A Lady's Luck

And then it was time to try to solve the mystery of Leopold’s Legacy.

Finally, after another “proper” English breakfast at the hotel buffet, the three of them set off from Paddington Station for Oxford.

The sky was pewter and the trees bare, but once past the suburbs and outskirts of London, the English countryside took on a quaint, nostalgic quality with its Tudor houses, thatch-roofed cottages and thick-walled Norman churches. An hour later they arrived in the famous university town.

Getting a taxi wasn’t nearly as difficult as comprehending what the driver was saying as he chatted with the girls along the way. What amazed Brent was that they had so little difficulty understanding his lingo, at least after the first few exchanges.

Briar Hills Academy for Girls occupied a nineteenth-century manor house of brown brick tucked neatly among low rolling wooded hills a few miles northwest of Oxford.

Brent had arranged for the visit before leaving the States, saying he was an American businessman anticipating an assignment to England in the not-too-distant future and wanted to check out schools where he could send his daughters. He’d called again yesterday from London to confirm this morning’s appointment. He wasn’t altogether surprised when a young lady in her early twenties emerged from the stone-arched doorway to meet them as they alighted from the cab.

“Mr. Preston?” she asked.

Stepping forward as the taxi circled around in the gravel forecourt and grumbled away, he admitted he was. “These are my daughters, Rhea and Katie.”

She offered her hand. “I’m Heather Wilcot. Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin, the headmistress, asked me to welcome you and take you to her straightaway.”

Beyond a small vestibule, she led them into a central hall that was dominated by a wide, gracefully curving staircase with an ornate wrought-iron banister topped with a shiny wood rail. A thick, red wool runner covered the white marble stairs, softening their ascent.

At the head of the stairs, Heather led them to a heavy, dark paneled door on the right and turned the polished brass handle. They entered a reception area.

“If you’ll wait here, sir.”

She went to the open doorway beyond and tapped on the framework. “Mr. Brent Preston and his daughters, Rhea and Katie, have arrived, Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin.”

The woman who emerged was tall, close to six feet, and Raphaelesque in build.

“Mr. Preston,” she said in a strong but pleasant voice, “how very good of you to visit us. I’m delighted to meet you.” She immediately shifted her attention to the girls. “Rhea and Katie. So which twin is which?” Her smile seemed genuine.

More the extrovert, Rhea spoke up. “I’m Rhea. She’s Katie.”

Eyes twinkling, Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin took a minute to study the two of them, her attention flicking from one to the other. After what seemed like a very long interval, she asked, “Do the two of you always dress alike?”

“Mostly,” Rhea said brightly. “Except Aunt Melanie bought us ugly green dresses. I think they look like barf, so I never wear mine. But Katie wears hers sometimes.”

“I didn’t bring it with me,” Katie informed her. “And it doesn’t look like barf. It’s more like…celery pudding.”

Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin’s brows rose precipitously. “Celery pudding? I’ll have to think about that. Rather an unusual image, I must say.” She was clearly straining to control a smile. So was Brent.

“Let’s go for a walk, shall we? I’ll show you our grounds before it starts to rain, and you can tell me about your school back home in Kentucky.”

Brent had mentioned where they were from when he’d called from the States to make the appointment. She’d obviously made note of it. The day was overcast and gloomy. The headmistress queried the girls about the subjects they were studying in school and asked questions to determine their level of advancement. Satisfied with their answers, she let them run ahead to the play area.

A scrap of paper fluttered to the ground.

“Katie, you dropped something.”

One girl turned around, while the other looked over at her sister.

“Right there.” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin pointed to the ticket stub from one of the places they’d visited.

Katie stared at her, her expression one of awe bordering on fear.

“Pick it up, dear. When we go inside I’ll show you where you can throw it in the dustbin.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Katie replied softly. She picked up the litter, then ran after her sister.

“Congratulations. We have friends at home,” Brent remarked, “who’ve known them since they were born and still can’t distinguish them.”

He wondered if it was luck that she’d picked the right name or if she really could tell them apart on only a minute’s acquaintance.

“Several sets of twins are in attendance here, Mr. Preston. I find them an interesting challenge.”

