“You won’t regret it, my son,” Father Francis said softly.
“I already regret it.” Kit reached for the doorknob. “Because if there is anything I hate, it’s the fuss and bother that goes with a London season.”
“Mariah is worth a bit of fuss and bother,” the priest told him. “She deserves it.”
“In your estimation, Father,” Kit said. “I’m reserving mine—at least until I meet the girl.”
Father Francis smiled. “If you say so.”
“You took her to my house this morning,” Kit said. “How did you know I would agree to fulfill her mother’s last request?”
“How could you not?” Father Francis asked. “Once you learned that she is a damsel in distress.”
“Chivalry is dead, Father.” Kit winked. “Or haven’t you heard?”
“Not for you it isn’t.” Father Francis shook his head. “You’ve a double dose of it.”
“How’s that?”
“There’s no denying that you are your father’s son.”
“You know the marquess?”
“I don’t know the current marquess,” Father Francis said. “But I knew the former one quite well, and if there was one thing George Ramsey could never refuse, it was a damsel in distress.”
Chapter Seven
Accept the things to which fate binds you, and love
the people with whom fates brings you together,
but do so with all your heart.
—MARCUS AURELIUS, 121–180
Kit opened his mouth to give voice to the myriad questions he had, but Father Francis forestalled them with a wave of his hand.
Kit ignored it. “You cannot make a statement like that without divulging some of your knowledge of the subject. Without answering my questions.”
“I do not know the answers to your questions. For me, the past is past and there is no reason for you to contend with its legacy. Not here. Not now.”
“Then when? Where?”
“When the time is right.” Father Francis shrugged his shoulders. “Life is a circle, my son. The longer I live the more certain I am of it. Claim your future and you will reclaim your past.” He smiled at Kit. “Now, go.”
“But, Father …”
“Your future and your past awaits you at Telamor.”
The priest refused to answer any more questions. He hustled Kit out the door of the rectory. Before he quite knew what had happened, Kit mounted his horse and headed toward the castle.
Still reeling from Father Francis’s revelations, Kit suddenly found himself in the courtyard of the castle. The door opened promptly at Kit’s arrival. He dismounted and handed the reins over to the boy waiting on the front steps.
“Welcome to Telamor, my lord.” The butler, who identified himself as Ford, nodded toward the stable boy, who had appeared to take the reins of Kit’s horse. “Sean will see that your horse is well taken care of. I’ve assembled the staff for your arrival. They’re waiting to be introduced.”
“That will be fine. And then I’d like to speak to my ward, and then her chaperone in private. In my study. If I have a private study.”
The butler bit back a smile. “You do, indeed. There are several, in fact. Follow me, sir.”
“Thank you, Ford.” Kit stepped over the threshold, into a massive vestibule.
A screw staircase dominated the entryway, curving around a huge gilt-and-crystal chandelier suspended from the frescoed ceiling where plump cherubs and cherubim peeked from behind fluffy white clouds floating across a sky of blue.
The effect was breathtaking. The painted heavens surrounded him, covering the vestibule walls, reaching from ceiling to the dark green marble floor. Ascending the staircase was like ascending the stairs of heaven and the symbolism didn’t end there. In the center of the marble floor formed by rays of sunlight streaming through the stained-glass window above the heavy oak doors was an Irish cross.
“Impressive, ain’t it?”
Kit glanced over to find Dalton, a delicate pastry in hand, lounging against an arch framing the way to the interior of the castle.
Kit grinned. “It’s a castle, Dalton. It’s supposed to be impressive.”
Ash appeared in the doorway beside Dalton. He focused his gaze on the image the rays of sunlight cast on the floor and casually remarked, “This one was apparently built to impress Irishmen who might be tempted to follow England’s wicked King Henry and stray from the Church in Rome.”
“It appears to have worked,” Kit retorted. “The only Anglican clergyman I’ve seen around here is Dalton.”
A gasp sounded from behind the butler, and Ford stepped aside as the line of household staff looked over at Dalton and crossed themselves in unison.
“Thank you, Lord Ramsey.” Thick sarcasm rolled off Dalton’s tongue. He popped the remains of the pastry in his mouth and swallowed.
