Justinian stared at the apparition before him. From the light brown hair escaping her limp straw bonnet to the hem of her serviceable brown cloak, she was dripping wet. Her half boots and the bottom quarter of the cloak were caked with mud and leaves, and dead grass flecked her slender figure to her waist. Although she kept her head bowed as she rose from her curtsey, he could hear her sniffing and had no doubt that her eyes would be as red as the pert nose he had glimpsed.
Eleanor could not resist a quick glance up at him, blinking her eyes to focus them. She had always thought Justinian Darby handsome. Ten years had hardened the youthful face into clean lines of maturity. But the heroic aspects that had attracted her in the first place were still there. He had shared her love of literature, and she remembered thinking that he embodied so many of the traits common to the heroes of old. His hair was as tawny and thick as Samson’s must have been. His brow was a wide and as thoughtful as surely King Arthur’s had been, and his eyes were a gray as deep and sharp as those she would imagine belonged to Merlin. His shoulders were broad, his waist narrow, and his legs long enough to resemble any god in the Greek pantheon. At the moment, all of him was clothed in the immaculate black of mourning.
“Lord Wenworth,” she said breathlessly and had the misfortune to start sneezing again, seven times in a row.
When she sniffed her way to silence once again, she found the butler staring at her in alarm and Justinian frowning. Whether it was concern or annoyance, she couldn’t tell.
Justinian was certain he knew the woman before him. It did not seem possible, for the young lady he had known ten years ago would surely have married and left the school by now. In fact, he had long ago resigned himself to the fact that he would never see her again. He tried once more to get a better look at her, but she proved adept at avoiding his gaze.
“Faringil,” he said, “will you introduce the young lady?”
Faringil shook himself and collected his bearing. “Of course, my lord. Justinian Darby, ninth Earl of Wenworth, may I present Miss Aledor Brigid.”
Eleanor winced. No doubt that was exactly what she sounded like with this infernal sniffing. Still, it was probably better if she did not correct him.
To her surprise, Justinian bowed deeply, and she was afraid he knew the truth. “Miss Brigid,” he said in a voice that was as deep and comforting as she remembered, “an honor to make your acquaintance. If I’m not mistaken, it’s Miss Eleanor, isn’t it? You are my niece’s literature teacher.”
Eleanor nodded, swallowing around the scratch in her throat. “Yes, that’s right.” She told herself she should be glad he didn’t recognize her and ordered the part of her that was hurt to be silent.
Justinian also ignored that part of him that fell with disappointment that it was not his Norrie after all. The last thing he needed right now was a romantic entanglement. “I’ve heard a great deal about you from my niece.” He smiled politely. “What can I do for the school today?”
Inside her cloak, Jingles squirmed, reminding her of why she was here. She pulled him gingerly into the light. Faringil recoiled as if she had pulled out a bludgeon. She opened her mouth to explain, and her nose exploded again. The rapid succession of sneezes doubled her, and with a surge of panic, she realized the kitten was dropping from her grip. She snatched at him, but two large, long-fingered hands came between her and the little animal. By the time she could recover, Justinian was staring down at the black ball of matted fur that crouched in his open hands, hissing in annoyance.
“It’s a kitten,” she offered.
The kitten returned Justinian’s stare with unblinking yellow eyes. He stopped hissing and cocked his head. Justinian had the strange sensation that his soul was being examined and felt an absurd surge of relief when the kitten nodded approval.
Eleanor felt a similar relief. “He likes you,” she noted. “I’m so glad. Dottie was hoping you might be willing to keep him for her. There is a policy against pets at the school.” There, she’d made it sound like a logical turn of events rather than the tragedy it had nearly turned out to be.
The kitten rose with the obvious intention of exploring the palms of Justinian’s hands, and he turned to offer the little animal to Faringil. The butler took a step back, blinking, then seemed to recall his duty. With a sigh, he accepted the kitten, holding it at arms length so that its muddy back feet dangled. Jingles’ ears went back.
Justinian frowned at his butler before turning to Eleanor. “Of course we’ll keep the kitten for Dottie,” he replied. “Please assure my niece that . . .” he paused with upraised brow.
“Jingles,” Eleanor offered helpfully.
