The Legend of Nimway Hall: 1818 - Isabel E-Book

Suzanne Enoch

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 319

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018

Beschreibung

New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Enoch spins a Regency-era tale at Nimway Hall, in a book series centered on an estate where love and magic entwine to bring romance to all who dwell there. A passionate, determined young lady trying to prove herself worthy of a magic-touched legacy, and a steadfast gentleman looking for his own place in the world join forces to restore an abandoned estate to its former glory. The moment Isabel de Rossi turns eighteen, she takes charge of Nimway Hall, which has stood empty for the past ten years. Well-aware that all her female forebears found true love at Nimway, she can't wait to discover her own destined match. Instead she's faced with Adam Driscoll, the infuriatingly practical estate manager whose presence is a constant reminder that her own grandmother thinks she has no idea what she's doing. Adam thought the recent offer of a position at Nimway Hall a godsend. After spending six years managing his elderly uncle's estate he is facing either a dreary career in the army or the church. At Nimway his feet are on the ground, his hands in the earth, his mind on practical matters. The last complication he needs is a foreign-raised heiress intent on finding a magical orb; but Adam can't help noticing that his strangely derailed repairs are suddenly on track, and that the clever, amusing mistress of the Hall is genuinely interested improving her estate and the lives of her tenants. And he is beginning to find it hard to resist his simmering attraction… Isabel though wonders if she isn't worthy of becoming the property's guardian. The famous orb – the artifact reputedly responsible for every love match made at Nimway Hall is nowhere to be found…until dreamy Lord Alton arrives and starts to pursue Isabel. The pesky orb suddenly appears, though it seems to have a preference for the strong and loyal Adam. For an unsophisticated young lady, the choice between a charming viscount and an interfering employee should be a simple one, but magic is a stubborn thing – and the heart is even more headstrong. "Each and every Enoch romance is a sparkling gem brimming over with marvelous characters, depth of emotion, intense sensuality and a plot that twists and turns, leaving readers breathless and deliciously satisfied."—Romantic Times, 4 ½ Stars!

Leseprobe

The Legend of Nimway Hall: 1818 - Isabel

Suzanne Enoch

Contents

About This Book

The Legend of Nimway Hall

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Discover More in the Nimway Hall Series

Discover More by Suzanne Enoch

About the Author

Copyright

This ebook is licensed to you for your personal enjoyment only.

This ebook may not be sold, shared, or given away.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The Legend of Nimway Hall: 1818 - Isabel

Copyright © 2018 by Suzanne Enoch

Ebook ISBN: 9781641970143

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

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About This Book

1818: ISABEL

New York Times bestselling author Suzanne Enoch spins a Regency-era tale at Nimway Hall, in a book series centered on an estate where love and magic entwine to bring romance to all who dwell there.

A passionate, determined young lady trying to prove herself worthy of a magic-touched legacy, and a steadfast gentleman looking for his own place in the world join forces to restore an abandoned estate to its former glory.

The moment Isabel de Rossi turns eighteen, she takes charge of Nimway Hall, which has stood empty for the past ten years. Well-aware that all her female forebears found true love at Nimway, she can’t wait to discover her own destined match. Instead she’s faced with Adam Driscoll, the infuriatingly practical estate manager whose presence is a constant reminder that her own grandmother thinks she has no idea what she’s doing.

Adam thought the recent offer of a position at Nimway Hall a godsend. After spending six years managing his elderly uncle’s estate he is facing either a dreary career in the army or the church. At Nimway his feet are on the ground, his hands in the earth, his mind on practical matters.

The last complication he needs is a foreign-raised heiress intent on finding a magical orb; but Adam can’t help noticing that his strangely derailed repairs are suddenly on track, and that the clever, amusing mistress of the Hall is genuinely interested improving her estate and the lives of her tenants. And he is beginning to find it hard to resist his simmering attraction…

Isabel though wonders if she isn’t worthy of becoming the property’s guardian. The famous orb – the artifact reputedly responsible for every love match made at Nimway Hall is nowhere to be found…until dreamy Lord Alton arrives and starts to pursue Isabel. The pesky orb suddenly appears, though it seems to have a preference for the strong and loyal Adam.

