My Fair Princess (15 page)

The color drained from Elizabeth's face. “Now you know why I didn't tell you details of her past,” Charles said dryly.

“Indeed,” said the contessa. “We have kept it as quiet as we could. But what Gillian did was exact revenge, not justice. And although she did eliminate the men directly responsible for my husband's death, bandits still freely roam the Sicilian countryside, exacting tribute from the local nobility and terrorizing the peasants.”

The contessa leaned forward, pinning Charles with an intent gaze. “To remain in Sicily would have meant certain death for Gillian. Eventually, those evil men would have come after her, to exact
their
revenge on her. They would not rest until they did, no matter how long it took. Their honor and reputation would demand it.”

“Good God,” Elizabeth said in a faint voice.

Christ.
Charles had known the situation was tricky, but even Griffin Steele couldn't protect her from that—not for years on end. “So, there is no going back for Gillian. I understand.”

“But she doesn't,” her mother said softly. “Not yet. I hope
you
might be able to convince her, since her grandmother and I have failed. It might not seem so right now, but she does respect you.”

Charles doubted that, but what choice did he have but to try? “Gillian's disgust toward the men who stopped us tonight is certainly understandable, given her history. But I still don't understand why she's so set on recovering the stolen goods. She must know it's an all-but-impossible quest.”

“Her stepfather gave her that necklace on her birthday, shortly before he was killed. It was the last gift he ever gave her.”

“The poor child,” Elizabeth said. “But she seems even more adamant about retrieving your jewelry, does she not?”

The contessa nodded. “I had a similar pendant from my husband, along with a few other valuable pieces. I am unhappy to lose them, but naturally would not expect anyone to risk his life to retrieve them. I do not need jewelry to remind me of my husband or of what I've lost.”

“Have you explained that to your daughter?” Charles asked.

“I just spent the last hour attempting to do so,” she said. “My darling daughter, however, does not believe me.”

“Whyever not?” Elizabeth asked.

“Because she feels she owes me a great debt. Among other things, Gillian blames herself for my husband's tragic demise.”

Charles frowned. “But she was little more than a child at the time.”

“One already much older than her years,” her mother said. “Gillian was raised on my husband's estates. While we were often at court in Palermo, she stayed behind. She preferred to be in the country, as there she was less likely to be a target of gossip.” The contessa grimaced. “And she could avoid my father, who was not as kind to her as he should have been. My husband and I thought it best that Gillian spend most of her time where she felt happy and secure.”

And where she'd clearly been allowed to run wild. Charles knew, however, that it was pointless to raise that issue. “I still don't understand why she feels responsible for your husband's murder.”

“Gillian insisted that he do something about the bandits,” she explained. “The Sicilian gangs are ruthless and dangerous. They bedeviled the countryside and made life miserable for the local peasants. Because Gillian saw those poor common folk every day, she had great sympathy for them. She wanted to help.”

“Goodness, what an extraordinary girl she is,” Elizabeth said.

“My daughter has a generous spirit,” the contessa said with pride. “My husband always encouraged her natural sense of compassion and kindness. It was partly for Gillian's sake that he took on the task of ridding the countryside of the bandit scourge. Like her, my husband believed it was the right thing to do.”

“And he was killed in the process,” Charles said with sympathy.

“Yes, he and his bodyguards were ambushed one evening while returning from visiting a neighboring landowner. My husband and all his men were murdered.”

“How utterly tragic,” Elizabeth murmured.

The contessa nodded. “Naturally, Gillian was devastated and guilt-ridden. She believed that if she'd left well enough alone, her stepfather would never have been in danger. But it wasn't true, because my Mario was a noble and just man. He did what he thought he must.”

“Surely you explained that to your daughter?” Charles asked.

“I certainly should have, but I was unable to at the time. On learning of my husband's death, I collapsed. My mother was primarily taken up with my care, which left Gillian mostly on her own during a very fraught period. And at the mercy of my father, who was not, as I mentioned, patient with her.”

Charles had to tamp down a flare of anger. “I trust, however, that he did not abuse her in any way.”

The contessa looked startled. “Oh, no. He never lifted a hand to her. But he was not an affectionate or particularly kind man, and he resented the embarrassment her birth caused our family.” She sighed. “As if that was her fault, not mine. Unfortunately, I lacked the strength to stand up to my father. I'm ashamed I was such a coward.”

“Nonsense,” Charles said. “You defied him by choosing to keep Gillian with you. That in itself was a tremendous act of courage.”

“Oh, well done, brother,” murmured Elizabeth.

