Chapter One

Castlebridge, Oxfordshire, autumn 1821

The Duke’s household was in uproar. His Grace and his guests were to arrive in three weeks’ time. Every room was in the process of being cleaned, chandeliers taken down, walls scrubbed, carpets beaten, curtains washed, furniture polished. Not a speck of dust was to be tolerated in any of the rooms, from the attics to the dungeon. Well, perhaps not the dungeon, or the attics. Jenny Harrismith, the governess, was confident the schoolroom and nursery wing on the third floor, where she and the children spent their days, would also escape most of the fuss. His Grace, on his brief return to England some months ago, had not visited them there.

“Do you like the picture I’ve drawn of an Arab, Miss Harrismith?” Nine-year-old William raised his head from where he was hunched over a table with his pencils.

Jenny leaned over him to view it. She expected a sheik in flowing robes, but of course, the drawing was of a horse. William thought of little else.

“Well done, Lord William,” she said, a hand on his shoulder. “It’s a magnificent horse.” So tall, the horse’s legs would be the envy of a giraffe.

“I shall be riding my father’s hunters soon.” William pushed out his chest, sounding like the duke he would become one day.

“You will,” Jenny agreed. “When you are older.”

William visited the stables every day and rode out with a groom, but she’d asked the stable staff to keep an eye on him for fear he’d take off on the duke’s stallion. The boy was an excellent rider, having been on a horse since he could walk, but he’d have the animal over a high fence in the blink of an eye.

His Grace’s children had been in her care for the past year, since the former governess, having succumbed to a footman’s attentions, left after a hasty marriage, to run an inn in Cornwall.

While relieved the duke was coming home, Jenny was determined he be made aware of his children’s needs. But even as a lord’s daughter, albeit an impoverished one from Yorkshire, it would prove difficult to seek a private audience with her employer, let alone make her concerns known to him.

Jenny had become quite familiar with Andrew George William Hale, Duke of Harrow, as William often dragged her to the portrait gallery. They would stand before paintings of his father at various stages of his life, from babyhood to lanky youth, and then the tall, imposing duke in his coronet and robes. Jenny was forced to admit he did stir the imagination.

When His Grace had visited Castlebridge, she’d brought the two children down and waited in the corridor while a footman took them into the library to see their father. The next day, His Grace returned to the Continent, and William, a lonely little boy, had been unsettled at bedtime for the rest of the week requiring her to read to him until he fell asleep.

The one time Jenny had set eyes on the duke, was from three stories up in the nursery wing. The schoolroom window looked directly onto the gravel turning circle below. She had knelt on the window seat and looked down. It was the merest glimpse of him, leaving the luxurious coach and greeting his staff before disappearing indoors. Even from that distance, he looked very tall. Though tender hearted about the awful tragedy that had befallen him, she remained annoyed with the duke. He was a busy man with an important position to uphold, but she disapproved of his neglect of his children.

The duke’s dour-faced secretary, Mr. Bishop, kept the duke advised by letter of the children’s development and health. Jenny had informed him of William’s aptitude for arithmetic and how Barbara, who had just turned five, made steady progress at reading, in the hope those things at least would be mentioned.

The secretary showed little interest in how fast Barbara was outgrowing Nanny, who’d been with the family since the duke was a boy, and was becoming quite forgetful. Jenny feared the older woman would leave a candle burning and set the house on fire.

Mr. Bishop tut-tutted when she expressed a wish for the duke to be told how William had grown in the last few months—Jenny measured him against a door frame in the schoolroom with a pencil mark. He dismissed as irrelevant that William learned from the gamekeeper how to fly fish for trout in the river, so the boy might surprise his father when he finally came home.

Jenny folded her arms, her annoyance pricked again by the secretary’s obtuseness. But would it be any better when the duke arrived?

At the schoolroom table, William bowed his head over a new drawing of an equally tall horse, and Barbara, an imaginative child, made up delightful stories about grand balls. She was interested in fashion, drawing the latest gowns from the La Belle Assemblée magazine, her great aunt had sent her. The little girl loved her dolls, especially her new French fashion doll. She tucked them all into her bed at night. As Nanny dozed in the evenings, Jenny would slip in to remove them after the child fell asleep, and before she lay on them.

This morning at breakfast, Barbara’s huge, anxious violet eyes sought Jenny’s. “Will Father come and visit my dolls?”

“He might if you ask him nicely, poppet,” Jenny said. Surely, he would. Who could resist such an adorable child as Barbara?

Well, he would soon be home, and she hoped it wouldn’t be a brief visit before he left again for foreign climes.

***

Hanover, Germany, October 1821

Beyond the window, snow fell from a blackened sky and covered the grounds of the opulent mansion. In the overheated ballroom, Andrew, Duke of Harrow, ran a finger beneath his cravat as he stood beside his fair-haired Irish friend, Robert Stewart, Lord Castlereagh, now Marquess of Londonderry, the man who put Europe in order. They listened to the king and the Duke of Wellington reminisce about past glories.