For an unsophisticated young lady, the choice between a charming viscount and an interfering employee should be a simple one, but magic is a stubborn thing – and the heart is even more headstrong.

The Legend of Nimway Hall

A love invested with mystery and magic sends ripples through the ages.

Long ago in a cave obscured by the mists of time, Nimue, a powerful sorceress and Merlin’s beloved, took the energy of their passion and wove it into a potent love spell. Intending the spell to honor their love and enshrine it in immortality, she merged the spell into the large moonstone in the headpiece of Merlin’s staff. Thus, when Merlin was far from her, he still carried the aura of their love with him and, so they both believed, the moonstone would act as a catalyst for true love, inciting and encouraging love to blossom in the hearts of those frequently in the presence of the stone.

Sadly, neither Merlin nor Nimue, despite all their power, foresaw the heart of Lancelot. A minor adept, he sensed both the presence of the spell in the moonstone and also the spell’s immense power. Driven by his own desires, Lancelot stole the headpiece and used the moonstone’s power to sway Guinevere to his side.

Furious that the spell crafted from the pure love of his and his beloved’s hearts had been misused, Merlin smote Lancelot and seized back the headpiece. To protect it forevermore, Merlin laid upon the stone a web of control that restricted its power. Henceforth, it could act only in response to a genuine need for true love, and only when that need impacted one of his and Nimue’s blood, no matter how distant.

Ultimately, Merlin sent the headpiece back to Nimue for safe keeping. As the Lady of the Lake, at that time, she lived in a cottage on an island surrounded by swiftly flowing streams, and it was in her power to see and watch over their now-dispersed offspring.

Time passed, and even those of near-immortality faded and vanished.

The land about Nimue’s cottage drained, and the region eventually became known as Somerset.

Generations came and went, but crafted of spelled gold, the headpiece endured and continued to hold and protect the timeless moonstone imbued with Nimue’s and Merlin’s spells…

Over time, a house, crafted of sound local stone and timbers from the surrounding Balesboro Wood, was built on the site of Nimue’s cottage. The house became known as Nimway Hall. From the first, the house remained in the hands and in the care of a female descendant of Nimue, on whom devolved the responsibilities of guardian of Nimway Hall. As decades and then centuries passed, the tradition was established that in each generation, the title of and responsibility for the house and associated estate passed to the eldest living and willing daughter of the previous female holder of the property, giving rise to the line of the Guardians of Nimway Hall.

THE GUARDIANS OF NIMWAY HALL

Nimue - Merlin.

through the mists of time

.

Moira Elizabeth O’Shannessy b. 1692

m. 1720 Phillip Tregarth

.

Jacqueline Vivienne Tregarth b. 1726

m. 1750 Lord Richard Devries

.

Olivia Heather Devries b. 1751

m. 1771 John “Jack” Harrington

.

Charlotte Anne Harrington b. 1776

m. 1794 Marco de Rossi

.

Isabel Jacqueline de Rossi b. 1797

m. 1818 Adam Driscoll

.

Miranda Rose Driscoll b. 1819

m. 1839 Michael Eades

.

Georgia Isabel Eades b. 1841

m. 1862 Frederick Hayden

.

Alexandra Edith Hayden b. 1864

m. 1888 Robert Curtis, Viscount Brynmore

.

Fredericka “Freddy” Viviane Curtis b. 1890

m. 1912 Anthony Marshall

.

Maddie Rose Devries b. 1904

m. 1926 Declan Maclean

.

Jocelyn Regina Stirling b. 1918

 m.1940 Lt. Col. Gideon Fletcher

Dedication

For my dad,

Who read every one of my books except this one.

I miss you.

1

None of the clocks at Harrington House in London seemed to be in working order. Isabel de Rossi had noted this oddity the moment she’d arrived in Town. As time passed – crawled by, really – she became convinced that every one of the clocks slowed even further. For the phenomenon to grow worse, the hands would have to begin moving backward.

“It’s a clock, dear,” her grandmother commented, stepping into the morning room. “You must have had clocks in Italy.”

