” He held her hand as she jumped over a bush.
“Why was she furious?”
“Because he ordered sculptures of Greek heroes he wanted to place in the main garden upstairs, but Grandmama found them too scandalous.” He paused. “He accused her of being too prudish and told her to ‘unclench her pearls.’ She told him he was a scoundrel and so on. Anyway, she won the argument, unsurprisingly, and he had to remove the statues. They should be here, buried under the wild plants.”
The stairs opened to a wide, round area. Marble heads and graceful arms appeared through vines and tall grass.
“There.” He removed a tangle of stems to reveal the statue of none other than Hero herself. “This is Hero.”
The statue of a beautiful woman stood on the pedestal. Her tunic seemed ruffled by the wind as she stared at the horizon.
“She was a priestess of Aphrodite.” He tugged at the remaining vines.
