If the Slipper Fits (8 page)

“I’m here to ensure that His Grace receives a well-rounded education,” she said. “I’m also to watch out for his safety in any manner necessary. Now tell me, what has he done to merit such a harsh reprimand from you?”

“He was scribbling nonsense instead of heeding my history lecture.” The tutor snatched up the slate from the boy’s lap and thrust it at her. “There! See how well he listens?”

She found herself gazing down at the chalk sketch of a horse. Nicholas had tried to rub it away, but enough remained for her to see that he had an uncommon flair for drawing. The fine rendering brought to mind the miniature cavalryman that he’d clutched the previous evening. When she’d returned to his bedchamber after eating dinner, the army of toy soldiers had been cleared away and he lay in bed, fast asleep—or at least pretending to be. She’d been pleased that he’d obeyed her instructions without a fuss.

Now, however, it seemed he’d acted out of fear of punishment. She suspected that he seldom—if ever—received kindness from this man or from Lord Simon. Why would Nicholas expect anything better from her? For all he knew, she’d report his every transgression to that despicable uncle of his.

“What I
see
is that His Grace has a wonderful artistic talent.” She handed the slate back to Nicholas. “Such a gift should be encouraged rather than punished. Now, if you would be so kind as to tell me your name.”

“The Reverend Percival Bunting.” The tutor spoke with a note of grating superiority. “I am vicar of St. Geren’s Church in the village.”

Vicar? Startled, Annabelle noticed for the first time the stiff white collar that rimmed the neckline of his robe. She would never have taken him for a cleric. The only one she’d ever known in Yorkshire had been a plump, happy fellow who’d loved children—the exact opposite of this curmudgeon.

“Is His Grace’s tutor ill, then?” she asked in confusion. “Are you filling in for him?”

“Quite the contrary. I am in sole charge of educating His Grace.” His mouth twisted in a sour line. “Or at least I was given to believe that I was.”

“But what of your duties in the parish? Visiting the sick, writing sermons, conducting services…”

“The assistant curate is capable of handling day-to-day matters in my absence. Everything else can be dealt with upon my return to the vicarage each evening.”

Annabelle seized upon the chance to prove her usefulness. “Then my presence here will allow you more time to attend to those tasks.”

He drew himself up with self-importance. “Nothing can be more imperative than training the Duke of Kevern to take his righteous place as a peer of the realm. You cannot possibly surpass my qualifications for the role. After all,
I
was once a lecturer at Oxford.”

Oxford! The news dismayed Annabelle. She’d expected a tutor of modest background, someone easily replaceable. But Mr. Bunting had a lofty résumé—which made her own situation all the more shaky.

As if privy to her thoughts, he stepped closer, a smirk on his narrow face. “And what, pray tell, are
your
credentials?”

“I taught at a fine academy in Yorkshire,” she said glibly. “I’m well versed in all subjects from mathematics to science to literature. Lord Simon would never have hired me otherwise.”

Annabelle held his gaze, refusing to look away. She buried any qualms at embellishing the truth. If ever Mr. Bunting found out she’d merely taught etiquette at a school for girls, he’d whine to Lord Simon and she’d be tossed out at once.

Then Nicholas would be left without an advocate. He would be subject to the cruel whims of this man.

“Yorkshire,” Mr. Bunting muttered with a shake of his head. “What is there in such a provincial place but sheep and barren moors?”

“It is no more provincial than Cornwall,” Annabelle countered. She bent down to pick up the ruler from beneath the desk. “Now I’m sure you’ll agree there’s no point to wasting any more valuable classroom time.” Without seeking his permission, she seated herself on a nearby chair and kept the ruler in her lap.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he said huffily.

“I intend to observe your lessons. It will be very useful for me to know the progress of His Grace in his studies.”

The vicar glowered for a moment as if debating the wisdom of trying to oust her from the schoolroom. Then in a swirl of black robes he stalked to the desk. “Do as you please,” he muttered. “But this is an affront, and I fully intend to take up the matter with Lord Simon.”

Annabelle strove for a serene expression. Now was not the time for another rejoinder. He would only use it as ammunition when he lodged his complaint against her. And he
would
complain, she had no doubt about that. She could only hope to deprive him of any further offenses to report.