Isabel blinked, turning her gaze from the ornate gold mantel timepiece. “Hmm? Oh, of course we have clocks. I’m only… I’m eager to see Nimway Hall. I’ve heard about it all my life, after all.”

“Nimway isn’t going anywhere, I assure you.” Grandmama Olivia gave a brief smile as she put an arm across Isabel’s shoulders, guiding her granddaughter to the sofa. “Your grandfather and I haven’t seen you since you were twelve, however, and I am selfish enough to wish to keep you here in London for more than three days. For heaven’s sake, you’ve just turned eighteen, and you’re in London. You should be anticipating a season of balls and dashing young men paying you compliments.”

If she was being honest with herself, perhaps Isabel had dreamed of that, from time to time. But having a Season meant an audience with royalty, doing perfect curtsies and knowing all the steps to every dance, and all the correct words to say to people with titles and gold-filigree names on their calling cards. Taking a deep breath, she suppressed a shudder. “I wasn’t raised in anticipation of any of that,” she offered.

“No, you were raised by Italians, for heaven’s sake. Artistic Italians. I’m surprised you even wear clothes.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You did wear clothes in Florence, didn’t you?”

“Grandmama! Of course we wore clothes.”

“Well, how am I to know? Your mother allowed herself to be sculpted nearly nude by your father, before they were even married. And all of his people were artists, he said.”

“Yes, many of the de Rossis are sculptors. Quite celebrated ones.” Olivia Harrington likely knew that already, but in Florence Isabel had grown up among some very talented sculptors, painters, musicians, and writers – even if none of those abilities had rubbed off on her. That didn’t signify. Neither did she wish to mention that her father hadn’t stopped at the Nimway Hall fireplace when it came to sculpting images of his wife Charlotte. And some of those had featured no clothing at all – including one displayed prominently on the landing of the main staircase at their home in Florence.

“I suppose someone must provide decorations for homes,” her grandmother finally commented, with a smile that looked forced. “But my point is, you’re not there now. You’re here. And here, well-bred young ladies have Seasons.”

“I don’t wish for one. I’ve been looking after the household in Italy practically since I was twelve, Grandmama. I am ready for this. Isn’t that why you wrote me that it was time I take over responsibility for Nimway Hall? Mama already gave me papers signing her ownership rights over to me. Was it all only a ruse to lure me here? Because I—”

“Of course it wasn’t a ruse. I only hoped you would be more…reasonable than your mother.” She flipped a hand at the air as if batting away an insect – or some past annoyance. “I have learned my lesson, however. Whatever I might have wished for Charlotte, and whatever I might wish for you, I will satisfy myself with supporting whichever path you choose for yourself.” For a moment she looked not quite sad, but thoughtful. “I pushed your mother too hard, and so I can only blame myself for losing her to that Marco de Rossi and his gypsy Italians.” Olivia looked up again. “But I don’t wish to have to wait another twelve years to see you again. If you consider that a ruse, then I suppose I’m guilty.”

Isabel was fairly certain no de Rossi had ever been a gypsy, but at the same time, her upbringing at the hands of her over-indulgent mother and her adoring father did seem a deliberate counterpoint to Olivia and Jack Harrington’s much stricter views. Somewhere in the middle would have been nice – and considerably more useful, really. “Somerset isn’t so very far from London. It’s much closer than Florence, certainly.”

Grandmama Olivia smiled again. “It is much closer, yes.” The older woman reached beyond Isabel to pick up an embroidery hoop. She gave it a perfunctory glance and set it on Isabel’s lap. “I’m not one to criticize, but I believe even Miss Tatterbell could improve on this rose.”

Isabel sighed, sending an annoyed glance at the tabby cat in the front window. “It’s supposed to be a strawberry.”

“Ah.” Olivia rang the small bell on the side table, and a moment later a footman appeared in the doorway. “Tea if you please, Tom.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Biting her tongue against the wish to point out that she hadn’t journeyed all the way from Florence, Italy, to London, England, to embroider, Isabel poked the needle several times through the fabric. She had missed seeing her grandparents, and being in London was rather exciting. But she didn’t need anyone else to tell her that she wasn’t meant for proper Society, for soirees or evenings at the theater. For eighteen years she’d heard tales of Nimway Hall and its mysteries, and she wanted to see them for herself. The sooner, the better.

