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“No key.”
The duke accepted this with resignation. “Uncle Percival really was a tiresome old fellow,” he commented.
“The previous duke,” Cecelia told Kenver. “He didn’t pay much attention to his estates.”
Her husband gave an elegant snort. “For fifty years,” he added. “He was a connoisseur of rack and ruin.”
There was a sound of tearing stems and creaking wood above their heads. Looking up, Sarah saw that a casement window was being pushed open on the upper story, fighting the entwined vines for every inch. Finally a man’s head emerged, and he looked down at them. Sarah took in his long, tangled black hair, rampant beard, and beetling eyebrows with amazement. He was as covered by hair as the house was by its cloak of ivy. “Go away,” ordered this apparition. His voice was creaky, as if he seldom used it. “No trespassing, by the order of the Duke of Tereford.”
They all stared up at him. He glared back. Sarah thought his glittering eyes might be green.
“I am the Duke of Tereford,” said Cecelia’s husband. “And I don’t recall giving any such order.”
“No, you ain’t,” replied the man. “He’s up in London. Never comes near here.”
“I have driven down from London to look over this house.”
“The duke’s an old man, older than me.”
Sarah wondered how old he was. It was impossible to tell, though there was no sign of gray in all that hair, she noted.
“My great-uncle died last year, and I inherited the title. Would you care to see my visiting card?” Cecelia’s husband held one up, a small rectangle of pasteboard in his immaculate glove. Cecelia hid a smile.
“Anybody could have cards made up,” growled the man. But he sounded less sure.
There was a stir at Sarah’s side. “I am Kenver Pendrennon,” said her husband. “From Poldene. Perhaps you know it? This is definitely the Duke of Tereford.”
“Pendrennon.” The name clearly meant something to the man. He stared at Kenver from under his bushy brows.
“We are coming inside,” declared the duke. “We would prefer not to have to subdue you first.” His tone suggested no doubt of his ability to do so.
“Eh,” said the man. He seemed to chew something over. “You’d best come around back then. The front door don’t open any longer. Well, not without a deal of clearing, and mebbe an ax, it won’t.” His head disappeared before anyone could reply.
They trooped around the house through the knee-high weeds. The coachman came along in case additional persuasion was required, while the stable boy stayed with the horses. It was quite a distance. The house was wider than it had looked from the front.
“I didn’t think it would be so large,” said Cecelia.
“I fancy there may be a courtyard in the center,” the duke replied.
They rounded the back corner of the building and discovered that the ivy had been chopped away for a vegetable garden here. It had also been trimmed back from two windows and a door on the ground floor. The latter opened as they reached it.
The hirsute man stood just within. He wore a loose shirt that had once been white, buff trousers, and wooden clogs of the sort that country people carved for themselves. The clothes were worn but not ragged, and Sarah thought that they, and he, looked clean.
“Who are you?” asked the duke.
“Merlin,” he replied.
Sarah met Kenver’s hazel eyes. They were twinkling. Hers probably were too. No, they certainly were. “Merlin the magician?” she couldn’t help asking. This earned her sidelong looks from her ducal companions.
“Mayhap,” the man answered.
Kenver laughed.
“Ha,” said the duke, acknowledging the humor without indulging in it. “What are you doing here? Were you installed as caretaker?”
“Eh.”
“Because if so, you are doing a wretched job.”