Their voices faded as Andrew’s thoughts returned to Castlebridge, his estate in Oxfordshire, where the leaves would be turning the rich colors of autumn. Four years ago, unable to bear his sadness after his beloved Catherine died, he’d left England to become a delegate to the Vienna Congress. Since then, his diplomatic posts had kept him from home, and his visits to Castlebridge had been brief. He’d been away too long. Soon his children would be grown up, and he’d have missed their childhood. He was determined that this would be his last diplomatic mission.

Along with Castlereagh, in charge of the British delegation, they’d attended many functions such as this. Andrew glanced around the room at the familiar faces, some enjoying the music and others deep in conversation. Prince Metternich appeared at the door. He crossed the floor toward them, acknowledging King George with a bow. The prince was the founder and driving force of the Congress which sought to bring a sense of balance to Europe after the devastation wrought by nearly twenty-five years of continuous war. It seemed to Andrew that the nations of Europe sometimes resembled badly behaved children, not satisfied with what they had, always wanting more. The Congress had imposed a degree of discipline on them all, but Andrew knew there was rising dissent everywhere. How long the status quo would hold was uncertain.

“You look concerned, Your Highness,” Andrew said. “Is there anything troubling you apart from the usual difficulties?”

“I have heard some disturbing things which will be of concern to the British,” the blond prince said, his handsome face lined with worry. “We’ve received a report suggesting an attack of some kind on British soil. Unfortunately, we have no details.”

“Where does this information come from?” Andrew inquired.

“We keep a watch on several dissident groups,” the Prince said. “Our spies are attempting to ascertain more. I would advise your government to remain alert.”

Andrew feared another distraction could alter his plans to return to his estate. He prayed it would come to nothing. As the musicians struck up and dancers moved over the floor in a perfumed kaleidoscope of color, Greta, Baroness Elsenberg, came through the crush in search of him.

Chapter Two

Mrs. Pollitt entered the nursery where Jenny was assisting Nanny Evans with the children’s clothes.

The housekeeper stood primly, hands held before her, a look of unfriendliness in her eyes. “You will have the children ready when His Grace arrives?” She directed the question to Jenny, rather than Nanny, who had just disappeared into her bedroom.

“They are ready, Mrs. Pollitt.” Jenny looked up from where she bent over Barbara’s shoes. She could never get used to the way the woman addressed her. Jenny was sure she had done nothing to deserve it.

“You are to join the rest of the staff in welcoming His Grace, then I shall introduce you.” “It is not necessary for Nanny Evans to come down,” she said in a louder voice.

“I understand.” Jenny thought it entirely unnecessary to repeat all this when she’d been instructed several times over the past week.

Mrs. Pollitt smoothed down the skirts of her black bombazine gown with both hands, the keys at her waist jingling.

It was a nervous gesture.

Jenny suddenly realized the housekeeper wasn’t quite as confident as she appeared. “I’m sure it will all go well, Mrs. Pollitt. You have done a splendid job preparing for the duke’s arrival,” she said with a warm smile.

The lady’s brown eyes hardened. “Please see to your own job, Miss Harrismith. I shall take care of mine. Bring the children down to the entry hall in…” she glanced at the watch pinned to her bosom. “One hour.”

“Yes, Mrs. Pollitt,” Jenny said meekly. A tactical error, she conceded. The woman didn’t like her, or perhaps it was governesses in general. There was little she could do about it.

“Can I take my dolls?” Barbara asked Jenny.

“I do not think that wise, Lady Barbara,” Mrs. Pollitt answered.

Barbara’s face crumpled. Both children had been unsettled all morning, and Jenny had to find ways to ensure the coming event was a joyous meeting. In one sentence, Mrs. Pollitt had undone all her good work.

“Why don’t you bring Annie,” Jenny said. “I think she would like to meet your father, don’t you think so, poppet?”

“Yes.” With a gusty sigh, Barbara slipped off the bed and ran to find her favorite doll.

Mrs. Pollitt’s lips thinned. “I shall leave His Grace to instruct you on how you are to go on,” she said curtly.

“Miss Harrismith is doing splendidly,” Nanny said, coming from her bedroom and kindly leaping to Jenny’s defense.

“We shall have to see,” Mrs. Pollitt said bafflingly and left the room.

***

The coach traveled along the raked drive bordered by the beech-trees of the home wood, and the undulating freshly scythed lawns of the park They approached the sun-warmed stone walls of Castlebridge, Andrew’s Tudor mansion, modified during the last century to become a more comfortable home, the tall chimneys and the tower reaching into the sky. He was eager to show it all to Greta. Much of the history remained: the long, latticed windows, the lofty great hall, its paneling polished like silk, with the family motto carved on the stone shield above the Inglenook fireplace, the winding stair which led to the gallery where the family history was displayed in gilt-framed portraits, and the endless corridors and secret passages, that Andrew had loved as a child.

“How utterly charming,” Greta, Lady Elsenberg, murmured.

She sounded somewhat daunted. Andrew glanced at her. “I trust you and Ivo won’t find the countryside too short of company. You are both so fond of Viennese society.”

She touched his hand lightly with her lavender kid glove. “Of course not, I shall welcome a few days of peace.” She narrowed her eyes at her brother. “As will you, Ivo.”

