If the Slipper Fits (16 page)

Bunting’s foxlike face drained of color. A small object fell from his hand and went bouncing across the polished wood floor. “Lord Simon! I—I didn’t see you come in.”

“Thank God for that or I might never have known what a scoundrel you are.” Simon thrust the man away so that he went staggering into the teacher’s desk. “Collect your belongings and get out. You’ll not be returning.”

“But my lord—”

“Do it now lest I see you removed from the vicarage as well.”

Scowling, Bunting emptied a few things from the desk and slammed the drawer. He made a wide berth around Simon, but glared daggers at Annabelle. She crouched beside Nicholas’s chair, her arm around the boy.

As the vicar stalked out of the schoolroom, Nicholas slipped from his seat and scooped up what the man had dropped. It appeared to be a miniature cavalryman, one of the set Simon had once played with as a boy. Nicholas scuttled back to the safety of Annabelle’s arms. Wiping the tears from his face, she murmured soothing words.

She sent a keen stare up at Simon. “His Grace was forbidden to use these toy soldiers. Did that order come from you—or from Mr. Bunting?”

“Good God, it certainly wasn’t me.”

Frowning, Simon watched her fuss. Why would she think he’d object to a child playing with old toys? The answer came swiftly. Because he’d never given her cause to believe otherwise. Because he’d been a hard taskmaster toward his nephew.

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.

His white-hot anger having dissipated, Simon felt the impulse to ruffle the boy’s hair or perhaps crouch down to speak to him. But the force of long habit held him rooted in place. It wouldn’t be fair to build an expectation of affection in the child. Nothing had changed. He still felt a strong aversion to Nicholas. Perhaps if the boy didn’t have fair hair and green eyes, the same refined bone structure as Diana, things would have been different. But reality could not be altered.

He shifted his gaze to Annabelle. “Well, Miss Quinn. It appears you are now my nephew’s sole teacher.”

She looked up at him. Her expression showed no gloating, only a profound gratitude. “Thank you.”

Her appreciation made him uncomfortable, given the way he’d neglected his guardianship. “Thank yourself. I’m indebted to you for your intervention. Good day.” Before he could be tempted to linger, Simon turned on his heel and strode out of the schoolroom.

Chapter 12

Three weeks later, Annabelle knelt on the stone floor in her bedchamber and opened her traveling trunk. Although most of her belongings had been unpacked shortly after her arrival at Castle Kevern, she’d kept a few spare items in storage. She quickly rummaged through a pile of fabric remnants, searching for a long strip of blue silk left over from one of her gowns. If she hurried, she could sew the piece into a makeshift ribbon.

In an hour’s time, she was expected downstairs to join a party of guests. The invitation had been delivered by a footman only ten minutes ago. No, it was not precisely an invitation, but rather a terse command from Lord Simon. The brief message had been scrawled in black ink on a sheet of folded paper, followed by his initials.

You are requested to attend dinner tonight at seven o’clock. S.W.

The note had caught Annabelle completely off guard. How could the man expect her to ready herself on such short notice? There was no time to stitch a fine gown suitable for high society. One of her everyday dresses would have to suffice.

She’d already known from the bustling preparations belowstairs that a large number of guests were expected. Some of them would be staying here at Castle Kevern for several nights. When Annabelle had been hired, Lady Milford had mentioned that a governess sometimes was included in social gatherings. But Annabelle had never imagined such a circumstance would actually occur. Lord Simon seldom entertained visitors beyond a few brief afternoon callers. And ever since Mr. Bunting had been dismissed, Lord Simon had ignored her as if she didn’t exist.

Inside the trunk, her fingers brushed against the fringe of the gray silk shawl that her students had given her as a farewell gift. It might be the perfect touch to complement her dark blue gown.

A small bundle lay beneath the shawl. Sitting back on her heels, she opened the soft leather pouch and found herself gazing down at a pair of high-heeled slippers.

Lady Milford had bequeathed these elegant shoes to her. Strange, Annabelle had forgotten their existence until this very moment.

She reverently glided her fingertips over the deep garnet satin of one shoe. The crystal beadwork glittered in the last rays of sunlight from the high window. It seemed impossible that such fine footwear belonged to her. Never in her life had she owned anything so exquisite.

