If the Slipper Fits (15 page)

A pound of flesh, no doubt.

Ludlow cleared his throat. “The Judgment Throne, my lord.”

Reminded of the outmoded tradition, Simon grudgingly took his seat on the tall chair and resigned himself to another episode of discomfort from the lumpy cushions. “Speak your piece quickly, Miss Quinn. It’s nearly time for my luncheon.”

Annabelle appeared unmoved by his hunger. Quite a difference from that look of concern when she’d entered the library. Standing there with her fingers laced together at her waist, she embodied every strict governess he’d ever encountered as a boy.

“As you know,” she said, “I’m deeply concerned that His Grace is not learning as he should. I believe it is due to the quality of his lessons. What’s more, the rigid schedule you’ve required him to follow each day is hardly conducive to developing his skills and interests.”

“Balderdash. The only skills he should be developing are in mathematics, literature, and the like.”

Annabelle eyed him in that no-nonsense way of hers. “I’m not referring to book lessons but to his special, God-given talents. The duke has a remarkable aptitude for drawing. Were you aware of that?”

From out of the lockbox of memory came the image of Nicholas’s mother laughing while she sketched Simon’s portrait. He slowly shook his head. “No.”

The downward slant of Annabelle’s mouth conveyed disapproval. “Well, then, I should tell you that I’ve taken the liberty of replacing some of his afternoon study time with art instruction.”

“Fine. If that’s all—”

“It isn’t,” she said crisply. “You should know that I was forced to modify His Grace’s schedule because every moment of his day has been regimented. He has been allotted no time whatsoever for play. Perhaps you don’t realize it, but every child needs the freedom to run outdoors. It’s necessary to his health and well-being.”

“I’ve no objection to a bit of leisure so long as he keeps up with his lessons.”

Frowning, she tilted her head. “Then why did you devise the schedule this way? It dictates nothing but constant, unrelenting study.”

Was that true? Her certainty lobbed a hole in his confidence. “I recall seeing a schedule months ago, but it must have come from Bunting.
I
didn’t compose it.”

“Yet you
did
approve it.”

Simon felt as if he were being grilled in a courtroom. “I suppose so,” he admitted tersely. “But you must be exaggerating. If it’s as rigorous as you claim, I doubt I would have sanctioned it.”

“Then allow me to refresh your memory.” Reaching into a pocket of her gown, Annabelle drew out a paper and stepped closer to hand it to him. “Is this the schedule that you saw?”

Simon unfolded the paper and scanned it. To his chagrin, the program was indeed meticulous, with the boy’s every moment strictly controlled from dawn until dusk.

He had a sinking suspicion he might very well have approved the schedule without paying it much attention. The weeks after George and Diana’s sudden deaths had been gut-wrenching and extremely busy. To bury his grief, Simon had thrown himself into the task of learning all the myriad details of running the estate. He’d been satisfied that the castle staff along with the vicar as tutor were looking after his nephew.

“This
is
Bunting’s penmanship,” he confirmed. “But I’m afraid I can’t determine whether the schedule has been changed since I reviewed it last winter.”

Annabelle’s one uplifted eyebrow spoke volumes. She thought less of him for being so unfamiliar with Nicholas’s daily activities. What was it she’d said to him that day in his study?

It’s you he runs away from, you he fears. If you showed him a measure of love and kindness, perhaps he’d be more eager to visit you.

Simon resisted the urge to shift in his chair. He shouldn’t feel guilty for doing his best, given the circumstances. He refolded the paper and tucked it into an inner pocket of his coat. “I’ll instruct Bunting to revise the schedule. Is that all?”

“No. There is also the matter of the vicar’s teaching methods.” Her skirts swishing, she paced back and forth in front of his throne. “Mr. Bunting doesn’t seem to know how to engage the attention of a child. His lectures are extremely dull. Have you ever actually listened to any of them?”

Simon shook his head. “I see no reason to do so. Now, enough of this interview. Your time is up.”

“You aren’t allowed to pass judgment without hearing
all
the evidence.” Her gaze shifted past him. “Isn’t that true, Ludlow?”

Simon had forgotten the old retainer was standing a step behind the throne.