Ivo turned from the window. “I gather there will be fox hunting?”

“I’m afraid not, unless the local hunt meets,” Andrew said. “You might ask the squire. I’ve been absent so often, the hounds are not trained.” The man was ungracious, and Andrew found him a total bore.

“What a pity.”

“But a delicious dinner will follow after you gentlemen bag your birds,” Greta said.

“In the meantime, you might try your hand at fishing for trout in the river, Ivo,” Andrew said. “If you wish to ride, my stable is at your disposal. There are some excellent bridle paths.”

“I imagine your cellar is more than tolerable, also, Your Grace,” Ivo said.

“Of course it is,” Greta said hastily, gathering up her mink shawl. “We shall have a splendid time. And we have the shooting party to look forward to where I shall meet many of your friends, Your Grace.”

Andrew absently patted her gloved hand, his attention drawn to the house where a line of servants awaited their arrival. The years had softened his grief over losing Catherine. Now with his time as a delegate at an end, he could contemplate marrying again, although he didn’t anticipate falling deeply in love. Greta, a baron’s widow, seemed a good choice. He found the beautiful, elegant blonde amusing company. They’d spent a pleasant month enjoying Viennese society. The baroness led Andrew to believe that should he propose, she would be agreeable to marriage, but for some reason, he’d held off. To force himself into a decision, he’d invited her home to Castlebridge to meet his children. He had not been pleased when she’d brought her brother, whose provocative manner got Andrew’s back up. He would have preferred Greta to have chosen someone else to chaperone her, but Ivo was here now, and Andrew was determined to keep his temper.

The coach pulled up before the massive front entry where all the upper servants stood to receive him. Two liveried footmen rushed to attend them. When they stepped from the coach, Andrew, wishing his butler, Forrester, hadn’t seen fit to make a fuss, walked along the row. He greeted each of them, recognizing only the housekeeper, the butler, and some of the grooms. His father’s staff had slowly been replaced over the years.

He came to the end where his children stood waiting. He had not seen them for months, and his heart lurched as William and Barbara were gently pushed forward by their governess whom he was yet to meet. He’d forgotten the lady’s name.

“Father.” William bowed.

“You’ve grown like a sapling since I saw you last, William.” Andrew wanted to hug him, but shook his son’s proffered hand instead. “And who is this beautiful sprite?” Andrew fondly contemplated his daughter in her muslin dress, already a young miss, her blonde curls caught up with a blue ribbon. She was so like her mother that his heart ached at the sight of her.

“I am Barbara, have you forgotten?” She backed away and reached for the governess’ hand.

“Well, of course I haven’t. I was teasing. I have only one beautiful daughter,” he said, wanting to kiss her but fearing it would be unwelcome. He raised his eyes to the silent governess. Tall and willowy, she seemed very young and rather too pretty for the post. Now what was her name?

The housekeeper, Mrs. Pollitt, rushed to fill in the awkward pause. “This is Miss Harrismith, Your Grace.”

“Ah, yes.” He nodded at the governess who could only be in her early twenties. His gaze took in her large gray eyes, firm mouth and chin, her curly dark brown hair arranged in a top knot. Not fashionably dressed, but her appearance was as neat as a pin, in a modest, high-necked green dress, a cameo brooch adorning the bodice. “Miss Harrismith. I trust you find your new situation agreeable?”

She curtsied gracefully, perfectly composed and obviously at ease in society. “I do, thank you, Your Grace. But I should like to speak to you about the children.”

How efficient, Andrew thought. I am not yet through the door. “Very well. Please bring the children to me at two o’clock.”

A wave of his hand encompassed Greta and Ivo. “Shall we go in?”

“Your son is so like you,” Greta said as they entered the great hall.

“Do you think so?”

“But of course. The same black hair and blue eyes.”

“And has quite the ducal manner,” Ivo added with a chuckle.

“Good to see you, Forrester.” Andrew addressed his earnest butler and introduced his guests. After arranging to meet them later in the yellow salon for a glass of wine before they dined, he left Forrester to see to their needs.

Andrew entered his library, which ran the length of the south wing where latticed windows overlooked the formal gardens. Nothing had changed. Nothing ever did. Bookshelves filled with gleaming red and gold bindings lined the walls, his carved oak desk polished to a high shine, and his favorite chair. He’d felt suffocated by it all after Catherine died, but now as the years passed and the pain ebbed away, there was comfort to be found in the familiar.

He welcomed the memories, too, both sad and glorious. After reflecting briefly on the past, he was determined to face the future, and not alone. He wanted his life back, and now felt ready, and keen to embrace it. Seated on the maroon leather chair, he leaned back, eyes closed, and thought of his children. He opened his eyes and frowned. He’d made Barbara nervous. She’d sought safety with the governess. And William. The boy had stood ramrod straight trying to make himself appear taller. It reminded him of himself around that age. But Andrew was practically a stranger to them. Foolish to expect them to feel a deep affection, he must earn their love.

He closed his eyes again and instead of seeing Greta’s beautiful visage, the young governess’ gray eyes swam into view. His mouth twitched. The deuce! She’d been frowning at him.