The softest part of Sarah considered her suggestion sincerely. Forgiveness was a virtue she hadn’t quite mastered yet. It was also something Lady Whitmore hadn’t provided instruction on. Why should she give up the one thing that had inspired her to persevere during her time in Whitmore? The one purpose that had given her the courage to sing and study her art until she could not hold herself upright some evenings when she returned home to the cottage. No, Hammy was asking too much from her.
The Duke of Vexen needed to learn a valuable lesson, and Sarah would be the one to teach him, if not for herself, for the next young lady whose heart he might break.
Chapter Three
The Duke of Vexen sat in his study, holding an elegant invitation in one hand, his brandy glass in the other. Usually he relished the idea of attending art exhibitions, but where in hell was this village called Whitmore? And how had Lady Whitmore become aware of his dedication to the arts and chosen to ask him to be the guest of honor at her event?
Of course, being a duke might have a hand in it, but Leonard was a discreet sort, private to a fault. His generous donations to various institutions around the country were given anonymously, and only his closest friends and family knew anything about how he spent his money.
Leonard had sponsored many an artist and opera singers—even a ballet dancer who became internationally famous four years ago after a stunning performance in Italy. But this? A private musicale and art exhibition at a castle in a seaside village he had never heard of? Should he even consider it? Would he discover another Mozart? Perhaps even another Michelangelo? That possibility titillated him more than sheer curiosity about the hostess.
“Well, Your Grace?” his secretary, Mr. James, asked politely. “How shall I respond to the lady?”
Leonard shrugged, dropped the invitation on his desk, and swallowed the last of his brandy. “Where is this place?”
“Some two hundred miles from London, Your Grace. It is located along the North Sea, I believe, where Vikings once lived.” Mr. James lowered his spectacles down his nose and gave the duke a smile.
“Vikings?”
“I know how you feel about the possibility of looking into the archaeological activities in a place ripe with history.”
Leonard snorted. “All of Britain should be an archaeological site, should it not, Mr. James?”
“Quite right, Your Grace. But Vikings are you favorite, I believe.”
“Yes,” he said, thinking about his private collection of artifacts from around the world, including Scandinavia. “Perhaps we should attend the event after all, Mr. James. Broadening my social circle to include Lady Whitmore might be beneficial. Please accept her invitation immediately.”
Mr. James nodded and turned around on his chair at his desk that sat across the generous study from the duke’s enormous mahogany desk. The space was more than a study really; it was an ante chamber to the magnificent library that possessed a collection of ancient manuscripts that might rival the Vatican’s collection.
Leonard smiled to himself—it had taken ten generations to bring his family’s collection of antiquities to where it stood today. Manuscripts, sculptures, paintings, fossils, and so much more. He prided himself on that—now if he could only find the perfect duchess to add to his flawless collection.
He stood abruptly and opened the carved, heavy doors that led into the library. The doors had been purchased from a crumbling, thirteenth century castle in Ireland and shipped to London and fitted inside his townhouse in Mayfair. His home encompassed three townhouses that had been made into one, providing the room and privacy he required to feel comfortable in such a boisterous and filthy city, though he loved it dearly.
He stopped in front of a shelf containing maps and chose an atlas covering Britain. He opened it on a table at the center of the room and searched the northeast coast for Whitmore, his eyes sweeping the map three times before he found it.
“Whitmore,” he said aloud, then read what notes were included about the village. “Established in the ninth century as a trading post, eventually captured by the Norse in 966…”
He sighed. “Intriguing.”
“What is intriguing, Your Grace?” Mr. James called from the doorway.
Leonard turned to gaze at his loyal secretary. “You were correct about Whitmore—there is a long history to the place. The more I think about it, the more I wish to see it. In fact, perhaps we should arrange to arrive early.”
Mr. James cleared his throat. “How early?”
“Have Williams prepare my things. We leave at first light.”
***
As soon as he awoke on his first morning at Whitmore Castle, Leonard knew he had made the right decision. Although difficult to discover, the castle was genuinely magnificent. And despite arriving late at night a full day before he was invited, he and James had been shown immediately to their rooms.
Poor James, who had never got used to the speed with which Leonard preferred to travel, had tottered immediately to bed, while Leonard, lamp in hand, had explored the environs, admiring the stone work and the tasteful nature of the restoration work. He had seen enough to inspire him, to wake with a glow of scholarly excitement.
Rising from his huge bed, he padded across the cold floor and threw wide the shutters. His bedchamber looked out onto the sea, and he could almost imagine a fleet of longboats sailing toward the shore. He expected some Viking warrior’s wooden hall had once graced this hill, long before the Normans came with their passion for stone castles.
Leonard turned reluctantly away from the view. Discovering a silken rope, he tugged it, in the hope it would summon Clive, his valet. It did, although the man took some time to arrive, panting from his exertions.
“I’m to tell you Lady Whitmore will join you in the breakfast room, Your Grace,” he said breathlessly. “I’ll show you the way when you are ready.”
Finally, washed, shaved and dressed with his usual smart propriety, Leonard followed his valet through the large outer room that appeared to be part of his suite, and beyond to a wooden staircase and a wide passage that led to an open door on the left. Their footsteps echoed. They met no one else on their journey.
And when Clive bowed him into the breakfast room, he discovered there only two elderly ladies, who appeared to be arguing.
They broke off at once, staring at him. He bowed, and they rose to their feet. One curtseyed. The other, a small, silver-haired lady with oddly piercing blue eyes, hurried toward him. At one point, she seemed to steady herself against the long, polished table, but otherwise gave no impression of frailty.
Her gaze clung to him, almost greedily. No doubt she was starved of company.
“Your Grace,” she said, sinking in a regal curtesy before offering her hand. “I am Lady Whitmore. Forgive my failure to welcome you last night.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” he assured her. “And certainly not from a guest who arrives so inconveniently late at night.”
“I trust you were made comfortable?”
“Extremely. Please, don’t let me keep you from your breakfast.”
“Breakfast is informal here,” she told him pleasantly. “Please help yourself from the sideboard, and if there is anything else you might require, I will send for it. Oh, and this is my companion, Miss Frobe. May I pour you coffee? Or tea?”