A Guardians Angel (2 page)

From behind the carriage, the coachee popped out like a puppet pulled by its string. The thin man’s clothes were covered with dirt. As he wiped his hand against his filthy cheek, his eyes widened. He tilted his cap and started to speak.

The man beside her cut him off by saying, “You have repaired the carriage, I trust. Miss Needham is anxious to be on her way.” Not giving the coachman a chance to answer, he added, “I bid you a good afternoon, Miss Needham, and offer my hopes that the rest of your journey is uneventful.”

“Thank you.”

When she said no more, he nodded politely and, setting the net’s handle on his shoulder like a laborer carrying a scythe, walked in the same direction the carriage was headed.

A twinge of dismay cramped her center. Did this strange man live close to Oslington Court? Or worse, did he live within its walls? Mayhap he was a member of the duke’s household. His voice suggested he was educated, so he might be an upper servant. Although she knew she was revealing a complete lack of manners to speak so of a stranger, she needed to know more about him before she made an utter cabbage-head of herself again.

“Who was that?” she asked, trying, without much success, to sound nonchalant.

The coachee took off his cap and slapped it against his dusty coat. “That be Lord Harrington, Miss Needham.”

“
Lord
Harrington?” She clamped her lips closed when the coachman’s grin became as wide as his eyes had been.

“A viscount, so I hear.” Glancing at the repaired wheel, he gave it a tentative poke with his toe. “That’s not all they say about him. I hear his lordship’s got an odd kick in his gallop. Avoids London.” He gave Angela a broken-toothed grin. “Guess he can’t go ’bout chasing butterflies in Covent Garden now, can he? That’s why he lives here in Harrington Grange.”

“Is the carriage set to travel?” she asked. Her questions had been as ill-mannered, so the best thing to do would be to put an end to this.

But that man was
Lord
Harrington?

The coachman grumbled something, and Angela knew he had hoped to regale her with more stories about the eccentric lord. Although she wished to learn more, she must not listen to gossip. At least, she reminded herself, Lord Harrington did not live within walls of Oslington Court. What was Harrington Grange, and where was it? It could not be far, so she might encounter Lord Harrington again.

When Angela let the coachee hand her up into the carriage, she could not halt from glancing in the direction Lord Harrington had walked. This was not a good beginning. The viscount might be a welcome guest at the duke’s home. But which Lord Harrington would call at Oslington Court? The jester? The fiery man who defended his young friend? The gentleman who had worried about her well-being?

Whichever one it might be, she must be ready to deal with him and his loose-screw ways. She wondered if she could be.

Two

Angela stared at the grand house as the hired carriage came to a stop beneath a stone porte-cochere. Like an aging queen, Oslington Court sat amid her emerald gardens and waited to be admired. Age and salt from the not-distant sea had stained the brick walls, but the windows marching along its front elevation sparkled back the last rays of the day’s sunshine.

No two windows were identical. Unlike the symmetrical façades on London squares, long expanses of glass were set side-by-side with small, stained-glass windows that looked as if they had been taken from a monastery. Flat glass and bay windows marked a tower rising next to the double doors.

Beyond the house, as the hill dropped back toward the road, Angela could see clumps of trees. Rosebushes were green shadows against the brighter grass. Other flowers had burst from their beds in a barrage of color. She hoped she would find time to explore those gardens soon.

Angela stepped from the carriage as the tiger held the door. Climbing the half dozen steps to the double doors of Oslington Court, she was glad the trip from Town was over. Her head still hurt, and every muscle recalled the hours of rough travel from London.

Beneath her shoes, the risers were worn with the tread of uncountable other feet. One of the black walnut doors, which were decorated only with the thick heads of black nails, swung open with a squeak. Angela hesitated; then, taking a deep breath, she crossed the threshold into her new life.

Coolness embraced her, for the sunshine seeping through the windows to brighten the diamond patterns of the marble floor was swallowed by the massive space. A pair of brass chandeliers hung an unbelievable distance over her head. Gilt shone on the metalwork along the banister. The ornate staircase divided into twin staircases as it reached up from the ground floor. The stone steps led to a half-landing where a full suit of armor sat atop the steel that would have protected the knight’s horse. Weak sunlight sparked off the hilt of the sword.

