Page 3 of The Wise Daughter
“Just remember, Father, the Saxons were defeated.”
Her father sighed loudly enough to be heard over the steady clops of their horses. “For all your cleverness, Nora, I wonder how it is that you haven’t yet secured a husband.”
A seam in her glove burst from gripping the reins too tightly. “That isn’t fair, Father.”
“All that money wasted on tutors and private lessons. What good has all your learning brought us? Why couldn’t you have accepted Lord Newberry? We wouldn’t be in this predicament right now if you had accepted his offer.”
Nora shook her head. She refused to shoulder the blame for their current troubles. She might flee to another town to become a governess or lady’s maid, but she would never escape into the arms of a man as old as her father who had nothing in common with her. As for all the expensive tutors and private lessons her mother insisted she have, well, Nora would prove that was money well spent.
“You’re all I have left, Nora. Please trust me. I’m going to set things right.”
But what did he have left to tempt the duke? What did her father have left to bargain with? The only thing he hadn’t gambled away besides the horses was…
You’re all I have left, Nora.
Oh, no.
Chapter 2
Aaron Derricott, once known in far-away places as a ruddy lad with a quick mind and an itch for exploring, was now returned home where he was suddenly and most forcefully slapped with titles. He was the Duke of Ravenglass, the Marquess of Wasdale, the Earl of Eskdale, and so on and so on. He had known from the start that such was his birthright. Earl, for example, had long been his, but he had always kept it tucked in his pocket, one of the benefits of growing up abroad, he supposed, but the lofty title of Duke and the need to be known by it should have been decades away.
Yet, there he stood with clenched fists and tightened jaw, the newest, most miserable duke in all of England. He leaned forward on the windowsill of his study, surrounded by shelves of worn, leather-bound books that were only starting to feel familiar after so many years away. With sights of Hesse-Kassel, Vienna, and Rome still in his head, he looked out at the same horizon he had been gazing at for the past three months and listened to his overly protective steward, Carver, report unfortunate news.
“Another painting is missing, Your Grace.” Carver’s wood-brown hair was slicked straight back, neat and proper and shamelessly displaying his shining forehead and a receding hairline that made Aaron think of bare sea-side cliffs he had once climbed.
“Which one this time?”
Carver was just the messenger, he reminded himself. It wasn’t his fault that, ever since Aaron’s father had died, a thief or thieves –for he had no clue how many were involved– had regularly infiltrated the castle. So far, they had taken paintings, silverware, candlesticks, jewelry, and probably several other things he had no idea existed in this vast fortress.
“A portrait of your mother, the one hanging in the west wing gallery. Or rather, it was hanging there before…”
“Blast!” That painting had been a favorite. It was the one portrait of his mother just as he remembered her with soft, auburn curls like his, only longer and gracefully styled, kind hazel eyes, and hands delicately clasped in her lap but always ready for an embrace. Now it was gone. Was it mere coincidence the thieves had a knack for taking things that held the most sentimental value for him?
He fingered his signet ring, one of two that he owned. While one sat locked in his desk for official use, this one he kept on his finger, a reminder of his mother who used to wear it round her neck on a chain.
“And the footmen, the stablehands, the maids? Did anyone see anything?”
Carver lowered his head. “No, Your Grace.”
“What is the purpose of stealing my mother’s portrait?” He mumbled the fruitless question to himself. “Do they think I won’t go after them? Do they think they can rob me and get away with it?” So far, that was exactly what they had done.
Carver was silent.
Aaron looked away, refusing to let his steward see other questions behind his eyes. How was he supposed to summon the strength to go after thieves while he was still struggling to accept the loss of his father?
Far out along the horizon, rolling storm clouds blocked the sun and dulled the sea, but he could imagine its silver waters crashing on the shores he used to visit with his father. Though Aaron hadn’t visitedthose shores in the three months he had been home, he could still remember the conversation he’d had with his father the last time he had been there.
“Not to worry, son.” His father reached over and tousled his hair when his sandcastle collapsed. “One day, the best castle of all will be yours.”
“Holmrook Castle?” Aaron was not impressed. “It’s already mine.”
“It might be your home now, but I’m talking about when I’m gone and you’re grown. Then you’ll be the duke.”
“I don’t want to be the duke if it means you have to leave.”
His father laughed softly. “I have no plans on leaving, but I do hope to teach you what a great responsibility and privilege it is to be the duke.”
Aaron frowned. “Can’t we just make another sandcastle?”