He shrugged. They both knew the damage fathers could do.

The contessa gave him a grateful smile. “I was fortunate that my mother supported my wishes. But Gillian has always been painfully aware of the sacrifices I made to keep her, as she puts it. As I said, my daughter is convinced she owes me a great debt for not putting her aside. I wonder sometimes if I made a tremendous mistake by keeping her with me. I suspect she would have been happier being raised by a loving family in the country, leading a simpler life. Instead, she's been forced to move between two worlds, never fully accepted in either one.”

“It's pointless to think that way,” Charles said. “Gillian is where she deserves to be, and where she belongs.”

With me.
He mentally blinked, startled by how easily the thought had slipped into his mind. He forced himself to shrug it off and focus on the immediate problem of how to help Gillian.

“I for one think you've done a bang-up job with your daughter,” Elizabeth said in a stout voice. “She's a splendid girl.”

The older woman beamed at her. “Thank you, my dear. I think she's a splendid girl, too. I simply wish more people would take the time to see that.”

“Which brings us to the point of this conversation,” Charles said. “What, exactly, do you want me to do?”

Gillian's mother looked him steadfastly in the eye. Despite her frail temperament and health, he was beginning to realize that she could be something of a tiger when it came to protecting her daughter. “Please don't give up on her,” she said. “Gillian deserves to be happy.”

How could he give up now, after all he'd heard? “I won't, madam. You have my word.”

Chapter Fourteen

Gillian put down her knife and flashed a smile at Fenfield Manor's cook. “Thank you, Mrs. Peck. Those were absolutely delicious biscuits. I don't know when I've ever had any so good.” Not that she'd ever had walnut and cheese biscuits before, but these tasted like ambrosia. Of course, skipping several meals in a row did tend to whet one's appetite. But it was a sacrifice she'd had to make in order to avoid encountering Leverton.

“Now, miss, I was worried since you've hardly touched your victuals since arriving here. But I'm that glad to see you get an appetite back.” The cook beamed as she plopped another plate of biscuits on the kitchen table. “And there's plum bread if you fancy it, too. Just fresh out of the oven.”

“Truly, I'm stuffed,” Gillian said. “If I eat anything else, I won't have room for dinner.”

Mrs. Peck lacked the sophistication of the great French chefs who cooked for the London aristocracy, and she certainly didn't look the part of a grand kitchen master. Tall, spare, and hatchet-faced, she appeared as if she ate hardly anything at all, much less sampled her own cooking. But like all the staff Gillian had met at the manor, she was efficient, kind, and welcoming

For some odd reason, the servants had taken a shine to Gillian. That was a bit of a miracle, considering how badly she'd behaved on the night of their arrival. She'd thoroughly lost her temper with His High and Mighty Grace, embarrassing herself in front of at least half the household staff. And the ones that hadn't been in the hall had probably heard her, since she'd made no effort to lower her voice. She still cringed just thinking about the mortifying scene, and about how she'd stormed at Leverton like an awful shrew.

But instead of being offended by her behavior, the staff had gone out of their way to pamper and fuss over her. Gillian suspected they were trying to prop up her spirits after the incident with the smugglers, which was terribly sweet of them. Was it any wonder that she'd been spending as much time belowstairs as possible since her arrival? At least with the servants, she didn't have to worry about receiving a scolding or another lecture on proper conduct from the man who seemed to have written the book on the subject—a man who clearly considered her an utter failure when it came to following the precepts of that dreariest of tomes.

She'd half expected Leverton to ring a peal over her for spending a good deal of her time in the kitchen and stables, or roaming about the estates. Such, however, had not been the case. Since their arrival three days ago, he'd barely seemed to notice either her presence or her absence. He'd been locked up in his library or out on horseback with his estate manager. On the few occasions when he and Gillian had run into each other, Leverton had been perfectly polite, but made no attempt to speak with her beyond a cursory word of greeting.

Unfortunately, his cool behavior seemed to have a strangely lowering effect on her spirits.

She was also disturbed that, apparently, little effort was being made to track down the villains who'd robbed them. Then again, the duke didn't seem like the kind of man who could be bothered to hunt down a band of nefarious smugglers over a few pieces of stolen jewelry. He'd clearly found the entire episode regrettable and distasteful—and probably
her
behavior the most distasteful element of all. Gillian had little doubt that for him the incident was over and done with.

For her, such was not the case.

“Well, all right,” Mrs. Peck said, clearing her plate away. “But I'll be expecting a good report from the footman tonight after dinner. I'll not be having you send back a full plate. I'll be thinking you don't like my cooking.”