The desire to put them on swept through her. But practicality asserted itself. These slippers were more suited to a grand ball than a dinner party in the country. Besides, she lacked the proper gown to do them justice.

With great regret, Annabelle tucked the slippers back into the trunk. It seemed unlikely that she’d ever have the opportunity to wear them. Still, it was a pleasure to know they were hidden there, waiting like a lovely secret.

She found the long scrap of fabric and set to work trimming and sewing the edges. Then there was barely enough time to ready herself. At last she wore her best blue silk gown with the newly made ribbon threaded through her upswept hair. Filled with jittery anticipation, she peered into the tiny mirror over the washstand and wondered if she’d been too daring to leave off her spinster’s cap.

Would Lady Louisa and her mother attend tonight’s dinner? The prospect of being near those two fashion plates daunted Annabelle. No matter how much she fussed over her appearance, she would look hopelessly provincial by comparison …

Oh, botheration, what did it matter? No one would pay heed to the governess except out of politeness. Lord Simon would be too busy fawning over the highborn ladies. Not, of course, that she cared a fig for his company, anyway.

Barring him from her thoughts, she picked up the gray shawl and headed through the shadowy schoolroom to the ducal bedchamber. Elowen sat dozing in the rocking chair, her chin sunk to the broad expanse of her bosom. Nicholas lay on his stomach in front of the fireplace, playing with his toy soldiers.

He glanced up, his green eyes alight. “Miss Quinn! I’ve made the Battle of Waterloo.”

“Oh, my. Let me take a look.” Annabelle crouched down to examine the battlefield, where an array of miniature soldiers lay in a tumbled heap. “I see Napoleon’s men have suffered quite the rout.”

“The King’s cavalry will kill all the frogs. Pow!” Nicholas swooped his favorite cavalryman into the pile and scattered the pieces.

Annabelle smiled to see him behave like a typical boy. In the weeks since the vicar had been tossed out of Castle Kevern, Nicholas had blossomed. He was learning his schoolwork by leaps and bounds now that she had tailored the lessons to his age. He was still reserved much of the time but at least his aura of anxiety had eased. For too long, his fearfulness had been honed by Mr. Bunting. Although Lord Simon had never struck Nicholas, the vicar had planted the seed of dread in the boy and watered it with dire threats and false warnings.

Much of what she’d attributed to Lord Simon had actually been perpetrated by the vicar, from the onerous schedule to the lack of toys in the nursery.

For as long as she lived, Annabelle would never forget the thrill of seeing Lord Simon take charge that day in the schoolroom. His wrath had been a sight to behold. He had seized Mr. Bunting and given him a verbal thrashing. He had come to the defense of his nephew in no uncertain terms. He had cast out the vicar even though it meant admitting he himself had made a mistake in hiring the man.

At the time, she’d believed the incident had softened Lord Simon’s heart. She’d hoped he finally would unbend and begin to show affection for Nicholas. She hadn’t been daunted even when he’d walked out the door with nary a word to the boy.

But as the days had progressed, the truth became disappointingly clear. Lord Simon had not altered his habits one iota. Just as before, he exhibited little interest in Nicholas. The aggravating man avoided the nursery, and Annabelle had caught only an occasional glimpse of him in the corridors of the castle. She
did
give him credit for joining them in church on Sundays, though afterward he always escorted them straight to the coach, then went to chat with Lady Louisa and her friends. It was as if the young duke didn’t exist outside the regimented weekly meetings.

Just stay out of my way. Both you and the boy.

Annabelle told herself to be satisfied. Nicholas was much happier now. Like all children, he deserved to be safe from harm. Yet he also needed love from a family member, not merely from the hired governess—no matter how fond she’d grown of him.

On the rug, he galloped his toy horseman through the ranks of the infantry. Smiling, she combed her fingers through his flaxen hair. “You may play for another half an hour, Your Grace. Don’t forget to put away your soldiers before you go to bed.”

For the first time, he glanced over at her dress. “You look pretty. Are you going to a party?”

“Just downstairs for dinner. Can you say good night to me now?”