Angela pressed her hand to her heart, wanting to be certain it was still beating as she entered this extraordinary fantasy world where no mere human should dare to trespass. She had called at elegant houses in London before she had cut her single Season short to tend to her dying mother. Those houses would be envious of this ancient grandeur.

“Good afternoon. Are you Miss Needham?”

At the elderly voice, Angela forced her gaze away from the glorious entry to look at a graying man. His livery was a brilliant blue which matched the tiles edging a hearth set between two doors to her left. As he walked toward her, she realized he was no taller than she was. His sunken eyes and withered face bespoke his age.

“Yes, I am Angela Needham,” she answered, noting how her voice vanished in the emptiness.

“I am Hervey, His Grace’s butler, miss.” When he held out his gnarled hands, she slipped her shawl off her shoulders. He took it, then, with an expression of distaste, handed the dusty lace to a young woman who popped out of the shadows beneath one arch of the staircase.

With a shiver, Angela wondered what or who else might hide there. Sternly she told herself not to be fanciful. Her mother had related wonderful stories of her months at Oslington Court. Angela was sure she would enjoy her tenure at the grand house as much.

“This way, Miss Needham,” the
major domo
said. His deep voice resonated along the high corridors opening off the foyer. “Please do not delay to gawk. His Grace expected you nearly an hour past.”

“I am looking forward to meeting His Grace.” Angela would save her explanation for the duke.

When she said nothing else, the hunched man pointed to a door on the left; she walked in that direction. Hervey was silent while he led her past doors that provided glimpses of glorious rooms resplendent in crystal and marble and fine wood polished to reflect the few candles that were lit against the coming of night. When she realized that each room’s hearth and mantel were unique, she longed to stop and examine them. She promised herself that she would succumb to that temptation later. For now, she must be sure that she made the best possible impression on the duke.

As they passed a looking glass, she sought to spy her reflection. The fancy pier mirror, with gilt fruit capping the top, was set too high on the wall. Looking at the dust clinging to the hem of her gown, she guessed the ribbons on her bonnet were as uncomely. Mayhap even worse, she feared the flowers on her bonnet had been battered by Lord Harrington’s butterfly net. Blast that man! He should have been watching his young friend more closely. The remnants of her irritation were not eased as she pushed her hair back into place. She was as skimble-skamble as the viscount, for she should have thought to ask Hervey for a chance to wash the grime of the road from her face before she met the duke.

If only Lord Harrington’s boots had not sprayed dust all over her!

Angela’s steps faltered as the peculiar viscount intruded on her thoughts yet again. She did not need that enigmatic man clogging her head now. Yet the warmth in his emerald eyes, when he had been concerned for her well-being, refused to be forgotten. Nor could she push aside the memory of his hands, strong and at the same time gentle.

Hervey glanced back with a disapproving frown. Hurrying to where he stood by a closed door, Angela silenced a tremor of dismay. She must focus on this introduction to the Duke of Oslington. His Grace would send her back to Town posthaste if she acted as unsettled as the young miss he hoped she would guide into the Season.

The butler opened the door, which was as silent as his disapproval. Crossing the parquet floor, the old man did not turn to see if Angela was following.

She did at a slower pace, for her eyes were caught on every step by something else in the fabulous chamber. Two walls were hidden behind huge, glass-fronted cases filled with books of every size. The single window had diamond-shaped mullions marching across its breadth and splashing the long shadows of sunset on the roughly hewn hearth. As she edged around benches and tables, Angela smiled. A trio of leather chairs were set in a corner beneath the window. It was perfect for an indulgent afternoon of reading.

Hervey paused by a chair, which was turned so she could not see its occupant. “Your Grace, Miss Needham has
finally
arrived.”

“Needham?” came back an impatient voice. “I know no one by that name.”

The butler bent toward the chair. Although Angela did not hear his words, she guessed the butler was reminding the duke about the companion for his ward. She squared her shoulders as she wondered if the man was always so forgetful. That was sure to make her life more difficult.

