ten years old. I’ll never forget getting lost at least once a day for a good
three months.”
“It will take you awhile to learn your way around Devbridge as well. I’ve closed
off the north wing, so there will be fewer dark, musty corridors for you to
worry about.”
I have always loved Yorkshire. You know you’re in a special part of England when
you can see and smell the moors that seem to stretch on to Heaven. My husband’s
ancestral lands weren’t more than twenty miles southwest of York, one of my very
favorite cities. We spent nearly a half an hour in among rolling green hills
with thick wide forests of oak trees. Better yet, Devbridge Manor was only
fifteen miles from Deerfield Hall. I felt like I was coming home. Only
Grandfather wouldn’t be there.
When we rounded the last bend in the immensely long carriage drive, it was to
see Devbridge Manor still glistening beneath the dying rays of bright sun light.
It was as my husband had said, a motley assortment of architectural styles, but
all of them blended beautifully together, from the single crenellated tower to
the lovely Palladian arches.
I was in love before we even stopped in front of the huge front doors. They were
flung open by Moses. I will swear to my dying day that the Biblical Moses couldn’t
have appeared more impressive than the Devbridge butler, Brantley, with his
flowing white hair, his stark black costume, his pale eyes surely alight with
prophecies.
He snapped his fingers, and two footmen magically appeared, garbed in dark blue
and white livery. One of them opened the carriage door and the other set a stool
to step out upon.
Lawrence called, “Brantley, this, of course, is your new mistress.”
I expected a commandment to issue out of Brantley’s mouth, but when he spoke no
hillocks shook and no bushes burst into flames. He said in a rich voice as
smooth as brandy, “Welcome home, my lord, my lady. All the family is inside
waiting for you.”
I walked beside my husband into an ancient old hall that was dismal and smelled
faintly of lemon wax and decaying wood.
Brantley preceded us to a beautiful set of walnut doors off to the right. He
opened the doors, flinging his arms wide, and said, “The Earl and Countess of
Devbridge.”
The drawing room was long and narrow with a high-vaulted ceiling. Dark red
hangings and heavy mahogany furnishings dominated the room. There were three
lovely Turkey carpets dividing up the room, and the floor, showing between the
carpets, shone with a dark, rich patina. Everything glowed in the soft light of
at least fifty candles set all about the room in large ornate branches.
I saw three people in the room. They looked from Lawrence to me and back again.
They didn’t look very happy.
Chapter Six
“Into the ogre’s den,” my husband said near my ear, and then he chuckled and
squeezed my arm.
I tried to laugh, but it was difficult. I pulled myself together and swallowed
hard as I looked over at the three people who were still staring. They hadn’t
moved an inch toward us, but just stood there. I cleared my throat, and walked
forward.
Then I stopped cold. No, it simply wasn’t possible. It just couldn’t be him, it
just couldn’t. But it was. The man stepped out of the shadows at the far end of
the fireplace. It was John, the John George had adored, the John who had wanted
to meet me on three different occasions.
He was my husband’s nephew and heir. The sullen one, the one who did not deal
well with my husband, the one who was now home from the wars. To stay.
My step-nephew.
I decided then and there that I hated coincidences with all my heart.
Suddenly, without warning, I heard George’s mad barking behind me. He must have
spotted John, recognized him from the park, and broken free of dear Miss
Crislock’s arms. I didn’t know he had such acute eyesight.
George came dashing in, his tail waving so wildly that it was hard to see. He
barked and yipped and jumped as he ran full tilt at John, who quickly knelt down