He scrambled up to throw his thin arms around her neck. That in itself was a sign that he’d changed from the timid boy she’d first met. Feeling blessed to have earned his trust, she returned his hug, silently vowing to give him all the affection his uncle had denied him.

But Annabelle knew she couldn’t give up. Somehow, there had to be a way to make Lord Simon realize that his duty to the child required more than merely providing an education. It was past time the man became a loving father to Nicholas.

*   *   *

Several minutes later, she paused in the corridor outside the dining chamber. The murmur of voices and the clink of dishes drifted from the arched doorway. A sudden qualm gripped Annabelle. Although she’d taught etiquette and deportment, never in her life had she attended a society event. She’d almost prefer to be wearing a maid’s uniform and toting a tray of champagne glasses.

Nonsense, she scolded herself. These aristocrats were no better than her merely because of an accident of birth. Character mattered far more than bloodline. She would simply act as if she belonged among them.

Her chin held high, she stepped into the doorway—and paused in dismay.

Several footmen were chatting to one another as they laid out the silverware and crystal on the long, linen-draped table. Another servant lit the candles in the silver candelabra. At the far end of the room, the housekeeper fussed over one of the lush flower arrangements.

Where were all the guests?

Mrs. Wickett glanced at Annabelle standing in the doorway. Her lips thinned, and she came bustling forward, the ring of keys jangling at her waist. “Miss Quinn! ’Ee don’t belong here.”

“But … Lord Simon invited me to dinner. Am I too early?”

“Indeed so,” the housekeeper said, her plain features drawn in a disapproving look. “His lordship’s guests have gathered in the drawin’ room. They shan’t come to the table until the gong has been rung.”

The middle-aged woman eyed her as if she were a bumpkin just fallen off the turnip cart. Annabelle strove for a pleasant expression. Her mistake in coming to the dining chamber was especially galling since Mrs. Wickett had never warmed to her like the rest of the staff. She seemed to carry a grudge for some unknown reason, and Annabelle only hoped that in time, the woman would cease to view her as an outsider.

“Thank you,” she said with a gracious smile. “I do beg your pardon for the interruption.”

As she turned to go, Mrs. Wickett muttered in a rather nasty tone, “’Ee needn’t have such airs, missy.”

“Airs?”

The housekeeper stepped into the corridor, out of earshot of the other servants. Knobby fingers clutching the white apron cinching her waist, she thrust her face close to Annabelle’s. “’Ee might have cajoled Lord Simon into oustin’ the vicar from the schoolroom. But don’t ’ee think, because o’ one dinner invitation, to work thy wiles on the master. I won’t tolerate such wickedness from my staff.”

A flush seared Annabelle’s cheeks. So that was the source of the woman’s rancor. She believed Annabelle had designs on Lord Simon. How had Mrs. Wickett formed such a wildly mistaken assumption?

Then Annabelle remembered the day Nicholas had vanished. The housekeeper had walked into the study at the very moment Lord Simon had taken hold of Annabelle’s arm. Mrs. Wickett had seen them standing close together and erroneously concluded they were flirting, not quarreling. In the subsequent excitement of traversing the secret tunnels to find Nicholas, Annabelle had forgotten the incident.

“I’m afraid you’ve misconstrued my character,” she told the woman. “What you’ve implied is utterly untrue.”

Mrs. Wickett gave Annabelle’s gown and hair a scornful scrutiny. “Well! Time will tell, won’t it? One false move, an’ I’ll see ’ee gone from this castle—and the good reverend back in his rightful place as tutor.”

Turning on her heel, the housekeeper marched back into the dining chamber. Her quick steps and rigid posture made it clear that her ill opinion hadn’t altered one iota.

Feeling somewhat rattled, Annabelle headed down the corridor. The notion that anyone could harbor such vitriol toward her cast a pall over the evening. A disturbing thought entered her mind. That day in the study, when they’d stood so close, she had felt an undeniable attraction to Lord Simon. Had Mrs. Wickett’s sharp eyes seen what Annabelle had been afraid to admit to herself?

The buzz of conversation and a burst of laughter emanated from the drawing room just ahead. Annabelle paused in the corridor to adjust the shawl around her shoulders. A part of her wanted to retreat to the safety of the nursery. But that would be an act of cowardice when she had sworn to enjoy this rare evening.