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Simon’s eyes burned, but he nodded once, sharply. Then his father surprised him by pulling Simon into a strong embrace. Despite his age, the duke was still a strong man. Something Simon felt in his father’s arms that he had not felt in ages.
When they parted, Simon saw the duke’s eyes glitter with tears held back. He gave Simon one last squeeze of the shoulders, the layers of winter clothing between them not diminishing the feel one wit. “I love you, Simon.”
“Thank you, Father.” Simon grinned. “I love you, too, sir.”
He hadn’t expected such a moment between them. Not when he’d climbed into the sleigh that morning, not when his father had held him back for conversation. But he couldn’t imagine a better way to begin Christmas than with the gift his father had given him.
When the time came for Simon to step into his father’s role, he’d know he did so with his father’s approval and blessing.Hopefully, when that day came, it would be with Isleen at his side. As his duchess. His companion in all things, and his wife.
CHAPTER19
The comings and goings in the castle had slowed with the return of the sleighs and riders. Simon went to his quarters, as everyone else had, to change into dry clothing and twirled his walking stick in one hand. He studied himself in the mirror while his valet flitted about, straightening up the closet where Simon had dressed.
“What do you think?” Simon asked, turning to his loyal servant. “Stick or no stick?” He tucked it beneath his arm, then held it behind his back.
The valet blinked at him. “I hardly see the need for the walking stick about the castle, my lord.”
“It’s less about need, and more about cutting the right figure.” Simon turned to the mirror again. He’d never worried so much about his appearance in his life. And he wasn’t evenproposingto Isleen. He just wanted to walk with her, speak to her alone, and ask if she would allow him to pay court to her.
He probably should speak to her brother first. Yet he knew Isleen would prefer to have both the first and last word on the matter. He grinned at his reflection as he recalled how she’d tipped her lovely face up to his as they stood in the snow, ready to accept his kiss.
An incredible woman.
“Then carry about the stick, my lord, if it makes you feel the more dashing to do so.” The valet closed the bureau drawer. “Will you return to dress for dinner?”
Simon looked down at his clothing. “This is appropriate evening wear, I think.” He wore a black coat over a light blue waistcoat. Isleen had commented on the color of his eyes on occasion, and he well knew any shade of blue he wore would bring out the shade favorably.
Any advantage he could take in this important moment, he would take.
Which meant carrying the walking stick. If only to bolster his courage. There was comfort in carrying the concealed blade, as much for the physical protection it offered as the sentimental value it held for him.
With this final thought on the matter, Simon resisted looking in the mirror again and left the dressing room with purpose. He would find Isleen, and he would ask her to consider him as a suitor.
And he would spend the coming weeks at the castle coming to know her, and the months of the social Season in London taking her about Town, to museums and galleries, parties and balls, and anywhere else her heart desired.
She’d likely enjoy visiting Oxford, too. He could show her the library, and they could compare it to Dublin’s University library.
He turned the corner, going toward the main staircase that would take him from the second floor to the first, where the guest rooms with Isleen’s family waited.
A man stood in at the corner when Simon came around it. A man dressed in browns and a shabby hat. Someone who didn’t belong indoors. Startled by the sight, and the familiarity of the face, Simon froze. The gardener, Whorton.
Holding a pistol.
Simon slowly raised his hands. He spoke slowly, and quietly. “Whorton. What are you doing?”
Not a single guard disguised as a footman was in sight. They must be elsewhere in the house.
“Move yer feet, lordling,” the gardener snarled. “The door to the secret stairs. Now.”
Simon kept his hands up and shuffled to the side. “What secret stairs? Do you mean the servants’? That’s down the hall.” He took a step backward.
The deranged gardener smirked. “Not the servants’ stair. The secret stair. Behind that rug on the wall.”
Simon looked at the tapestry, one which depicted a maiden in a field with a white peacock resting its head in her lap. How had the man found out about one of the family’s secret passages? That particular stairway led beneath the ground floor, to a hidden tunnel under the castle. A tunnel that had been there since the fifteenth century. Simon shuffled slowly to the wall.
“What is the meaning of this, Whorton?”
“Shut yer mouth, and drop the stick. I won’t have you swingin’ it at me head.”