Sighing, she dropped the embroidery hoop back onto her lap. “Grandmama, if you’ve changed your mind, or if you think I’m not…capable of taking over the care of Nimway, I wish you would simply say so.” It would be painful, but at least she would know. At least she would be able to stop waiting for…something. For this restlessness that had begun a year or so ago to stop pushing at her.

“If I hadn’t thought you ready, I wouldn’t have written you and your mother about it.” Olivia nodded her thanks as tea appeared. “Shut the door, Tom,” she instructed, and the footman did so. “And I know how little Charlotte cares for household duties and that you’ve been seeing to them on your mother’s behalf. However, that said, your grandfather’s leg is likely to heal within a few weeks, and we could return to Nimway Hall with you. All see it together, as it were.”

“Grandpapa Jack shouldn’t be fox hunting at his age,” Isabel returned, accepting the cup of tea her grandmother poured then adding three lumps of sugar and a splash of milk to the watery concoction. The secret to drinking tea, she’d discovered, was to make certain it didn’t taste like itself.

“You are not the first one to say so,” Olivia commented, sitting back in her seat and sipping.

“But his leg is not the reason you’ve been gone from the estate for ten years. His leg being healed is therefore not the reason you would wish to make a return to it.”

Her grandmother eyed her over the rim on her porcelain cup, which was trimmed with silver and featured a flock of blue doves circling some sort of shrubbery. “You’re a clever thing, aren’t you?”

“I do try to be.”

“Cleverness isn’t always a welcome trait, especially when one is seeking a husband.”

Isabel blinked. “I’m not seeking a husband. I’m seeking a chance to become Nimway Hall’s guardian, just as you did. And as Mother did not.”

“She did, in her way. As long as her heart continues to beat, my Charlotte protects the land and our people. As do I. As will you. Nimway can be a large and demanding mistress, Isabel. And a duty not lightly taken, nor lightly set aside.” She sat forward again, lowering the cup and her voice. “And as you are the only daughter, the only child, of your generation, you will also be required to produce an heir. Which means that yes, you are seeking a husband. The female line must continue.”

Well, she hadn’t thought of it that way. After eighteen years in Italy, broken by a holiday or two to England, she’d wanted to come home. And though she couldn’t explain it, and though she’d never even set eyes on it, Nimway Hall was home. Not the large, rambling house in Florence or her loving, contented parents, or the loud, boisterous extended Italian family on her father’s side and the conclave of artists that had always surrounded them. Yes, she loved them all, and she missed them dearly, but for nearly all her life something had pulled at her. She needed to go home.

Olivia patted her on the knee, making her jump. “Nimway Hall will affect you,” she said, her voice soft and her gaze unfocused, as if she’d become lost in a daydream. “It’s a busybody and has no qualms about pushing people into directions they would not choose to go if left to their own devices.” She shook herself a little, her gaze returning to her granddaughter. “You know your grandfather and I did not favor a match between Charlotte and Marco de Rossi. An artist – a sculptor, for heaven’s sake – and an Italian. He dared carve your mother’s half-clothed image on our dining room fireplace.” She shuddered, nearly spilling her tea. “I can assure you, that is nothing a mother or a father wants to see on a daily basis.”

“But Papa is a master sculptor,” Isabel couldn’t help retorting.

“Yes, he is, which means no one could mistake the identity of his subject, bared to the view of every diner from now to eternity.” She set her tea aside. “But the Hall thought nothing of that. I think it likes strong feelings, and…lustful thoughts, and all manner of unacceptable behaviors.”

“You…talk about Nimway likes it’s alive,” Isabel commented. Her mother seemed to believe so, but Grandmama Olivia was so much more practical than her daughter Charlotte. “Surely—”

“Yes, you may think I’m a madwoman. I did as well, when we lived there.” Olivia stood, then walked to the writing desk and pulled a large, leather-bound stack of papers from a drawer. “And that is why I intend to remain in London and why I agreed to pass it on to you now. I still urge you to stay on with us here, my darling, at least until you can be assured that you won’t have to walk through the front door alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Jane with me.”