“Lord Kilgannon, if you please,” Kit replied in a smooth Irish lilt. “When we’re in Ireland.” He turned to the butler. “No doubt they have already made themselves known to you, but allow me to present Ashford, the eighth marquess of Everleigh, and Mr. Dalton Mirrant.”
“Lord Everleigh. Mr. Mirrant,” Ford acknowledged Kit’s companions.
“Lord Everleigh and Mr. Mirrant are my closest friends, and I would have them accorded the same courtesies you accord me.” Kit smiled at the butler and the staff queued up behind him.
“Of course, sir.”
“Thank you, Ford. And thank you, Your Lordship.” Dalton bowed to Kit. “Please apologize to your staff for my ancestor’s heresy, and do explain that I may be Anglican, but I don’t bite and I’m house-trained.”
Kit laughed. “Consider it done.” Turning his attention back to the butler, he said, “Now, please introduce me to the staff that have been waiting so patiently.”
The staff of Telamor Castle, made up of the housekeeper, four housemaids, two footmen, two underfootmen, the cook, and the kitchen maid, stood dressed in their Sunday best—the men in livery and the women dressed in black day dresses and crisply starched white aprons and caps.
“We are thinly staffed at the moment, my lord, as we have been confined to care-taking duties since the passing of the late earl of Kilgannon except upon the rare occasions when your solicitor, Mr. Bell, and Father Francis invited the bishop or other visiting dignitaries to make use of the castle. As such, may I present the current staff of Telamor Castle?” Ford asked.
Kit nodded. Father Francis had explained his role in the caretaking of Telamor Castle shortly before he explained Kit’s responsibilities as the earl of Kilgannon and the existence of his ward.
“The housekeeper at Telamor, Mrs. Kearney.”
“Mrs. Kearney.” Kit acknowledged the housekeeper’s status as the highest-ranking female on staff, answerable only to Ford or to himself.
“My lord.” The housekeeper curtsied.
The butler nodded his approval, then continued down the line of servants. “Upstairs maids, Bridget and Polly,” the butler continued. “Downstairs maids, Josey and Lana.”
The housemaids bobbed polite curtsies. “Your Lordship,” they replied in unison.
“Footmen, Searcy and O’Riley, and underfootmen, Cohan and Slaney.”
“Sir.” Each of the men tugged at their forelocks and gave Kit a deferential nod.
Kit acknowledged each of them by repeating their names. “Searcy. O’Riley. Cohan. Slaney.”
“And then there is Cook,” Ford continued. “Mrs. Dowd and her assistant, Rory.”
“A pleasure,” Kit told her. “I’m looking forward to a proper Irish supper.”
“I’ll be doing my best to please you, sir.” Her brogue was thick and almost unintelligible to Kit, but her smile was universal. It was a wide, gap-toothed grin. “Do you like Irish stew or skewered rabbit with potato cakes? I can make it for your supper tonight. Or if you prefer something else, just tell Mrs. K. what you want on the menu, and I’ll be doing my best to prepare it for you.”
“Thank y
ou,” Kit replied.
“Lord Ram … Kilgannon is very easy to please, Mrs. Dowd. His tastes are quite plebeian.” Dalton pushed away from the arch in a movement that was too graceful to be practiced and walked over to stand beside Kit.
The housekeeper frowned at him.
“He means that Lord Kilgannon’s tastes are those of the common man,” Ash translated as he crossed the floor to join Kit and Dalton.
Mrs. Dowd glared at Ash. “Then why make sport of me? Why not say what he means?” she demanded.
“He didn’t mean to make sport of you,” Kit soothed the cook’s ruffled feathers. “That’s simply Mr. Mirrant’s manner of speaking.”
“It’s true,” Dalton promised. “I only meant that you needn’t worry about preparing a great number of fancy dishes for the earl as he prefers common foods. No offense intended.”
The cook looked from Kit to Ash to Dalton and back again. “None taken.”
“Thank goodness,” Dalton murmured to Kit, “because if her meals are half as good as the pastries she bakes, we’re all going to be enjoying them. Here. Try this.”