“Jingles will be well taken care of and waiting for her when she comes home at the end of the month for Christmas.”
Eleanor’s smile froze. She’d love to be able to tell Dottie exactly that, but she wasn’t very likely to be allowed inside the door of the school again in the near future. Besides, if he went to visit soon, perhaps Dottie would confess how unhappy she was and he would be moved to take action. “Thank you,” she replied. “But perhaps you could tell her yourself? I know she would love to see you.”
The noble brow clouded, and Eleanor knew she had gone too far. No Darby ever accepted suggestions from anyone outside their exalted social circle. She had thought she’d learned that lesson on her first visit to Wenworth Place.
Justinian grit his teeth to keep from offering a sharp rejoinder. How dare the woman imply that he was neglecting his niece! She clearly had no idea of the work he was forced to do. It wasn’t as if he had time to visit even once a week. The kitten hissing in Faringil’s grip suddenly seemed like one more burden.
“Christmas will be here soon enough, Miss Brigid,” he replied coldly. “Now, if you’re quite finished, I must see to other matters.”
His tone left no question in Eleanor’s mind that those matters were far more important than a small black kitten and a wet, impertinent school teacher. She hurriedly dropped another curtsey as he turned away.
Be thankful he took the kitten
, she told herself firmly.
You have no right to expect more. Remember your place.
Justinian paused, catching sight of a bedraggled carpet bag sitting in a puddle of water near the door. Had the woman walked all this way with the kitten in the bag? “Faringil?”
“My lord?” This time the butler’s step forward was quick enough even though he had to juggle the kitten in his grip.
“Have the carriage brought around to return Miss Brigid to the school.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Eleanor put in before the butler could promise to comply. As two pairs of inquisitive eyes turned in her direction, she struggled to think of some logical reason why she wouldn’t be returning. “I’m not going back to the school,” she hedged. “I’m . . . I’m returning home . . . to York . . . on holiday. Yes, for Christmas.” She felt the guilt of the lie as much as she felt the tickle in her nose, but she couldn’t bear to have Justinian know she had been disgracefully dismissed.
He glanced out the multipane windows, noting how the day was rapidly darkening. “It is late. You’ll never make Wenwood before nightfall. Faringil?”
“My lord?” The answer was not quite so swift. The butler had made the mistake of pulling the kitten closer and was now engaged in a battle over the possession of the top button of his waistcoat. The kitten’s claws were firmly imbedded in the patterned satin on either side of the gleaming metal button and his tiny teeth nipped at the Darby crest. What the king wanted, he generally got.
Justinian frowned at the display, although he was terribly tempted to laugh. “Have a room made up for Miss Brigid.”
“My lord, I wouldn’t dream of imposing,” Eleanor began. She hadn’t stopped to think about where she’d sleep that night, but nothing short of a winter snowstorm would have compelled her to stay at Wenworth Place alone with him. Even if he didn’t remember her, her memories were still potent.
“Nor would I dream of turning a lady out into a winter’s night,” Justinian countered. Sensing her reluctance, he forced himself to continue more gently. “Have no fear for your reputation. My mother lives here as well. Besides, I will not be able to entertain you. I have pressing matters I must attend to, as I mentioned. If I do not see you again, have a pleasant journey tomorrow.”
“Thank you,” Eleanor managed, deciding to be relieved by the kind gesture. If she didn’t have to see him again, perhaps it might be all right to stay the night. It wasn’t as if she had anywhere else to go.
Justinian bowed and turned from her curtsey. However, grateful Miss Brigid might be, the fact of the matter was that she had handed him another problem, at least for the night. And he felt another premonition that she would be far more difficult to deal with than an aristocratic young kitten named Jingles.
Chapter Three
Morning would prove Justinian correct. He hadn’t even started on the blasted pile of papers when Faringil slipped into the room to stand rigidly behind him. It seemed that Miss Brigid was more ill than anyone had suspected, and Faringil was clearly concerned that she had brought some dire disease upon them that would decimate the entire area. Justinian had dispatched a footman for Dr. Praxton, who had arrived in due course.