“Your companion is not a protector. Not unless she can wield a musket.” Frowning, Olivia reached down for Isabel’s tea and set it aside as well, then took her granddaughter’s hands and turned them palm up. “And no, I don’t think you’ll require a musket. I’m merely… I’m getting to be an old woman, so don’t mind what I say. Only do be cautious. As I said, the house affects everyone differently. You may not like what it does to you. But for better or worse, it’s now yours.”

With that, she set the papers onto Isabel’s palms. They felt heavy, but then keeping a house within the female line of a family had taken a considerable amount of paperwork through the years. A rush of excitement swept up her spine as she clutched the bundle to her chest. A house, a mansion, abandoned for ten years and all hers. Hers, to shape and guide, to put her own stamp upon. And the magic of Nimway Hall, the mysterious orb and the bountiful crops and the ancient Balesboro Wood that confused foes and aided friends, the place of wizards and ladies of the lake, knights in shining armor – it belonged to her now. Finally.

“I should tell you,” her grandmother went on, releasing her hand and turning for the morning room doorway, “when I decided to write you, I had our solicitor hire a new steward for Nimway Hall. I would have preferred to leave you with Prentiss in charge, but now I’m discovering that he may have become a bit eccentric in his later years, and a property as large as Nimway Hall certainly can’t manage without a steward. No sense in you arriving to see a tumbled ruin or overgrown garden.”

Oh. A steward. Of course there would be one, but for heaven’s sake, her grandmother might have waited another month or two and let the new guardian of Nimway hire her own. How could it be her home if someone else, some random man hired by random men, had barged in before she could ever arrive? A man who would no doubt have a criticism for everything she attempted and who’d probably already seen to everything she’d wanted to do herself. “Do I have to keep him on?”

“The steward? Of course not. But Mr. … what was it? Ripple? Dripple? At any rate, he presently knows more about Nimway Hall than you do. And if we – I, at least – go about hiring and sacking employees willy-nilly, people will think us frivolous. Will think me frivolous. So please keep that in mind.”

“Will he answer to you, or to me?”

“Well, you, of course. Though I did hire him. Just listen to his suggestions and keep my reputation in mind before you sack him and hire someone else. I don’t doubt your enthusiasm, but you’ve run a household – not an estate. There is a difference. Believe me. Now. You will be staying for luncheon and dinner, I hope? Or are you in such a hurry to leave that you don’t even have a moment for goodbyes?”

Isabel set aside the bundle of papers and stood to hurry over to wrap her arms around her grandmother’s slender waist. “I am never in that much of a hurry, and I never will be. I know you have your doubts, but I don’t.”

Olivia put a finger beneath her granddaughter’s chin and kissed her forehead. “And that is why I’m worried.”

2

Patience is a virtue,” Adam Driscoll recited under his breath, the fiftieth time he’d done so since awakening that morning. It had begun with his left boot going missing, and hadn’t improved since then. Nodding at the barrel of a man behind him, he wrapped the heavy rope around his leather-gloved hands. “Ready? One, two, three, pull!”

Slowly, groaning and reluctant, the millstone in front of them left its partner and lifted an inch or two into the air. With each coordinated heave on the rope, it rose another fraction. The old thing weighed close to two tons, but the mill helped the valley prosper. It needed to be repaired, and thankfully the farmers who lived on the Nimway Hall property knew that.

“I need at least a foot, or I won’t be able to reach in to grind off that ridge,” the stonemason they’d brought in from Glastonbury grunted, putting his fingers over the lip – which seemed a highly unwise thing to do given the path the four weeks of Adam’s stewardship had taken.

“Mr. Reynolds,” Adam panted, planting his recovered boot – which had thankfully been located behind the wardrobe, of all things – against the straw-covered stone floor and taking in another inch of rope, “I do not recommend—”

The wooden crossbeam snapped in two. Even as the thunderous sound registered, the rope went slack in his hands. Adam went over backward, falling hard on the quartet of farmers behind him. Before he could even pull breath back into his lungs, he forced himself to his feet, expecting to see the stonemason’s hand crushed between the two massive burrstone slabs.

