him a bow. “It would be my pleasure. I’ll know whether she’s an Everard. Count on it.”
Jerome wanted to feel as certain, but he could only hope he had made the right decision about coming to Dallsten Manor and about bringing his volatile cousin with him.
Adele hurried along the chamber story, passing paneled doors closed on seldom-used rooms, alcoves that held rare statues and fine works of art. Where was Samantha? Why hadn’t she waited in the schoolroom as ordered? She had to be found before she bumped into their guests. The girl deserved better than to hear the news of her father’s death from a stranger, albeit a handsome, charming one.
Just the thought of Jerome’s wide, warm grin sent a tingle through Adele. How silly! Surely it was the drama—his sudden arrival, the news of Lord Everard’s death. If Adele had met Jerome Everard on a country road on the way to church, she probably wouldn’t even have noticed him.
And perhaps pigs might fly.
On Adele’s right, even her grandfather looked skeptical, standing tall and stern in his gilt-framed portrait. He had the same pinched-nose look as her mother, as if he were just as aghast that his descendant had fallen to such an end.
A Dallsten, governess in her own home!
Adele ignored him. The exalted Dallstens could toss and turn all they liked. Because she’d agreed to serve as governess, she had a home and she could be near her mother, who lived in the dower house at the foot of the drive. Because Adele was the governess, she was allowed a certain freedom, and she’d been able to keep the house generally intact. Thanks to Lord Everard’s capricious generosity, she had fine clothes to wear and good food to eat, even at the family table. Most days, she was truly grateful. Lord Everard had not been the most conscientious of men, but he had done very well by her family, going so far as to trust her with virtually all of the upbringing of his only daughter.
Yet how could she tell Samantha the awful news? Adele hesitated at the door of the girl’s bedchamber. She remembered the feelings of loss all too well. She’d been about Samantha’s age when her father had died: thrown from a horse, and him a man who rode like the wind. And, like tossed by a blowing wind, her future, her hopes, had all tumbled away.
She sighed. Life had turned out differently than she’d been taught to expect. In rare moments, she felt cheated, but most of the time, she simply did what must be done. And what must be done right now was to make sure Samantha wasn’t cheated in the same way. She squared her shoulders and opened the door.
Samantha was seated at her cluttered dressing table, bare elbows shoving aside the jars of creams, the boxes of hair ribbons. Her brows were drawn over her pert nose as she regarded her reflection in the looking glass. Once her feet had swung high above the floor as Adele brushed out her golden curls. Now the table seemed too small for her in her pale muslin gown. But she still didn’t look old enough to be wearing her mother’s pearl bobs, which dangled from her ears.
“Those are for special occasions, if you please,” Adele reminded her, venturing into the room.
Samantha turned to her with a smile. “I thought three handsome visitors might be occasion enough.”
Some of what Adele was feeling must have shown on her face, for Samantha’s grin faded. “What is it? Did they leave after all?”
“No, they’ll be staying with us for some time,” Adele said. “I’m sorry I took so long. We must talk.”
Samantha’s dark eyes widened. “Oh, no, you heard about Toby Giles, didn’t you? I swear I didn’t know he was going to steal the vicar’s wig.”
Adele raised a brow. “You can be sure we will discuss your friend Mr. Giles another time. I have something far more important to tell you.”
Samantha eyed her expectantly, and Adele’s courage nearly failed her. She took the girl’s hands in her own and gave them a squeeze.
“You must try to be brave, love. Your father is dead.”
Samantha stared at her, skin washing ashen. “No.” The word was no more than a whisper, as if saying it louder would make her father’s death true.
Adele squeezed her hands again. “I’m afraid so. Those three men are your cousins. They came to bring us the news. I am so sorry.”
Samantha just sat there. Adele wasn’t even sure she was breathing. A single tear slid down one cheek. Then she threw herself into Adele’s arms and sobbed.
Jerome wasn’t about to waste the time he’d been given. With Richard on his way to meet the locals and Vaughn keeping an eye on the staff, Jerome set about looking for the rest of the estate records.
Dallsten Manor was shaped like an L, short in the front and long at the back. The main block was two stories, but a three- or four-story tower anchored each corner. The house had obviously been expanded over the years, as corridors ran into other corridors or blank walls, and nothing seemed to be where he expected it. He got lost twice just trying to reach the south tower.
He needed a guide. Surely as the heir, he would be expected to ask for a tour and a formal inventory. At least then he could decide the most likely places Caruthers’s proof might be stored.
He was wandering down the long chamber story when a sound rose to greet him. The great gulping sobs ended in wails. It hurt just listening. He could think of only one person who might have cause for such pain.
He stopped, letting the sobs wash over him, feeling them weigh him down. Why did it always have to be lies and secrecy, Uncle? Can you hear that girl cry for you?
He raised his head and straightened. He would spare no tears for his uncle; that decision had been made long ago. It remained to be seen whether he should spare any for the girl who was supposed to be his cousin. For now, he ought to turn and walk away, leave her to her grief. Yet something made him open the door and peer inside.
The room was all he would have imagined a young girl could want—pink and chintz and scallops and bows. Adele Walcott’s trim figure in the gray gown stood out in cool contrast, elegance defined. She had her arms around a young woman with a riot of golden curls, holding her gently, murmuring words of solace.
An ache rose up inside him, so strong he nearly gasped. For a moment, he couldn’t move, couldn’t think beyond remembering how it felt to lose someone held dear. He’d been an overconfident thirteen, sure of who God intended him to be, when his parents had been killed and his world upended. He could still remember his uncle’s words of solace at the funeral.
“So it’s just you and Richard and me, boy,” his uncle had said, gazing down at him with those nearly black eyes. “I’m not entirely sure what to do with you, but we’ll get along well enough if you remember one thing—I mean to cram more enjoyment into this life than one man might reasonably lay claim to. I’d advise you to do the same.”
Unfortunately, not only had he been unable to accept that advice, but it had seemed his lot to put a damper on his uncle’s pleasures. From the first day, they’d fought over every decision, and he’d learned how to smile through the frustration, appear humble though he hurt. As he had matured, he’d found ways to go over, under and around his uncle to do what he believed was best for the family legacy. Yet never had he heard anything but disdain from his uncle for daring to take life so seriously.
The wounds felt raw, even years later. He refused to give in to the pain. But as he tucked it away and started to pull the door shut, Adele Walcott’s head came up. Her gaze met his.
For a moment, he saw compassion, as if she knew what he felt was every bit as deep as the grief of the girl she held in her arms. When was the last time he’d seen such a look directed his way? He wanted to latch on to the promise, let it warm him.
Was this a scheming woman who intended to cheat him of his fortune? Or was he mad to think he could find an ally in Dallsten Manor of all places?
Chapter Four