Justinian considered going up to see the woman himself, but thought she somehow wouldn’t appreciate a visit by the lord of the manor if she wasn’t feeling well. It was a rather cowardly excuse, but he kept thinking that if he could just get through a third of the papers that morning, he might be able to sneak away that afternoon and write. Jareth had sent him one of the recently published novels from London, which read like so much drivel that he itched to try his hand at something finer. Not that he’d ever go so far as to admit to anyone but his scapegrace youngest brother that he was writing a novel in the manner of Walter Scott. A Darby didn’t parade anything so common as artistic abilities in public. No, he crafted his stories in the library’s quiet, assuring himself that the work had literary merit. Hoping to finish soon enough to write, he plunged into the report on the state of the levees.
Unfortunately, after only three pages, the hairs on the back of his neck rose, warning him that he was not alone.
“Yes?” Justinian clipped, hoping the tone of his voice would let Faringil know that the interruption was unwanted.
“Pardon me, my lord.”
“What is it?” Justinian demanded.
“Dr. Praxton would like to speak with you.”
“Then send him in,” Justinian replied. He lowered his eyes, scanning the page to find where he left off. Faringil did not move. “Well?” Justinian snapped.
“He’s with Miss Brigid, my lord. He would like you to come there.”
Justinian rolled his eyes but rose to follow the man from the room.
He was not a little chagrined to find that Faringil had placed the kindly school teacher in the servants quarters at the top of the house. Dr. Praxton stood waiting for him before the door. The doctor was a small, slender man, with an unruly shock of thick gray hair he never seemed troubled to comb. His eyes were close set and nearly black. Justinian had heard that some of the local women thought him shifty eyed, considering him to resemble a rat. He had always found the man professional in his dealings and intelligent in his conversation. Now Dr. Praxton nodded in greeting.
“Sorry to disturb you, my lord,” he said in explanation, reaching for the door handle. “I thought you would want to see this.”
Justinian felt another premonition of dread. He shook his head. He had to get over these feelings that everything was going to turn out badly. Miss Brigid hardly seemed the type to have brought a gallon of port with her in her carpet bag, although her lying inebriated certainly would have been enough for the servants to suspect she was deathly ill and for Dr. Praxton to want his attention.
“What is the difficulty?” he asked, hoping to be prepared for whatever lay beyond the door.
“Hold your nose, please,” the man replied, “and I’ll show you.”
Justinian frowned at him. “Hold my nose?”
Faringil obligingly shook out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and handed it to Justinian. “Your nose, my lord.”
Still frowning, Justinian accepted the white lawn square and held it against his nostrils. Doing the same, Dr. Praxton opened the narrow door, and they all peered in.
Justinian could have sworn the very air in the room swam with the noxious odor that reached him even through the handkerchief. Ammonia, the scholarly part of his brain asserted. Cat piddle, the more practical part of him corrected. What had possessed Faringil to shut the poor woman up with the kitten? It had been over twenty hours since he had seen Miss Eleanor. If she had been ill and too weak to rise, she could hardly have cared for a cat. Now, thanks to Faringil’s sensitivity, or lack thereof, the woman must be nearly dead.
Eleanor lay on the narrow bed in the small room, eyes closed against a pounding headache. The last thing she remembered was feeding Jingles the remains of the dinner she had had little interest in eating, changing hurriedly into her pink flannel nightgown in the chilly room, and burrowing beneath the counterpane with the kitten beside her. Just before falling asleep, she had thought of Justinian again, remembering his appreciative smiles years ago when she had answered a question he could not. Their minds had seemed so attuned then. That was obviously no longer the case. She had started to regret that she’d agreed to stay then promptly scolded herself for her lack of humility. She was considerably warmer and more comfortable than if she’d had to sleep in a barn, and the little room was no smaller than the one she’d lived in all her life at Barnsley. She had fallen asleep telling herself to remember her place.
Waking up, however, had proven far more difficult. Instead of getting better, she felt much worse. Her eyes were nearly swollen shut, and her tongue was thick in her dry mouth. Twice now she had felt as if someone was watching her, but both times she had found herself alone when she had managed to raise her head. Now she felt the same sensation and tried once more to look. Her body seemed willing enough, but her chest felt as if there were an anvil on it.