Instead, the ten-fingered Tom Reynolds crouched down, picked up a piece of discarded straw, and stuck it between his teeth. “You need a sturdier pulley rig, I reckon,” he observed.

Adam brushed straw from his backside and tried not to cough as the mill dust rose and twirled around them. They’d bound together three eight-inch-thick tree trunks. The cross beam should have been sturdy enough to lift the entire mill, much less the runner stone. He’d assisted; the rig had been well made. The other men, including Phillip Miller, the aptly-named miller, had begun cursing and making signs against the evil eye. And they were sending sideways glances at him again.

As much as he wanted to proclaim his innocence in the fiasco, Adam had begun to realize over the past four weeks he’d resided at Nimway Hall that they didn’t doubt his competence. They doubted his presence, and his luck. And there wasn’t much he could do about that except to persist. This property was worth it. The position he’d found for himself was worth it.

He made his way through the flour dust and the wreck of the pulley system to crouch beside the crossbeam. They’d used fresh-cut timber because it would be more likely to flex and bend than break. He would have been tempted to call it deliberate, except he could see absolutely no sign of a saw or blade mark.

“Will you be putting me up tonight, then?” the stonemason asked, leaning over him.

Adam straightened. For the first time the muscular-armed mason’s aloof expression faded, and he took a half- then a full-step back. “Patience is a virtue,” Adam repeated to himself, and straightened his fingers. “Yes, Mr. Reynolds. I’ll have a room waiting for you at the Two-Headed Dragon. I’ve been told it’s the finest inn in Balesborough.”

“I reckon that’ll do for me, Mr. Driscoll. Thank you.” He narrowed one eye as he continued to chew on the straw sticking out from between his teeth. “That was a fine contraption. It should have worked,” he offered after a moment.

Yes, it should have. And the plan to smoke the bees out of the attic should have worked, but that had only gotten him stung three times and sent the creatures into two of the servants’ rooms as well as the large storage room up there. He could hear them humming above his head in the evenings. Re-setting the iron railing that bordered the back terrace should also have been a simple task, but a freak rainstorm had poured so much water into the concrete mix that it wouldn’t set. That hadn’t been his fault, except that as the property’s steward, he evidently should have known better than to make the attempt.

“The Hall won’t like you poking about,” Simmons the butler had informed him. His reply that the Hall would like being readied for its owner’s return had been met with an even more concise, “No, it won’t.” Evidently, either the butler had precognitive abilities, or his unending dour predictions occasionally bore fruit.

Stripping off his gloves and noting another blister on his left palm, Adam sent the miller and two others to find more suitable logs for another attempt in the morning. The farmers seemed perfectly content to return tomorrow, but then Adam had the sneaking suspicion that they anticipated seeing what might go wrong next more than they did seeing the millstone repaired. After all, the harvest wouldn’t be ready for another month or two, at best. They had time to be amused.

Outside, he shook more grain dust out of his hair and collected his mount. With a cluck, he sent the big chestnut gelding east in the direction of the steep escarpment and Nimway Hall above.

Off to his right, Miller the miller guided two heavy plow horses more southerly toward Balesboro Wood for the additional lumber they would need tomorrow. All of the farmers and other residents on the substantial acreage owned by Mrs. Olivia Harrington had been friendly and cooperative, if doubtful of his success. They acknowledged that some upkeep and repairs were needed, and they’d been swift to offer assistance – and opinions, of course.

None of them – and he considered himself a fair judge of character – struck him as being duplicitous or underhanded. The accidents and misfortunes presently thwarting him didn’t seem to be either malicious or intentional. In a sense, though, his inability to explain any of it left him even more frustrated. None of this lay beyond his experience or his abilities; in fact, as he’d made his initial assessment of the estate after his arrival, he’d thought bringing it back to its former glory would be simple.

The Harringtons had only been away for ten years, and the house had maintained a reduced staff for that time. The former steward, Mr. Prentiss, had apparently decided that challenging the house would be unwise, but money had clearly gone toward general maintenance as well as toward keeping up the mill, the community vegetable garden, and the irrigation systems, and the farms had prospered even without their landlord’s presence. And yet.