Mr. Bunting cleared his throat. He launched into a monologue about the British colonies that included reciting lists of names and dates from a textbook that lay open on the desk. Within minutes, Annabelle was struck by the mind-numbing quality of his presentation. The vicar rattled on about obscure political and historical facts that could be of little interest to a boy of eight.

Indeed, Nicholas appeared to be gazing out the bank of windows behind the vicar, where the sky had been washed clean of yesterday’s rainclouds and gulls soared against a palette of blue. Annabelle struggled to keep her own mind focused on the lecture. As the morning progressed, she found herself growing increasingly distressed.

Mr. Bunting was clearly unsuited to teaching a young child. He failed miserably at engaging the duke’s attention. His dull delivery would have bored even a classroom of university students. What had Lord Simon been thinking to hire such a stuffy, self-important man?

She pursed her lips. Lord Simon was indifferent to his nephew’s well-being, that’s what. To him, Nicholas was merely an annoyance to be kept out of sight in the nursery.

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

No wonder Lady Milford believed Nicholas desperately needed a governess. Her ladyship wished to shelter the young duke from both Lord Simon and Mr. Bunting. That must have been why she’d rejected the other teachers at the academy; she’d been searching for someone who could commiserate with the orphaned little boy. Someone who had once been lonely and vulnerable herself. Someone who knew exactly how he felt.

Someone willing to fight his battles for him.

Tightening her fingers around the ruler in her lap, Annabelle prayed she wouldn’t disappoint her ladyship. It would require tact and diplomacy to secure her position here at the castle. She’d have to keep a firm rein on her temper. Already, she had caused trouble, and the vicar would not take kindly to any more interference. If she was sacked, then Nicholas would be left on his own again.

His Grace of Kevern sat like a statue with his hands folded in his lap. Poor lad, he didn’t trust anyone, and who could blame him? He had been betrayed by all the adults in his life: inadvertently by his parents when they had died, by Lord Simon, who barely acknowledged his presence, and by Mr. Bunting, who had a taste for harsh discipline.

But now Nicholas had
her
as his advocate.

The thought imbued Annabelle with strength. For the first time in her life, she felt as if she’d found her true calling. It was a sense of purpose that she’d never felt while teaching the pampered girls at Mrs. Baxter’s Academy.

The opportunity must not be allowed to slip away. She had a fortnight to convince Lord Simon to keep her on staff. A fortnight in which to prove herself indispensible. A fortnight in which to find a way to eject Mr. Bunting from the castle once and for all.

*   *   *

After tending to an errand in the village, Simon was riding back to Castle Kevern when he spied a familiar dogcart trundling toward him on the muddy road. The driver lifted his hand and waved imperiously.

Simon cursed under his breath. So much for his hope to return home without further delay. His already belated midday meal would have to wait even longer. He was also testy from a cramp in his thigh from an old war wound.

He’d been in the saddle since dawn, traversing the estate and assessing the damage done by the storm. Fields of ripening corn and barley had been flattened. A crofter’s roof had caved in from the heavy rain and a thatching crew had to be arranged. An entire flock of sheep had escaped through a breached fence and had to be shepherded back onto Kevern land.

Now he was faced with mollifying a peevish employee.

Beneath a wide-brimmed black hat, Percival Bunting’s face bore a pinched expression. That came as no surprise. This morning, the vicar would have met the inimitable Miss Annabelle Quinn.

Simon drew his mount to a halt beside the dogcart and pony. His gray gelding danced back and forth, requiring a firm hand on the reins. “Vicar,” he said with a cool nod. “A bit early for you to have left the schoolroom.”

“Through no fault of my own, I assure you.” Bunting aimed an indignant look up from the low, two-wheeled vehicle. “It is most providential to have encountered you, my lord. We must have a word at once, if you’ll be so kind as to attend me to the vicarage.”

“I’m busy today. Speak your mind here and be done with it.”

Bunting glanced back and forth at the surrounding forest as if he expected an army of eavesdroppers to pop out from behind the tree trunks. “It is regarding Miss Annabelle Quinn,” he said, pronouncing her name as if it were a concoction of vinegar and pepper. “Imagine my astonishment when she marched into the schoolroom this morning. I had no notion the woman had even been hired.”

