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“Well, for myself, I do not think there is a time limit on the clock of grief.”
The girl shrugged and glared out the window, so Isabelle did likewise, often finding that silence was one’s closest ally.
The landscape was miserable though, hills stretching off to meet mountains in lumpy layers of bleak-brown and grizzled-grey. Rain lashed once more, disfiguring the view, and for one of the few times since she’d embarked upon this profession, Isabelle felt a tinge of apprehension.
She was alone. In the middle of…nowhere.
Once at the duke’s abode, she could be dismembered and tossed into the sea and no one would notice her absence or make a fuss. She had no family to speak of and what would her governess acquaintances be able to achieve without resources to investigate?
And who’d listen to a governess anyhow.
She scrubbed at the window. Mist skulked over the mountains like a prowling creature, and she could almost believe in this landscape that dragons roamed and witches brewed.
“Uncle Rhys will probably beat me till I’m purple and blue, you know.”
Isabelle raised a brow but couldn’t be certain if the girl exaggerated or not. The duke’s manner at the interview had certainly given no hint of a cruel inclination.
“If you wish, I’ll speak to…” Isabelle peered into the gloom. “Is this the duke’s Castell? It has no…roof?”
Through the window there loomed one enormous circular tower of slate and rubble, rising to some forty feet. Forbidding and Gothic.
“That,” Miss Mari Cadogan announced, pulling her shoulders back, “is the last standing tower of the Castell y Ddraig. My ancestor, Llywelyn the Great, built it to keep the English out. There’s a lovely view from the top.”
The track curved past the monolith and Isabelle released her held breath as a more comfortable and customary abode – well, customary for a duke – came into sight, two-storeyed, vast wings on either side, and all dressed in red brick with a slate roof. It looked to have recently been refashioned as its windows, all sixteen bays, if she wasn’t mistaken, were sash yet surrounded by ornate stonework.
“Oh, help me!” cried the girl. “There’s my fearsome uncle and even more fearsome cousin waiting for me. I’ll be bricked up in the cellar and left to go mouldy. Never to be heard of again.”
Their carriage rolled up to the entrance and indeed, standing beneath a white-columned portico was the Duke of Aberdare, arms crossed.
Meanand most definitely Moody.
So ergo Mysterious.
To one side of him, a glowering blond woman, similar in age to Isabelle, tapped her foot with crumpled brow; to the other, a crone all garbed in black waved her hands in some sort of incantation; and behind, a butler – she would assume from his attire – stared up at the drab clouds as though they held the answer to life.
Would Isabelle herself ever be heard of again?
“Do not worry, Miss Cadogan, I’m sure–”
The door was wrenched open by a youthful footman, the carriage steps unlatched, and the Duke of Aberdare strode through the rain towards them in a manner reminiscent of a marauding Norse berserker.
Isabelle had forgotten how statuesque he was. Broad and quite savage. His hair was damp, his features as dusk as the devil.
And handsome as Hades.
“Your Grace, I–”
“My study. Now.” And with a snarl, he turned on his heel and strode back towards the mansion, black coattails whipping the air, the butler trailing like a beagle.
Isabelle pursed her lips, unsure precisely whom he’d been addressing, but the girl sniffed and brought the back of a palm to her forehead with more dramatic sentiment than a seasoned Covent Garden actress. “My uncle’s anger knows no bounds.” A sigh of lament. “Farewell, Miss Beaujeu. It was nice knowing you.” She patted Isabelle’s hand. “Can you ensure my effects are sent to the orphanage.” And off she scampered.
Leaving a somewhat confused Isabelle to the mercy of the glowering blond woman and the crone garbed in black.
Sacre bleu.
