If the Slipper Fits (14 page)

Well, perhaps Lord Simon’s presence in church today would prove to be a boon. At least he would have a taste of the vicar’s dreary oratory.

Mr. Bunting began the service with prayers and a reading from the Scriptures. Then he mounted the few steps to the pulpit and launched into a sermon about the virtues of being charitable toward one’s neighbors. To her consternation, the homily proved to be better than his tedious classroom lectures. In parts, it was even inspirational. The vicar was clearly more suited to preaching than teaching.

While that was good for his parishioners, it wreaked havoc with her hope of expelling him from the schoolroom. And little wonder Lord Simon had brushed off her complaints. He would have no reason to believe the vicar tutored any differently than he sermonized.

At the close of the service, the congregation stood respectfully in their pews. Annabelle realized they were waiting for the duke to leave first. She took his small hand and they followed the vicar and his associate down the aisle with Lord Simon close behind them.

As they emerged into the sunshine, she glanced at Lord Simon and curiosity prodded her to speak. “I didn’t expect to see you here,” she murmured. “Mrs. Wickett said you don’t often go to church.”

He arched an eyebrow. “Am I in for a scold, Miss Quinn? Be forewarned, that’s hardly the best way to encourage my attendance.”

The glint in his dark gray eyes brought a blush to her cheeks. She couldn’t quite tell if he was laughing at her or just resorting to his usual acerbic style of conversation. How foolish of her to feel breathless in his company. Better she should bide her tongue and avoid his mockery.

Mr. Bunting greeted the people as they filed out of the church. Ignoring Annabelle, he awarded Lord Simon an ingratiating smile. “I’m most honored to have you and the duke present today. I must say it is excellent timing, for I’ve had to replace my assistant curate just this week. May I introduce you and His Grace to Mr. Harold Tremayne?”

He indicated a young man in clerical robes who stood nearby. Annabelle’s first impression was that Mr. Tremayne looked more like a dashing gentleman of society than a humble, purse-poor curate. He had an abundance of wavy brown hair, and one lock fell artfully onto his brow. With his perfect white teeth and his refined features, he emanated a worldly sophistication that transcended his sober black garb.

Mr. Tremayne shook hands with Lord Simon, then bent down with his hands on his knees to address Nicholas. “It is indeed a great privilege to serve you, Your Grace.”

The boy cast a cautious look at him before ducking his chin and taking great interest in his shoes. Annabelle hoped that in time she could help him overcome his shyness. It was too much to expect on his first outing, though. Eventually he would need to learn to converse with the people he would one day rule—

“And who might this lovely young lady be?”

Annabelle realized Mr. Tremayne was addressing her. She had been standing back, conscious that she was only the hired help and thus not entitled to an introduction.

“Miss Quinn is my nephew’s governess,” said Lord Simon.

“Ah,” Mr. Tremayne said, fixing his appreciative blue eyes on her. He reached for her gloved hand and squeezed it lightly. “Mr. Bunting mentioned that he shares his classroom duties with you. However, he neglected to say how very pretty you are.”

Smiling, Annabelle extracted her hand from his. The smooth compliment made her uncomfortable, for she’d always considered her looks to be rather ordinary. Still, it was pleasant to be noticed by a handsome man. “Thank you,” she said on a laugh, “but I’d rather be praised for my teaching abilities than anything superficial.”

“A bluestocking, are you? Do you like to read? I’ve a passion for history myself. Perhaps we might talk sometime.”

“That sounds delightful—”

“I’m afraid the duke’s schedule allows her very little free time,” Lord Simon broke in. “As a matter of fact, she and the boy were just now returning to Castle Kevern.”

He placed his hand at the small of her back and propelled her toward the ducal coach, which was parked beneath the shade of an oak. Nicholas trotted alongside them, clearly happy to escape all the people.

Nonplussed, Annabelle glanced up at Lord Simon. The warmth of his hand through her gown threatened to turn her legs to jelly, an unwelcome reaction that only served to irritate her. “Why did you hurry us away like that? I was in the midst of a conversation.”

His cool gaze slid over her. “I didn’t engage your services for you to be flirting with the locals.”