He let the chestnut set its own pace, and they ascended the narrow, twisting trail up the face of the escarpments at a walk. He’d seen carts navigate the path, but he would hate to have to do it at night or in bad weather.

Nimway had both long history and care showing in every beam and cornice, along with a warmth that reminded him of his own home. But here, all that history kept eyeing him, unsettling him whenever he even considered making repairs. Strictly speaking he was an intruder, but at least he was an invited one. And he had nothing but admiration for what he saw around him.

He could always uninvite himself, but he refused to give up after only four weeks. He was a fourth son; fighting for things had become nearly second nature. And employment like this, at a place like this, wasn’t likely to come along again any time soon, if ever. And certainly not for a man of five-and-twenty.

At eighteen, just as he’d decided that, as the fourth son of a minor baron, he had what amounted to a choice between the priesthood and the army – which meant choosing the army – his uncle had turned over a carriage and broken one leg beyond healing. The physician had removed it above the knee. For the subsequent seven years, Adam had served as the Franklin Park steward, its guardian, and the confidante of his seven younger female cousins. Just six months ago, Margaret, the oldest cousin, had come of age and found a husband who thankfully had been competent enough that just in the past fortnight he’d taken over the steward position.

Adam sent the chestnut along the southernmost pathway, the one that bordered the edge of Balesboro Wood. It would add an additional thirty minutes or so to reach Nimway Hall by this route, but he needed those moments to figure out where they’d erred with the pulley so it wouldn’t happen again. Purple and red splashed the western sky behind him, and a trio of does stepped into the meadow then retreated again when they caught sight of him.

He’d enjoyed directing Franklin Park in a way he’d never expected. Given his circumstances, however, owning acreage of his own seemed supremely unlikely. He’d therefore thought it fortuitous that just as he’d found himself replaced at Franklin, the solicitor father of an old friend had written to inquire if he was available to take up a newly-vacated position at Nimway Hall.

Adam had barely paused long enough to pack a trunk. Now, however, he wasn’t so certain that “fortuitous” had been the correct word. In fact, despite his determination to succeed at something here, over the past few days he’d begun to wonder if resigning might be in the best interests of everyone involved. Tom Reynolds might have been badly injured today.

He shook himself. Coincidence. The offer of employment – a coincidence. A stewardship position coming available also happened to be very rare. A steward tended to serve until he was too old to do so, at which time a son would assume the position. It was almost a commoner’s version of a title inheritance. The one at Nimway Hall had been unusual both in the fact that the previous steward had conveniently expired in the village’s cemetery, and that he had no sons and hadn’t suggested anyone else to succeed him. Adam knew he wasn’t likely to run across another such opportunity.

And if the circumstances of his employment were coincidence, then so were the misfortunes that had plagued him since his arrival. The nonsense wasn’t anything he’d done, and it therefore had no reason to continue. All it would take was a bit more determination. And he had that in spades.

Just how long he might have remained pondering his future while the sky darkened around him he didn’t know, because as the path joined with the road that wound from the manor house and back through the wood, something caught his attention.

A lone owl hooted, and he shook himself back to the present. He’d best turn back to the manor before the staff could think he’d fled – giving him something else to explain. A second owl joined the first, then a third, and a fourth.

Adam pulled up the gelding. In a moment the entire wood reverberated with “Hoo-hoo”. The hairs on his neck lifted. What in the world would upset every owl in Somerset? A fire? He narrowed his eyes scanning the edge of the forest, but no light caught his eyes. He didn’t smell smoke, though the sky was too dark now for him to see it.

His mount sidestepped, chuffing nervously. Tightening his hand on the reins, Adam reached down his free hand to pat the beast on the neck. “Easy now, boy.”

Then, light did catch his gaze. Firelight, but contained, floating and blinking, drifted toward him. Two lights, then four, bobbing as they approached. The owls stopped. The wood seemed to hold its breath, silent and still and waiting. No crickets, no frogs, broke the silence.

As he watched the lights moving closer, a light breeze touched his face. In the same moment, a pair of crickets began chirping off to his left, and he realized what the lights must be. Carriage lamps. A coach, approaching through Balesboro Woods.