“Dalton, please. You know I don’t …” Kit held up his hand to ward him off, but Dalton popped the last bite of a light, flaky pastry into Kit’s mouth.
“Eat cake,” Dalton finished his sentence for him. “I know. But this isn’t cake. It’s a pastry and it’s …”
“Heavenly.” Unlike Dalton, who had a notorious sweet tooth, Kit didn’t eat pastries or cakes. He had never explained his reasons for his sudden change of heart, but he had voluntarily decided to do without dessert the summer he turned eight years old. It had been fifteen years since he had tasted a pastry, but Kit was quite certain that he’d never tasted anything as delicious. The strawberry and the pastry seemed to melt in his mouth. He had forgotten how good it could taste.
He smiled at Cook. “My compliments, Mrs. Dowd. Your pastry is extraordinary.”
“Well, now, my lord, I wish that I could take credit for the baking of the pastries you’re enjoying, but that wouldn’t be right, seeing as how the young lady baked them.”
Kit looked at the cook’s assistant.
Cook shook her head. “No, not that one. The young lady from the convent. Miss Mariah.”
Kit turned to Ford.
The butler walked over to Searcy. “Find Miss Shaughnessy. Ask her to join His Lordship in the second-floor study. Show her the way.”
“Where …” Searcy began.
“When last I saw her, she was in the kitchens putting the finishing touches on another batch of tarts,” Ford answered.
Kit stared openmouthed at the exchange.
“Who the devil is Miss Shaughnessy?” Dalton demanded of Kit.
“My ward.”
“Your what?!” Ash asked the question as if he had never heard the term before.
Ignoring him, Kit turned to the assembled staff. “Thank you all for your warm welcome. I thank you for your hard work and your devotion to the castle in my absence. You may return to your duties.” He waited until the staff had quietly filed out of the vestibule before he turned to Ash and repeated his earlier explanation. “My ward. I’ll explain everything later, Ash. At the moment I need to meet Miss Shaughnessy and her chaperone.”
“If you’ll follow me, sir,” Ford said.
Kit followed the butler to the door.
“Her chaperone?” Dalton called after him.
“Yes, Dalton,” Kit paused in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder at his friend. “Her chaperone. Sister Mary Beatrix. From the convent.”
Dalton groaned. “A nun? You said they were our neighbors. You didn’t say anything about them living in the same house!”
“Just imagine what she’s going to say about sharing a roof with you,” Kit retorted as he lengthened his stride to catch up with the butler.
Chapter Eight
Charms strike the Sight, but Merit wins the Soul.
—ALEXANDER POPE, 1688–1744
The second-floor study was every bit as impressive as the rest of the house with four full-length Palladian windows that opened onto a balcony outfitted with deck chairs and a telescope so one could sit and read or stare out over the ocean. A large door at one end of the study connected it to the library. Both rooms contained massive bookcases filled with leather-bound volumes and the same frescoed ceiling of soft clouds against a brilliant blue sky. There were even a few cherubs tucked here and there, lounging among the clouds—reading. Kit focused on the painted titles on the books and found they matched the titles on the shelves. The Bible. Shakespeare. Aristotle. Plato. Socrates. And strangely enough, John Milton’s Paradise Lost.
Apparently one of his Irish ancestors had found an artist with a sense of humor and one that was willing to lie on his back and paint the castle’s massive ceilings as Michelangelo had done on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. Kit rolled off his vantage point on the leather reclining sofa and moved to sit behind the huge Hepplewhite desk to await Miss Shaughnessy’s arrival.
He didn’t have to wait long. He’d barely settled onto the chair behind the desk when the knock sounded on the door.
“Enter.”
“Miss Shaughnessy, sir.” The footman, Searcy, opened the study door and announced the visitor, then stepped out of the way, allowing her to enter.
Kit felt as if he’d been struck by lightning as he looked up from behind the desk and saw the woman standing in the door. He wasn’t quite certain what he’d been expecting—someone younger, someone older, someone plainer, someone plumper. Anything except the vision framed in the doorway.