“Flirting? I most certainly was not—”

“Lord Simon!” trilled a feminine voice. “Surely you aren’t leaving so soon.”

Annabelle glanced over her shoulder to see Lady Louisa and a group of her genteel acquaintances strolling after them. The fair-haired beauty raised her dainty gloved hand in a wave.

“Go on now.” Lord Simon gave Annabelle one final push toward the coach and then turned back to meet Lady Louisa halfway.

Annabelle was tempted to linger just to spite him. But she dared not disobey his order. Besides, she didn’t want to subject Nicholas to the fawning of these aristocratic ladies.

As the boy clambered into the coach, she stole another glance at Lord Simon, who now stood beside Lady Louisa. His head was bent close to hers as he listened intently to whatever she was saying. Then he smiled, offering her his arm as they strolled back toward the chapel.

The sight stirred an unpleasant reaction in Annabelle. She attributed it to disappointment in his character. At least now the mystery of why he’d come to church had been solved.

He must have known Lady Louisa would be present.

Chapter 11

Monday was Grievances Day.

It was the one morning of the week that Simon abhorred, for he was required to resolve every mundane dispute presented to him by the tenants of the estate. Nothing irritated him more than having to sit through hours of testimony about laundry snitched from clotheslines or cows cursed into giving sour milk.

By custom, the audiences were held in the library, which was part of the original keep of the castle. Simon occupied the thronelike chair that all the Kevern ancestors had used. It had the same lumpy cushions and peeling gilt on the arms as it had had in his father’s day.

The traditional retainer stood at his side, ready to assist in any manner Simon required. Not that Ludlow could do much; the white-haired old man was hunched from arthritis. If not for the long-handled gold mace that he leaned on during these ceremonies, he might have toppled over like the gnarled oak he resembled.

At the moment, Simon was mediating a quarrel between a middle-aged housewife and her neighbor, whose goats had wandered into the woman’s garden and eaten all the plants.

Mrs. Maddiver stood face-to-face with her adversary, a hardworking young farmer by the name of Jenkins. Her hands jammed on her ample hips, she railed, “Only stubs left in me garden. All me roses and asters gone—all gone!”

“’Ee left the gate unlatched,” Jenkins growled. “’Twas thy own fault.”

She poked a finger at his chest. “’Ee let thy goats run free. Now ’ee must pay for the damages. Ten shillin’s, no’ a pence less.”

“Ten—” Jenkins exploded. “That’s robbery! ’Ee can take it out o’ me dead hide.”

“A fine notion, that. Mayhap I weel!”

“Enough,” Simon snapped.

When the two continued to argue, Ludlow thumped the base of his staff against the floor. That caught their attention, and they both turned toward Simon, while continuing to squabble.

“All me herbs is eaten, m’lord,” Mrs. Maddiver complained. “An’ the parsnips an’ squashes, too.”

“Bosh, they’ll grow back,” Jenkins said. “’Tis called
nature
.”

“Winter’s a-comin’. Dost ’ee think me capable of miracles?”

“’Tis only September month. Some sad poor gardener ’ee must be t’ fail at winter crops.”

She bristled, and before the pair could go at each other again, Simon deemed a swift resolution was in order. “Mrs. Maddiver, you may take some seedlings from the castle gardens to replace what you’ve lost. Jenkins, you’ll give her a round of cheese from your goats—your largest and best.”

Both of them protested, Jenkins saying that the fine was too stiff, and Mrs. Maddiver that she wanted silver in her pocket lest he poison the cheese. Simon threatened to levy an additional fine on each of them if they failed to comply with the ruling.

As the two walked grumbling out of the library, Simon blew a sigh of relief. “I’m hoping that’s the last one for the day,” he told Ludlow.

“Allow me to check, my lord.”

Leaning heavily on the mace, the stooped old retainer shuffled at a snail’s pace toward the doorway. Simon had attempted to convince the man to retire months ago, but Ludlow refused and Simon had been reluctant to press the issue. He knew he himself would hate to be put out to pasture someday. A man needed to feel useful, not be coddled in a rocking chair with a rug over his knees.