Of course it was a coach. What the devil else would it be? Blowing out his breath, he kneed the gelding off the worn road as the vehicle emerged from the wood. “Nimway Hall?” the black-clothed driver asked as they drew even.

“Follow this road, about half a mile on,” Adam responded. “Who comes?”

“The Hall’s mistress.”

Olivia Harrington? Adam wheeled the gelding to follow the coach. Behind him, a lone owl hooted once more. He slowed, listening, but the sound echoed into silence without being repeated. The disturbance, whatever had unsettled the birds of prey, seemed to have ceased. Nevertheless, he kept glancing over his shoulder all the way back to the well-lit hall.

As the coach stopped before the front portico Adam dismounted, handing the reins to Toby as the lad ran up from the stables at the rear of the house. The boy gawped, wide-eyed, as the coach driver flipped down the steps and the plain black door swung open.

At the same moment the ancient butler, Simmons, appeared from somewhere to hold out his hand. Adam had known the man for a month and had never seen him move that quickly. A yellow-gloved hand reached out from the coach’s cavernous darkness, fingers curling around the butler’s. Then a foot, sheathed in a dainty yellow walking slipper, emerged, followed by a yellow and green muslin walking dress patterned with tiny red flowers, then a massive yellow bonnet that obscured everything above the woman’s shoulders.

Both feet touched the ground, and Adam stepped forward. “Mrs. Harrington? I wasn’t expecting you. I’m—”

She lifted her head, and the words stopped in his throat. As far as he knew, Olivia Harrington was a grandmother, a woman of at least middle age. The deep-gray eyes looking up at him didn’t belong to a grandmother. And neither did the deep brown curls of burnished mahogany that framed her temples. “Mrs. Harrington is my grandmother,” she said, in well-educated tones, her accent touched by something he couldn’t quite put a name to. “I am Isabel de Rossi. And you would be Mr. Dingle?”

“Driscoll,” he corrected. Evidently neither of them had expected the other. “Adam Driscoll.”

“Ah, yes. Driscoll.” She sent her gaze down to his boots and back up again.

Abruptly he realized the sight he must look. “I must apologize,” he said, brushing at his coat. “As I said, I wasn’t expecting anyone.” He cleared his throat. “Simmons, she’ll be wanting the master bedchamber. And inform Mrs. Dall we’ll have two more for dinner.”

“Miss de Rossi,” Simmons intoned, bowing and nearly knocking Adam aside. “I knew your mother well. How fares Miss Charlotte?”

Isabel smiled, thankful for all the tales her mother used to tell of Nimway Hall and its residents, and for the moment to think about something other than the annoying man who was already giving orders on her behalf when she could speak quite well for herself. “Simmons. My mother speaks of you often. She and my father are both quite well, thank you.”

The butler’s cheeks colored beneath his shock of white hair. “I’m honored that she remembers me. A fine young lady, she was.” With a blink he snapped back to attention. “Will, see that the mistress’s things are brought up to the master bedchamber. And have the room opened. We cannot have her sleeping on furniture coverings and dust.”

A younger man, one of the footmen, she presumed, flashed by to begin untying her substantial luggage from the rear of the coach. Behind her Jane stepped down to the ground as well. “We might have stopped for the night in East Pennard or Balesborough,” Isabel commented, reminding herself that this moment would serve as the servants’ first impression of her, “but I was very eager to reach the Hall. And I don’t mind a bit of dust.”

And as badly as she wanted to gaze up at the building, to run inside and explore and find…something that could explain the breathless excitement she felt, the reason she’d decided they would drive all night if necessary to reach Nimway Hall without another stop, she couldn’t very well behave like a flighty girl. She was the mistress of this property now.

The rather tall Mr. Driscoll continued to stand between her and the front door. She didn’t know precisely whom she’d expected, but certainly not someone as…fit as he appeared. She’d met a steward or two, and they’d been older, experienced men, selected for their ability to maintain the running of an estate while its master was elsewhere. They served as the owner’s surrogate. They didn’t have straw sticking up from their dark, disheveled hair or patches of dust on their sleeves. For heaven’s sake, he looked more like a farmer than a