“Nothing could be further from the truth, Mrs. Peck,” Gillian said.

“Then I expect you to be more than a mite
peckish
, since you've only had a little snack this afternoon,” the cook said with a sly grin.

“Mrs. Peck, that is an exceedingly bad pun,” Gillian said. Still, she couldn't help chuckling. It felt good to laugh again, even over such a silly joke.

“I'll have what Miss don't finish,” Teddy Bell piped up from the other side of the huge oak table that spanned half the length of the kitchen. He stuffed another walnut and cheese biscuit into his mouth, his eyes practically rolling with bliss. “I always has me a good appetite, Mrs. Peck.”

Between his broad Lincolnshire accent and his full mouth, Gillian could hardly understand the lad. But the stable boy was clearly enjoying his afternoon tea, and even more clearly enjoying that he was allowed to share it with Gillian. The child had become her shadow, attaching himself to her whenever he wasn't busy in the stables or doing errands for Mrs. Peck.

Teddy was also a fount of information about the residents of Fenfield Manor and the local parish, including the smugglers. According to the lad, free trading was worse and closer to home than perhaps the duke realized.

“As if I would waste His Grace's dinner on a young rascal like you,” Mrs. Peck retorted as she handed the dishes off to the scullery girl. “Now enough sitting around and jawing with Miss Gillian. Get yourself back to the stables and to work. Reid will be looking for you.”

The boy pushed back his chair, stuffing another biscuit into his mouth for good measure. He gave Gillian a wave, his mouth obviously too crammed to speak, and scampered for the door.

“I'll be sending a package home to your ma, Teddy,” Mrs. Peck called after him. “Don't forget to pick it up before you leave.” The cook sighed when the boy let the kitchen door slam behind him. “Forgive his lack of manners, Miss Gillian. He's a good lad, but a little rough, even though his ma tries to smooth him out.”

“She's a widow, is she not?” Gillian asked.

“That she is.” Mrs. Peck retrieved a cloth-covered bowl from one of the shelves built into the old masonry walls of the kitchen. She carefully removed a large mound of risen dough and placed it on the table, then began to knead it with a swift, expert touch. Gillian relaxed even more, lulled by the warmth of the kitchen fire, the smell of roasting meat from the brick oven, and the cheerful order that made the low-ceilinged room a welcome retreat.

“Things haven't been easy for Sarah since her husband passed on a few years ago,” Mrs. Peck said. “She takes in washing and does some baking, but there's not much work to be had in a village as small as ours. That's why Mr. Hewitt took little Teddy on to help in the stables and in the house.”

“That was very kind of him,” Gillian said. Hewitt, the butler at Fenfield Manor, was a quiet, unassuming man who ran a well-ordered household. He didn't lord it over the other servants or go out of his way to make life more difficult than it needed to be. The staff seemed almost like a family.

The only exception was Mr. Scunthorpe, the estate manager. Gillian had only met him once. A well-dressed, good-looking man in his late thirties, he obviously had quite a fine opinion of himself. That had only been her general impression, since she'd not spent much time talking to him. But Gillian fancied that he'd looked down his nose when introduced to her, as if slightly offended by her presence.

But it was more than that. Instinctively, she didn't trust him, but she couldn't quite determine why.

“He's a good man, is our Mr. Hewitt,” Mrs. Peck said. “We don't really have need for a stable boy, because Fenfield is so quiet. Why, we barely see His Grace from one year to the next, and he never tarries for more than a few weeks. But young Teddy needed a job, and a job he got. Mr. Hewitt is right loyal to the boy, no matter what that Scunthorpe has to say about it.”

That last bit was muttered, but it certainly confirmed what Gillian already sensed. Scunthorpe might be a competent manager, but he was not well liked by the rest of the staff.

“Is Mr. Scunthorpe from around these parts, Mrs. Peck?”

“That he is not. He's from up north. Yorkshire way.” From the way Mrs. Peck pounded her dough, she obviously didn't have much love for either Scunthorpe or Yorkshire.

“And why does Mr. Scunthorpe—”

Gillian broke off when she heard the kitchen door swing open behind her. Mrs. Peck's flour-covered hands stilled, and her eyes went wide. Gillian twisted around, half expecting to see the estate manager, annoyed that they'd been gossiping about him.

She almost fell out of her chair when she saw Leverton at the top of the short flight of steps that led down to the stone floor. He regarded her with an ironic lift to his brows.