He stood up, stretching his legs and wincing at the cramp in his left thigh. What a pair of old gimps he and Ludlow were. Damp weather and too much sitting tended to aggravate the old wound, while vigorous physical activity had proved the best remedy. For that reason, he was impatient to conclude today’s session and head outdoors. Many tasks on the estate awaited his inspection. A crew of workmen were digging a drainage ditch along the eastern edge of the property, and there had been a report of poachers to the south.

In an effort to alleviate the muscle spasm in his leg, Simon limped around the library. He had always liked this chamber with its tall shelves of books and the rich scent of leather bindings. Apparently his nephew did, too. He’d heard from the housekeeper that Annabelle often brought Nicholas here after his afternoon classes were finished.

Annabelle.
When had he begun to think of her in so familiar a fashion? Not the previous day when he’d gone to church for the sole purpose of being in her company. No, his awareness of her had grown from superficial attraction to genuine interest several days before that. If he had to pinpoint a moment, it had been when he’d shown her the secret passages. The spark of adventure in her eyes had entranced him. Few ladies of his acquaintance would willingly explore a maze of dark, dirty tunnels.

Actually, he couldn’t think of
any
woman as bold and audacious as Annabelle. It made him wonder if she would be a firebrand in his bed.

Bracing one hand on the back of a wing chair, Simon bent down to brutally massage his thigh. He had no business spinning erotic fantasies about an employee. He’d always scorned gentlemen who sought out their pleasures among the maids and governesses. A servant had little choice but to submit—or risk losing her position in the house. He couldn’t do that to Annabelle, especially when he’d seen for himself that she genuinely cared for his nephew’s welfare.

No matter how overly protective her methods might be.

In regard to
that,
he had no intention of allowing her to voice any more complaints about the vicar. The man had been remarkably successful in making Nicholas behave. Rather than the cosseting she advocated, the boy required a firm hand. Annabelle herself needed to learn obedience to duty, too.

“Have you hurt yourself, Lord Simon?”

For an instant he thought his imagination had conjured her voice. Then he straightened up fast as Annabelle came hurrying from the doorway, with Ludlow trudging behind, inch by slow inch.

Her sudden appearance here knocked Simon off kilter. So did the look of concern on her face. Her typical expression toward him was defiant or mulish or disapproving—never
worried.

Reaching his side, she glanced down at his leg. “You looked as if you were in pain a moment ago.”

“It’s nothing, just an old scar,” he said tersely. “My leg becomes stiff when I sit for too long.”

That wasn’t the only part of his anatomy that was stiff. Her closeness stirred his blood. It made no sense since she was dressed primly in a high-buttoned gray gown with a spinster’s cap over her scraped-up bun. Yet he found himself wondering how her hair would look loose on his pillow.
No.
He didn’t want her there—or here. “You’re supposed to be upstairs, helping with the lessons.”

“I’m perfectly aware of that. However…”

She fell silent in deference to Ludlow, who hobbled up to Simon and thumped the base of his staff on the floor according to the ancient ritual. “Miss Quinn, my lord. She has come to present her grievance.”

“What?”
Simon glared at her. “You aren’t allowed to do so. Grievances Day is for the tenants only.”

“I work for you,” she said in a reasonable tone, “and I’m certainly a tenant of sorts, living as I do under your roof. Besides, I’ve a problem that must be resolved. A very important one.”

“If it involves my nephew’s schooling, we’ve been through all that already.”

“It doesn’t matter if you’ve heard it a thousand times. In accordance with custom, you are required to listen to all sides of the issue before you render judgment. I heard the other servants talking about it in the kitchen this morning.”

“Those
are
the rules, my lord,” Ludlow intoned in his quivery old voice, “passed down through the generations.”

Good God. Simon had no appetite for rehashing their previous quarrel. She already had made her case to him, and it had been a weak one based on her own high-handed opinions. He had to give her credit for persistence, though. Perhaps it would be wise to put an end to her nagging once and for all.

“As you wish, then,” he said with an impatient sweep of his hand. “But my judgment today will be firm. Once it is rendered, you must never again bring up the subject.”

“Agreed—although one would hope you’d always show an interest in the duke’s education.”

Simon clenched his jaw. How was it that this outspoken female had the power to stir guilt in him? Hadn’t he set aside his plans for his life in order to take care of Nicholas? What more did she expect of him?