The man made a creaky bow. “Indeed, miss.”

Annabelle returned her attention to Simon. “There, you are obliged to do this one thing. I would like for you to come upstairs to the nursery and listen to the vicar for yourself.”

“That would be a colossal waste of my time.” Wondering at her persistence, Simon scowled. “I know what this is all about. You’re trying to get rid of Bunting so you can take over the schoolroom. Tell me, why should I believe you’d be any better at instruction than him?”

“Because I understand children. And I remember well what it’s like to grow up alone as an orphan.”

On that unexpected statement, Annabelle turned on her heel and walked away. He hadn’t known anything about her background other than that she had taught at a school in Yorkshire. Did she have no family at all? The answer didn’t signify. She was merely the governess and a cheeky one at that.

Instead of heading to the arched doorway, she made a slow circuit of the library, peering closely at the shelves. Moodily he wondered at her purpose. It was hardly the moment to seek out a book to read. He was about to say so when the sway of her hips distracted him. He felt beset by the desire to press her down on one of the library tables and sweeten her vinegary lips with a kiss …

Then he noticed that she’d stopped alongside the fireplace and was running her fingertips over the stones.

Irked with both her and himself, he barked, “What the devil are you doing?”

“I’m looking for the entry. You said there was one here in the library.”

Her meaning hit him like buckshot.
The tunnels.
Hadn’t he warned her that was a family secret? Apparently not.

Rising hastily from the throne, Simon strode straight to her side. He caught her eye and frowned a warning to keep silent. Being Annabelle, she parted her lips to speak, anyway. So he reached surreptitiously for her wrist and lightly pressed it in admonition.

As he’d hoped, his action startled her into obedience.

He turned his head to address Ludlow. “That will be all. You may go now.”

The myriad wrinkles on the man’s face settled into an obstinate expression. “The judgment has not yet been rendered.”

“It will have to be postponed until after I’ve gathered all the evidence. Now kindly leave us. That is an order.”

“Yes, Lord Simon.” Leaning on his staff and muttering under his breath, the ancient retainer walked at a slow shuffle toward the door.

The wait for his departure seemed interminable. Beneath Simon’s fingers, the pulse in Annabelle’s wrist beat swiftly. Her skin felt warm and smooth, and he was sorely tempted to run his thumb over the tender palm of her hand. The faint, enticing fragrance of her made him wonder if the scent originated in the valley between her breasts.

Not that he would ever find out.

As Ludlow vanished into the outer corridor, she pulled her hand free and stepped back. “Did I say something wrong just then?”

“Only the family knows about the tunnels. I’d like to keep it that way or God knows the servants will be having trysts in there.”

“You showed
me.
”

That he’d trusted her was a fact Simon still couldn’t fathom. “You were distraught about Nicholas. Besides, you needed to know where to look for him if ever he disappeared again.”

Annabelle seemed to accept the explanation, though she still looked puzzled. “How did His Grace learn about the tunnels? It wasn’t from you.”

“George—his father—must have showed him.”

The faint furrowing of her brow vanished. “Well, then. I shan’t give away your family secrets. You have my word.” Pivoting back to the wall, she glided her fingers over the stones again. “So where is the entry door?”

“There’s no need for secrecy. We’ll take the main stairs.”

She glanced over her shoulder, her expression exasperated. “That won’t work. We need to use the tunnel so that we can enter the nursery wing without being seen.”

So that was her plan. “You expect me to
spy
on Bunting?” Simon shook his head in disgust. “I’m sorry, that seems rather unsporting.”

“Pish-posh. This isn’t a game. This is Nicholas’s
life.
Besides, how else are you to witness the vicar as he really is?”

She picked up a candle from a table and gracefully stooped down to light it at the fireplace. Captivated in spite of himself, he stared at the swanlike curve of her neck and the delicate shape of her ears. Then she stood up again, standing so close he could have caressed her cheek if it wouldn’t have been an act of supreme stupidity.

She ducked her chin in a pose of earnest modesty. “Please, Lord Simon. Will you show me the entry?”

Those eyes. They were so big and blue … He couldn’t find a coherent reason why he should refuse anything she asked.

