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He muttered a curse as the skin on one of his sore knuckles split open again. Boxing this morning had been particularly brutal, but he had no one to blame except himself. The ache in his shoulders and arms was a welcome one. Especially now that his body was strengthening.
A punching bag was his only target at the moment, though his valet, Miles, had offered to serve as an opponent in addition to his teacher. Simon wanted to improve his skills and technique before he took on the former infantry soldier, as he had no doubt Miles would easily defeat him.
Simon didn’t need any more reminders in his life that he was less, especially when it came to sports and other physical activities. He liked to think the adult version of himself was much healthier than the younger one but didn’t care to test the theory.
The physical activity of boxing was supposed to improve his mental clarity and analytical abilities. To allow better concentration and focus. Damned if it didn’t seem to be working. He also had more energy, something he appreciated after being rather sickly in his youth with one ailment or another.
Simon had been third in line for the marquess title and never expected to inherit. Never wanted to. However, the death of his uncle and cousin nearly a decade ago had changed Simon’s path from studying to be a solicitor to suddenly inheriting a title.
His own mother and father had died in a carriage accident when he was seven. As an only child, he had been left hollow with grief and terribly alone. Perhaps that could be blamed for his frequent illnesses. He’d gone to live with an elderly aunt and uncle on his mother’s side, but they’d been ill-prepared to deal with a young boy and had returned him to Eton as quickly as possible. When Simon was twelve, they’d both succumbed to influenza, leaving him alone again.
His Uncle Theodore, the previous marquess, had taken him in. Luckily for Simon, his uncle shared Simon’s father’s love of history, though it was the only thing they had in common.
Uncle Theodore had gathered a significant collection over the years. It seemed an easy decision when Simon had inherited to turn the former residence and its artifacts into a museum. He could think of no better way to honor both his own father’s memory and that of his uncle’s.
Doing so gave Simon a reason to focus on his own passion for history. He was far more interested in the past than the present or the future. Neither of those held any appeal.
A strange noise caught his notice, causing his pencil to halt mid-air. It almost sounded like voices. Yet that couldn’t be, he thought with a scowl. He never had visitors, and the staff knew to be quiet at all times so as not to interrupt his work.
There it was again. Puzzled, he straightened in his chair just as the door to his study opened.
“My apologies, my lord.” Fletcher, his butler, bowed with a stately yet dramatic grace that spoke of his years on stage. “But it seems you have a caller.” He was obviously flustered by the unusual occurrence, as was Simon. He never had callers, nor did he want them.
Simon waved his hand in the air, the pencil still in his grip. “Send them away.” He looked back at the carvings without a second thought.
“Yes, my lord.” The door closed behind the servant.
A peaceful silence descended as Simon returned to his work. However, it didn’t last long. Voices soon echoed in the entrance hall again. Simon released a frustrated sigh, then started drawing again only to hear another knock.
“I’m terribly sorry, my lord.” Fletcher bowed again after opening the door. “The caller insists on seeing you. At once.”
Before Simon could refuse, the door pushed open farther, revealing a lady. A beautiful, petite lady dressed in a deep blue gown that reminded him of an ancient Egyptian figurine made of lapis lazuli. The vibrant blue was one of his favorite colors. He blinked in surprise as he jerked to his feet, certain he didn’t know her. He couldn’t imagine why she was calling but ran a hand through his hair, suddenly aware of his disheveled appearance.
“We had a two o’clock appointment at the museum, my lord.” Was it his imagination or did her tone hold a hint of steel? She dipped into a brief—very brief—curtsy, as if she resented having to do so.
“Oh?” He frowned and glanced at his desk, thinking to check his calendar, only to remember that he didn’t keep one. As he considered her reprimand, he vaguely recalled a meeting regarding new artifacts. “Was that today?”
“Yes. And, also, two days ago.”
“Hmm.” He shook his head. “You’ll have to make another appointment. The week after next would be best.” Whether he’d remember was doubtful. His absentmindedness was a bother at times. Though he often jotted down things he wanted to remember, finding the piece of paper on which he’d written them was a struggle.
She smiled, but it wasn’t especially friendly. “I’m afraid that won’t do.” She glanced around with interest, causing him to follow her gaze, wondering what she saw.
His study was like most others, lined with books on one side and a fire burning in the hearth on the opposite. A bank of mullioned windows was behind his massive desk, providing the light he needed to work. Papers and books were stacked on the polished surface in a haphazard manner, along with a lamp.
However, his study differed from ones he’d seen in that there was only one chair before the fire and none before his desk.
He didn’t have visitors.
A long, red leather couch stood near the bookshelves because he sometimes fell asleep reading there. Mrs. Fletcher, the housekeeper, had placed a brightly woven blanket on the end of it in case he did. A sideboard stood to one side of his desk with crystal decanters filled with amber liquid, though he rarely drank.
The woman glanced at the butler as if expecting him to depart, then strolled forward as she continued to look about the room.
Fletcher started to go only to pause, then, with a shrug, walked out, leaving the door slightly ajar. He’d served as butler for the past five years but didn’t always know what was proper.
Simon’s stomach tightened as the lady continued toward him, though he couldn’t say why. He easily dismissed the sensation. The only women who’d been in his study were servants. Was it any wonder the lady’s presence pushed him off balance? Still, he found himself checking his tie and tugging on the hem of his suit coat, realizing he should’ve gotten his hair clipped a week ago.
“I am Norah Wright, and I have some artifacts of my father’s, David Wright, that I would like to show you.” She paused briefly to study a hand-painted clay vessel sitting on a shelf.
