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Taking in a deep breath, he appreciated the notes of cloves and cinnamon mingling in the air, and the softer, sweeter smell of apple. His mother always ordered the medley of dried apples and spices hidden about the room to make for a welcoming scent.
“Faith, am I that early?” a quiet, feminine voice asked from the stairway.
Simon turned on his boot heel. Lady Dunmore descended the steps to the guardroom all alone. He bowed slightly to her as she approached and made her curtsy to him. “My lady. You are not too early. I believe my mother intended everyone to gather in the Regent’s Gallery prior to coming down for the coaches. I am here to make certain all is prepared when they descend.”
“Ah.” She turned and looked at the stairs. “Would it be terrible if I waited with you? The idea of going back up all those stairs is less than welcome.” She smiled at him with a gentleness he wouldn’t dream of denying.
“Of course. We will send a man to let them know you wait with me.” He met the gaze of a footman near the steps and motioned with his chin upward. The footman bowed and went on his way to carry the message to the duchess. “There. Easy as that. Do you wish to sit, my lady?” He motioned to a chair tucked against one wall.
“No, though I thank you for the thought. I am unequal to the task of stairs at the moment because I spent the better part of this afternoon following your mother through the gardens, all the way to the straw hut.”
“That is a fair distance.” He had spent hours of his life roaming the gardens and woods, following paths artfully grown over with moss or barely visible game trails. The castle’s grounds extended around it in large, beautiful swaths of forests and fields. “My mother is so used to the terrain, I imagine she gives the ups and downs little thought.”
“The grounds are beautiful. I can see why she treasures them so.” Lady Dunmore joined her hands before her, her posture relaxed. She wore a fashionable dress of dark blue, with black and gold feathers in her hair, and long blue gloves on her arms where they peeked out from her evening cape. Her ensemble was simple but certainly appropriate for a woman of her age and status.
She shared her eyes with her daughter, he thought, seeing how dark they were in the flickering light.
Her daughter. Miss Frost. He sighed. “May I ask you an impertinent question, Lady Dunmore?”
She blinked at him in obvious surprise. “Bless me. Can an earl ask an impertinent question? Go on and try, my lord.”
He looked down at the black-and-white patterned floor, considering how to best phrase his question. “Your daughter. Miss Frost.” He hesitated.
Mrs. Dunmore sounded amused. “She is mine, of course. But I thought we made that clear on introduction.”
He looked up, surprised, then couldn’t help his chuckle. “Ah, you are where she gets her sense of humor then.”
“Perhaps. Isleen is entirely her own person in many ways, yet I cannot deny some influence here and there.” Her eyes crinkled at the corners as she spoke. “Before you ask your question, I would like to thank you for treating her so well. I have noted your attention to her, as well as how your friends have brought her into your circle. I must thank you for that, my lord. Isleen makes friends wherever she goes, but she was nervous about doing the same in England.”
He hadn’t expected a comment such as that. Had he gone out of his way, in any way at all, to make Miss Frost feel at home? Not especially. Even though, after their first conversation, he had found he enjoyed her company. Even her forthright way of speaking. The woman did not mince words, yet she never spoke an unkindness.
“I hope she feels welcome.” He shifted uncomfortably. “I realize that not all English and Irish get along.”
“Tis a truth,” Lady Dunmore said with a sad shake of her head. “They fight as cats and dogs on many a point.”
“Yes. Which brings me to my question. Miss Frost seems cautious when it comes to the English. Not afraid, or hateful, but…stand offish. I wonder if she has a specific reason, or if there is something I might do to amend the feeling?”
Simon had the sense that if he could understand the wall between them, he might find something else behind it. More than a witty Irish woman. More than her pretty face and bewitching, dark eyes. His curiosity had kept him thinking on the feeling that she held back a part of herself. A part he would dearly love to see.
Lady Dunmore’s smile faded, and she lowered her gaze to the floor. “I am not certain it is my place to be telling you, my lord. Though I suppose it isn’t any great secret.” She sighed, the sound heavy with maternal worry.
“I have no wish to pry, my lady.” Simon spoke with all the sincerity he felt. “Merely to better understand a guest in my home. You needn’t reveal anything.”
“It appears to me that you have a kind heart. I will tell you a piece of it.” She nodded to herself, then lifted her eyes to meet Simon’s gaze. “My daughter had herself a sailor, years ago. An Irish lad who joined the British Royal Navy in 1813. His captain was an Irish man, too, as was most of the crew. After a skirmish, their ship took on water. Another ship saw their distress and sailed on without offering assistance. It was a ship with an English captain who had exchanged words with the Irish. That captain used his personal hatred to justify leaving the Irishmen to their fate.”
Dread pooled in Simon’s stomach. This would be reason to be suspicious of the English, indeed.
Lady Dunmore turned a little away from him, walking to the hearth to study the fire. Likely taking a moment to collect her emotions. “You can guess how the tale ends.”
“Miss Frost’s sailor didn’t survive.”
“True enough. We learned the news a fortnight before Christmas.” Her shoulders slumped. “Isleen has a gentle heart, and she dearly loves to be among people. But she’s careful now. I imagine as a duke’s son, you know how difficult it is to trust another’s motives.”
He’d told Isleen about his own failings with trusting others, and his suspicions that anyone who approached him wanted an association for their own gain rather than honest friendship. Yes, he understood. But he didn’t have the level of pain tied to his distrust that Isleen must.
Isleen. He hadn’t thought to call her by that name before. Miss Frost seemed to fit her so much better. But he could not think her cold or distant. Not anymore. Not when he’d seen how she could laugh, her kindness toward servants and children, her eyes bright with curiosity, and now knowing the secret hurt she held in her heart.
The anniversary of her heartbreak approached, too. Would he see evidence of that pain in the coming days? The poor woman.