“Oh,
that
Miss Needham,” the man said in the same rich, tenor voice. “Thank you, Hervey.”

The butler backed away and looked toward Angela with a frown that ordered her to come forward to present herself. Wondering what sort of tyrant the Duke of Oslington might be, she took a single step toward the chair, then paused as His Grace stood.

This was not the crotchety man she had imagined. The duke was handsome. His jaw was firm, and he possessed sternly chiseled features. A hint of gray lightened his brown hair near his temples, and lines were drawn into his sun-darkened skin. She recalled the duke had written that he had returned recently from India, so she guessed the deep tan came from his long sea voyage.

The heels of his knee-high boots tapped the parquet floor as he came toward her, but she barely noticed the sound. The fine cut of his navy coat and the cravat at his throat went unseen as she was caught by his appraisal. His gray eyes swept along her, inspecting her as if she were one of the sepoys under his command.

“You are Miss Needham, the Miss Needham I contacted to be my ward’s companion?” He picked up a silver snuffbox from the table by his chair. Opening it, he removed a pinch.

“I am Angela Needham. It is my pleasure to be able to help in this way, Your Grace.”

The duke put the snuffbox onto the table and his handkerchief beneath his coat. “Miss Needham,” he said coolly, “when my mother suggested that I might contact you to help me solve this problem of bringing my ward into the Polite World, I was of the mistaken understanding that you were more than a chip.”

“I can assure you, Your Grace, that I am no longer a child.”

“You look it.”

Astounded by his want of civility, she wondered if all men in Northumberland suffered from a lack of manners. First she had been accosted by Lord Harrington and his butterfly net. Now the duke was acting as if she were unsuitable to be his ward’s companion. She quelled the shudder flying along her back as she envisioned him giving her her leave. She must avert that disgrace, if it was still possible.

“Your Grace,” she said, fighting to keep her voice serene, “I celebrated my sixth-and-twentieth birthday less than a fortnight ago.”

“Is that so?” Again he looked her over from head to toe. He nodded.

She started to ask him what he meant when she heard footsteps fading behind her. Looking over her shoulder, she saw a woman in a gray dress hurrying out of the room. The duke’s silent message had not been for Angela, but for this servant she had not heard enter.

Motioning toward a chair, the duke continued, “Do sit, Miss Needham.”

“Thank you. I trust I shall soon have the opportunity to meet your ward.”

“In due time.” He inclined his head again toward the chair next to where he had been seated.

Angela recognized that as a command. Even though she was exhausted and her head ached and she was so thirsty she could have downed half the North Sea, she sat with every bit of grace she had left. She was too aware of the handsome duke gauging every motion she made. She must prove to him that she was fit to teach his ward proper behavior for
Le Beau Monde
. Folding her hands in her lap, she waited for His Grace to speak.

He dropped into his chair. “I must own to being grateful that you could come to Oslington Court on such short notice, Miss Needham. It is most fortunate that you had nothing to compel you to remain in London.”

“I was able to arrange matters quickly,” she answered, not willing to own to this cold man that she had been glad to leave her brother’s home.

“As I said, most fortunate.” His fingers played with the tooled edge of the book on the table by his chair, and she guessed he was anxious to return to his reading. “Few women of your age and class would be willing to leave Town during the Season.”

Angela bristled as his words echoed Lord Harrington’s comments. It was no concern of either man why she had decided to come to Oslington Court. She did not need anyone to remind her that her life had taken a turn she could not have imagined when she had been as young as the duke’s ward. Then she had dreamed of a glorious Season that would end with a loving marriage.

Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to swallow her anger. The duke could not guess how his words resurrected the grief and frustration she tried to forget. When she spoke, she was pleased with her even voice. “Your Grace, it was my pleasure to be able to accept your kind offer to act as companion to your ward.”

“I must own, Miss Needham,” he said with a sudden fervor, “to being very eager to do the best I can by Leonia. Her father was my commanding officer at Fort St. George in Madras, and he was a man who accepted nothing but the very best effort. I vowed to oversee Leonia’s future, and, as Leonia’s companion, I shall pass part of that burden and that obligation to you.”