“You’re looking in the wrong place,” he said gruffly.

Striding across the library to a wall of shelves, he shifted several old books and felt around for a tiny latch concealed in the ancient wood. When he compressed it and gave a push, a section of shelves moved outward with a loud creaking sound.

“How very clever,” she exclaimed. “I would never have guessed the door was hidden there.”

“I’m surprised the hinges haven’t rusted. It probably hasn’t been used in years.”

Annabelle stepped past him and into the tunnel. “We’d best hurry or Mr. Bunting will be finished with his history lesson.”

Simon followed, pausing long enough to pull the heavy door shut behind them. When he turned again, Annabelle was already several yards ahead. She had her hand cupped around the candle flame to keep it from blowing out. The faint glow penetrated the stygian darkness.

Walking at a crouch through the low tunnel, Simon fixed his gaze on her womanly figure. A cobweb caught at her cap, and she brushed it away without any squeamish female histrionics. How like her to have taken the lead. She showed only a cursory deference to his position as master of the house. Any man who wed such a bossy woman would be a fool, indeed.

Then again, the fellow would be compensated by the pleasurable prospect of taming her to be ridden.

Simon pushed the distracting thought from his mind. More important things required his attention—such as keeping up with her swift pace. Upon reaching the junction where the tunnels split off, Annabelle headed straight for the one that led to the nursery. She cast a quick glance over her shoulder at him before starting up the steep steps.

He found it significant that she made no further attempt to persuade him to her cause. Apparently she believed that what he was about to witness would speak for itself. Simon still harbored strong doubts, though. Percival Bunting might be stodgy, but the man was hardly a tyrant. Even if he
had
devised that onerous schedule.

On the stairs above him, Annabelle had reached a door concealed in the stone wall. It led into the nursery. Simon took the remaining steps two at a time so that he was right at her heels when she entered a tiny, unoccupied bedchamber. The nursemaid slept here, he recalled. Being on this floor was like stepping back in time. The air held the same odors of chalk dust and beeswax that he associated with his childhood.

The muted drone of the vicar’s voice drifted from the schoolroom.

Annabelle blew out the candle and quietly placed it on a table. Catching his eye, she put her finger to her lips. Then she tiptoed out the door.

What clandestine nonsense. It reminded him of the highwayman games he’d once played with George when they would attempt to sneak up on a servant with their toy pistols in hand.

Nevertheless, Simon took care to be silent as he entered the narrow passageway. Annabelle had stopped just short of the open doorway and pressed herself to the wall. From this vantage point, only a portion of the schoolroom was visible. Both Nicholas and the vicar were out of sight.

At least now, Bunting’s words could be discerned. He was lecturing about the dynastic civil wars between the houses of Lancaster and York that had resulted in the Tudors taking the throne of England. Simon remembered being fascinated by all the court intrigue and the bloody battles of that medieval period. His governess had woven the Kevern family history into the story to make it even more colorful. But all Bunting offered was a dry recitation of dates, a mind-numbing list of Henrys and Richards with little to distinguish one from another.

Even worse, the vicar had abandoned the soaring oratory of the pulpit. He spoke in a monotone guaranteed to drive an eight-year-old boy to a case of the fidgets.

Her arms folded, Annabelle rolled her eyes and shook her head as if to say
I told you so
. Simon allowed her a wry look. Though it pained him to admit it, she’d been correct in her assessment. He should have been paying more heed to his nephew’s education all these months. He shouldn’t have buried himself in estate matters. Not even if it was damnably difficult to look at Nicholas without remembering Diana’s deceit …

A shout came from the schoolroom. Bunting had raised his voice in wrath. “Naughty child! Give that to me at once.”

Simon stiffened, his gaze fixed on the empty doorway. At the sound of a slap and then a child’s smothered cry, he felt Annabelle’s fingers clutch convulsively at his arm.

She started forward, but Simon sprang past her. He entered the schoolroom to see Percival Bunting leaning over the boy’s desk and saying nastily, “Your uncle will whip you when he hears about this.”

Simon caught a fistful of the cleric’s robes and yanked him back. “No, it’s you I’ll whip if ever you abuse my nephew again.”