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The duke stood behind his desk, speaking to a grizzled older man dressed as an upper servant but with the bearing of a general.
“I just received word,” the duke said, not bothering with a greeting as he came around his desk in a few quick strides. He looked from Simon to Isleen. “You are both unharmed?”
How had that man arrived before them? And how had he known what had happened? The duke’s home was a mystery to her, despite her weeks spent as a guest within its walls.
“Yes, Father.” Simon hadn’t released her hand, not even to speak to the duke. Nor had either of them paid proper respect with bows and curtsies. But Isleen couldn’t quite bring herself to care. Her knees wobbled. “And we owe a debt of gratitude to Isleen.” Simon looked down at her, seemed to read her thoughts in her eyes, and immediately brought her to a large, comfortable couch turned to face a small fireplace. He placed his hand upon her shoulder and kept it there. The warmth from his palm seeped through the cloth of her gown to her skin, calming her.
“Tell me everything,” the duke demanded. “Sterling is getting answers from the abductor, who will spend the night in our holding room. I think you and I will have a conversation with him tonight, too.”
The older man had gone to a shelf, moving a book aside to reveal a glass bottle. While Simon spoke of being taken by Whorton, the servant poured a small glass of amber liquid and brought it to Isleen.
“A mite stronger than tea, miss, but it will calm your nerves,” he promised.
She took the glass and sipped, the amber liquid sliding down her throat with a burning sensation that made her wince. How did men sit about drinking such things? She much preferred a glass of wine, or tea with lots of honey. She thanked him and held the glass, one sip enough for the moment.
Simon had finished his tale with speed. “And then I heard a crack, I turned around, and Isleen was there. Throwing herself at the ground and my stick into my hands.”
The duke, who’d been standing across from Simon, lowered himself to one knee before her. “I am grateful to you, Miss Frost. And sorry you found yourself in that situation.”
“Thank you, Your Grace.” Isleen put her bare hand over Simon’s where it remained on her shoulder. What more could she say that wouldn’t sound foolish or trite? Only the truth. “I would do anything to help Simon, or any member of your family.”
The duke’s expression softened into a fatherly sort of fondness. “I believe you.”
A knock on the door heralded Isleen’s mother, who someone had thought to summon. With much clucking and cooing, the baroness bundled Isleen off to her room. Darrie was there, eyes wide but tongue silent, and the three of them soon had Isleen dressed for the night and tucked up into bed, with tea and a tray of hot soup.
It was rather glorious to be cared for in such a way.
“We didn’t think you’d want to have to speak of this over dinner, or pretend nothing had happened,” Máthair said, settling into a chair beside Isleen’s bed. Darrie bustled about, setting up a pallet on the floor. “Even though it’s all come off all right, you’ve had a fright. Just rest until morning, Issie. And then everything will be sorted out.”
Sinking into her pillows after indulging in the tea and simple meal, Isleen thanked her mother and closed her eyes. Despite all that had happened, her last thought was not of the dark stairway she’d climbed, nor of the foul words Whorton had snarled.
Instead, she thought of Simon, and how he’d sounded when he’d called her “love.”
CHAPTER20
Christmas Eve morning dawned with a blue sky and a landscape of white. Simon stood in his bedroom, looking out over the lands that had been in his family for hundreds of years. The Montforts had held their castle home and the lands round about in trust, for the crown and their descendants, and while he’d thus shouldered some of that responsibility, one day it would all fall to him.
And he would work to prove, every day, his worthiness of that trust.
All while people like Whorton and his friends worked to tear apart what they didn’t understand. Their interview with the man the night before had revealed a small network of men, each of them with friends or family who had been present the day of the St. Peter’s Field riot. Whorton had lost a friend to one of the hussar’s sabers.
Anger and jealousy had stirred the men to act, and three of them had decided the best course of action would be to steal from the duke—a powerful and politically active noble—the life of his heir. Nevermind that His Grace had nothing to do with the riot, the deaths, or any of the rest of it. Or that he was a loud voice in favor of change that would better the lives of the working class.
The men had hatred in their hearts. And Simon had been their intended victim, with the duke their target.
If Isleen hadn’t stumbled upon his cane, if she hadn’t followed him into the darkness, he didn’t know if he would have escaped. He owed her his life, and he meant to make good on that debt. In fact, he very much hoped she’d accept his courtship.
Something else the evil intended Whorton had ruined was Simon’s plan to speak to Isleen about their future.
Would she want him still, after the previous evening’s nightmare?
Simon left the window and its grand view, making his way out into the halls with determined steps, hardly aware he’d left his coat on the back of his chair.
He needed to know. Before anything else interrupted them.
He went directly to Isleen’s room, ignoring Sterling, who shadowed him the moment he stepped out of his quarters.
Simon knocked lightly on the door, then he waited. He raised his hand to knock again, and the door swung open, revealing Isleen’s maid. Immediately, she went into a deep curtsy. What was the girl’s name?