“Miss Shaughnessy?”
“Lord Kilgannon?”
They spoke in unison.
She stepped out of the doorway and into the room. Searcy backed into the hall and closed the door behind her. Suddenly, remembering his manners, Kit stood up, banged his knee against the desk in his haste, and muttered a profane curse.
She gasped.
“I beg your pardon,” he managed as he grabbed his knee and gritted his teeth until the sharp pain subsided.
Mariah winced in empathy. “That’s sure to leave a nasty bruise,” she said. “Shall I prepare a warm comfrey poultice to help make it better?”
Her voice was a low, well-modulated Irish brogue, completely natural and free of artifice. The sound of it surrounded his senses in warmth even as it sent a jolt of awareness through him. Kit’s heart pounded when he met her gaze.
She was, without a doubt, one of the most breathtakingly beautiful women he had ever seen. She had thick black hair confined in a braid that reached her waist, classically elegant cheekbones, a small nose, plump rosy lips, and a delicately sculpted chin and jaw, but it was her eyes that held him spellbound. Her eyes were an intense shade of sapphire blue, accented by rows of dark eyelashes and the slightly winged arches of her eyebrows. Hers was the face poets described when they talked of unrivaled beauty, and the smear of white flour marring her forehead and the thin line of cinnamon dusted across her cheek only added to her beauty and her appeal.
He thought there might be a dozen or so very creative ways she might help to make the pain in his knee go away. But none of his suggestions would ever be considered appropriate for a guardian to suggest to his ward.
“There’s no need to go to all that bother,” Kit assured her. “It will be fine.”
Mariah looked skeptical. “It’s no bother. Although I don’t normally prepare healing poultices, your kitchens are well stocked with the necessary herbs and ingredients. It would be a simple matter to boil the comfrey leaves and soak the wrapping cloths used to draw out the swelling, then apply a leech or two …”
“We keep leeches in the kitchens?”
She stared at him. “Well, no. But we can borrow from St. Agnes’s supply if you change your mind …”
“I’ll let you know.” Kit bit back a smile.
Mariah turned and started toward the door. “If there’s nothing I can do for you …”
r /> “Wait!” Kit called. “I wanted to see you.”
She glanced back over her shoulder as she reached for the doorknob. “I know,” she answered. “Searcy made that quite clear when he came to get me. But I’ve got two more batches of tarts in the oven and …”
Kit limped across the room and placed his hand against the door to keep her from opening it. “The tarts can wait.”
“No, they cannot,” she corrected. “Unless you want them to burn, and I am not in the habit of burning my baked goods.”
“That begs the question: Why are you doing the baking rather than Cook or her assistant?” Kit asked, placing his hand around Mariah’s elbow, skillfully moving her away from the door so that he could open it.
Searcy stood guard outside it.
“Miss Shaughnessy’s strawberry tarts are in danger of burning,” Kit said. “Please see that they’re removed from the ovens before they’re ruined.”
“You want me to remove them, sir?” Searcy’s voice came out in a high-pitched squeak.
“I would suggest you ask Mrs. Dowd or her assistant to remove them, but if the cook or her assistant isn’t available, you will have to do it.” Kit bit the inside of his cheek to keep from smiling at the expression of horror on the footman’s face.
“But I—”
“There’s nothing to it, man,” Kit said. “Take a cloth and pull the cooking sheets from the oven, then place them on the wooden cooling racks on the worktable. Go. Do it now before it’s too late.”
“Yes, Your Lordship.” Searcy backed away from the door, then turned and ran down the passageway toward the kitchens.
Kit closed the door and turned to Mariah.
“How?” she asked, stunned at his knowledge.
“Our cook used to invite my younger sisters and me into the kitchen to help make holiday tarts and gingerbread biscuits.”
He was full of surprises. Mariah straightened her spine and attempted to look him in the eye. But she miscalculated. He hadn’t seemed so formidable sitting behind the desk, but he was bigger and taller up close than she first thought. Her gaze struck him at chest level—somewhere between the bottom of his silk cravat and the top button of his waistcoat. She took a couple of steps back and lifted her chin.