“Do forgive the oversight,” Simon said unrepentantly. “I presume you took the matter in stride.”

“Naturally! I pride myself on being a most accommodating man. However, I confess to being unable to fathom your purpose in adding her to the staff. If you are displeased with my services, then pray tell me how I might improve myself.”

You could try not being a pompous ass
. “Don’t make too much of it. I’m merely doing what’s best for my nephew. Miss Quinn can supervise his studies and provide him with any mothering he might need.”

“Mothering? I thought we’d agreed His Grace is too old for a governess.”

“Quite so. But Lady Milford believes otherwise and I’ve decided to defer to her better judgment.”

Simon was still annoyed that Clarissa had acted without his express permission. Months ago, she’d striven to convince him that Nicholas needed someone to replace his mother. Simon had bluntly pointed out the folly in her reasoning. When had the boy ever known love and affection from Diana? It wasn’t as if he had anything to miss. The late Duchess of Kevern had been too dedicated to her own frivolities to pay heed to her only child.

A pity he himself had been blind to Diana’s self-seeking nature when they’d first met all those years ago. He’d found out the hard way, when she’d scorned his marriage proposal and shifted her sights to George and the title.

Bunting continued to whine. “My lord, pray do not think it unseemly of me to question your decisions. However, I must point out that having a woman in the schoolroom is a disruptive influence. She will distract His Grace from his studies.”

“What exactly has she done?”

“For one, she attempted to prevent me from rebuking His Grace for daydreaming. As you know, the boy must not be coddled if he is to be prepared for Eton next year. I cannot maintain discipline in the classroom so long as that female continues to interfere.”

Simon wanted nothing to do with their petty squabbles. “I expect you’ll find a way to compromise. Is that all?”

“Unfortunately not! The woman also had the temerity to inform me that she was canceling this afternoon’s classes so the duke could take her on a tour of the castle. She is wasting precious study time. You must speak to her on the matter at once!”

“I can’t imagine it’ll do him any harm to enjoy a half-holiday. In the meantime, you should take advantage of her help and find a way to divide the classroom duties.”

“I beg your pardon?” The vicar’s lips flattened together. “She cannot possibly be a suitable teacher. She lacks an Oxford education. How can we know she is even qualified in the slightest?”

“Lady Milford selected Miss Quinn. That is recommendation enough for me. Good day, Vicar.”

Simon urged his mount to a trot up the winding road to the castle. He hoped to God that would be the end of it. Continuing to referee quarrels between those two was not a prospect he relished. He expected his employees to perform their duties unobtrusively, just as the cavalrymen under his command had obeyed his orders without question.

Overseeing a large household and estate had never figured into Simon’s plan for his life. At this very moment, he should have been in Turkey or Greece or some other exotic locale, exploring ancient ruins in search of lost treasures. The previous autumn he’d been waiting to board a ship in Dover when the letter had arrived with the tragic news about George and Diana.

A few more hours and he’d have set sail for Athens …

Simon thrust his bitterness and regret back into the lockbox of memory. Returning to Cornwall had not been so terrible a hardship. Castle Kevern had been his boyhood home, after all. He knew every inch of these woods, every cave along the rocky shoreline, every hill and meadow and cove. Besides, honor would not permit him to shirk his obligation to watch over the estate for Nicholas.

His brooding thoughts settled on his nephew. The vicar brought Nicholas to the study at teatime every Friday afternoon for a report on his studies. But the boy’s timidity always stymied Simon. As a child, he himself had been a boisterous lad, talkative and unafraid of any adult.
Precocious,
his late grandmother used to say with a wink.

Nicholas, however, seemed afraid of his own shadow. He seldom offered more than a few halting, mumbled words. Maybe Miss Annabelle Quinn would have better luck in coaxing the boy to talk.

Simon hoped so. She certainly had a skill for persuasion. Only consider the ease with which she had convinced him to grant her a trial period of employment. One look from those expressive blue eyes had scrambled his brain.
I’ve a proposition for you,
she’d said. He’d immediately assumed that she wanted to be his mistress.