“Hewitt told me I would find you here or in the stables,” he said. “The stables I can understand, but I never took you to be the domestic sort, Miss Dryden.”

He flashed her a warm smile, as if to take the sting from his words, and it sent her heart thudding like the hooves on a galloping horse. The man was impossibly handsome, even dressed more casually than his usual wont. Attired in buckskin breeches, tall boots, and a riding jacket, he looked like masculine perfection coming down from Mount Olympus to join the mere mortals. The simpler country garb suited him, showcasing his broad chest and shoulders and his long, muscled legs. His Grace might be the most sophisticated, urbane man she'd ever met, but no one could accuse him of being soft.

When amusement crept into his eyes, she realized she was staring at him. With her mouth open.
Idiot.

Gillian clamped her mouth shut and settled a scowl in place to compensate for her momentary lapse. She'd been laid low before by a handsome face and a nice set of shoulders, and that experience had taught her a lot about rich, arrogant men like the Duke of Leverton.

“Ah, what a shame,” he murmured. “For a moment, I thought we were friends again.”

“Um, what?” Then she winced. What was it about a handsome face that so often reduced her to sounding like a foolish schoolgirl?

“Goodness me, Your Grace, I never thought to see you in the kitchen,” Mrs. Peck said, bobbing a curtsey. “Everything's a right mess, too.”

“Nothing of the sort, Mrs. Peck. Everything looks trim and tidy, as always. I wish that all my houses were as comfortable and well run as Fenfield Manor.”

Mrs. Peck actually blushed. “Thank you, sir. We all love Fenfield, and consider ourselves right blessed to work here.”

“The blessings accrue to me, I assure you.”

Gillian had to admit that although Leverton might have a habit of ordering people around, he certainly wasn't a snob. He was comfortable conversing with his cook, and seemed not at all nonplussed by spending a little time belowstairs.

He glanced down and caught Gillian's gaze. For several long seconds, they sized each other up.

“You're going to get a crick in your neck if you keep staring up like that,” he said.

“I wouldn't, if you would sit down,” she said, just as affably.

His lips twitched.

“As if His Grace would ever be doing that down here,” Mrs. Peck exclaimed, clearly appalled. “If you can be telling me exactly what you need, sir, I'll have it brought up to you in a trice.”

“That won't be necessary, Mrs. Peck. I was simply looking for Miss Dryden.”

“Well, you found me,” Gillian said.

“Indeed. And if you're finished hiding away belowstairs, I wonder if you'd like to come for a walk with me.”

She stiffened. “I am not hiding.”

“Then how clumsy of me to make such an assumption. I am, however, simply repeating the term your mother used.”

Mamma had given her quite the lecture this morning about
moping about
and avoiding everyone. There was more to it than that, of course—not that Gillian could tell anyone what she'd been doing these last few days. Her mother would go into hysterics, and Leverton would probably have her locked in her room. And although her bedroom was both comfortable and pretty, it was on an upper floor. Whenever possible, Gillian made a point of not climbing down trellises or hanging off downspouts to reach the ground, since they were notoriously unstable and likely to break at the most inconvenient moments.

She made a show of peering out the high window of the half-cellared kitchen. “The weather doesn't look very conducive to a walk.”

It had been another wet morning. Gillian had always known that England had a damp climate, but she was beginning to worry she might sprout moss around the edges. The dreary weather made her long even more for Sicily, with its dry sunny days.

Mrs. Peck peered out the window too. “It was a cold mizzle just a bit ago, and that snithe wind could freeze a body to the bone.”

“What's a snithe wind?” Gillian asked.

“It means bitter, in the local parlance,” Leverton replied.

The cook gave him an approving smile. “Aye, sir. You'll be talking like a native before you know it.”

Gillian laughed. “I'd like to see that.”

“You might be surprised,” he said. “I spent quite a bit of time at Fenfield Manor when I was a boy. I have very fond memories of the place.”

“And it's grand to have you back with us,” the cook said, bobbing him another quick curtsey. “We all hope you stay with us a good while.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Peck.” The duke stretched out a hand to Gillian. “Come for a walk, Miss Dryden. I promise I won't bite.”

She stared at his hand, as if it would do exactly that. But it wasn't him she didn't trust. It was herself. “Thank you, but I think I'd better go spend some time with Mamma.”

“Your mother has just gone upstairs to lie down. She has a touch of a headache and doesn't want to be disturbed.”

That announcement promptly sent Mrs. Peck bustling about. “Ah, the poor thing. I'll make up a poultice to put on her forehead. Frim folk like her ladyship often get megrims in this terrible damp weather.”