They walked on. She recited a brief history of the school, the enrollment numbers, staff qualifications and the most recent awards the academy had received.

“When you called to make this appointment, Mr. Preston, you said you anticipated spending some time here in England on business.”

“It’s not certain yet. That’s why I haven’t said anything to the girls and asked you not to mention it in their presence. As far as they know we’re here only on vacation.”

“I fully understand. I’ve alerted the staff, as well. We have a number of foreign students boarding here whose parents travel a good deal.”

He couldn’t imagine leaving his girls with strangers.

“They could live with their grandparents back home, but I’d prefer to keep them with me.” He paused. “Since their mother passed away, I feel it’s important that we stay together as much as possible.”

“My condolences on the loss of your wife, Mr. Preston. They seem well-adjusted, polite girls. May I ask why you have elected to consider Briar Hills Academy?”

“A friend recommended it. Nolan Hunter. I understand his sister is one of your teachers.”

“Lord Kestler!” Her face lit up. “Yes, of course. His sister, Devon, is one of our sterling young instructors. Do you know her, as well?”

“I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting her.”

The headmistress gazed up at the dark sky. “We’d best go inside straightaway.” She clapped her hands. The girls, chattering on a seesaw, stopped instantly and swiveled to face her.

I wish they would obey me that well, Brent thought.

“Come along, girls,” she called out. “Inside, quickly.”

The four of them had hardly entered the building’s back door when the first large raindrops began splattering the black slate walk.

“Perfect timing,” Brent said, as he let the door he’d been holding close behind them.

“I’ll have Miss Hunter join us,” the headmistress said. “She’ll be delighted to meet you. She thinks the world of her brother. A fine gentleman.”

Three

It was rare for Devon to be called out of her classroom in the midst of a lesson. She prayed it wasn’t to learn of tragedy. Her mother’s health was fragile, but surely Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin would come in person to inform her if something had befallen Lady Kestler. Could it be about her brother? Nolan had become a mystery to her of late.

“She has a visitor,” Heather whispered, almost in awe, as she looked up from her desk, where she’d been tapping away at her computer keyboard a moment before. “She said for you to go directly in.”

“Who is it?” Another VIP, no doubt. Maybe a Member of Parliament on an inspection tour or dropping off his daughter for the first time.

“You’ll see.”

Devon wondered at her friend’s dramatic secrecy. Judging from the impish grin on her pixie face, the surprise would not be an unpleasant one.

Before approaching the headmistress’s open doorway, however, Devon paused to adjust her frock, to make sure her belt was straight and to smooth out any wrinkles. As a matter of habit she ran her hands through her shoulder-length hair, and only then knocked on the headmistress’s office doorframe and entered.

Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin was standing in the center of the room, talking to a man Devon was sure she’d never seen before. With his back to her, she saw only that he was tall, an inch or two over six feet, with impressively broad shoulders. When he turned it was his face, however, that instantly captured her attention.

He was clean-shaven with even, well-proportioned features, a slightly cleft chin and the hint of a dimple in his right cheek, His full lips had a sensual quality that seemed poised on the brink of a smile.

“Ah, Devon, there you are,” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin said in a pleasant greeting.

As she drew closer, Devon noticed the man’s eyes were dark blue. They seemed the perfect complement to his tan complexion and medium-brown wavy hair. In fact, everything about him seemed perfect. She understood Heather’s smile now and had to control one of her own.

“Allow me to introduce you,” the headmistress went on. “This is Mr. Brent Preston, the American I mentioned in the staff meeting, who asked to visit our school.”

Devon remembered now. A businessman who’d asked for an appointment because he expected to be transferred to England and was looking for a school to which he could send his young daughters.

“Mr. Preston,” the older woman continued, “may I present the Honorable Devon Hunter.”

It was unusual for Sybil to introduce Devon by her title. Despite the difference in their ages and backgrounds, they were normally on a first-name basis in private. In more formal settings, such as this one, Devon became simply Miss Hunter.

She extended her hand. “Mr. Preston, I’m very pleased to meet you. Welcome to Briar Hills Academy.”

His hand was large, warm and dry. She felt a slight tug as they shook. Or maybe it was her imagination. Pleased as she was to be meeting him, she had to wonder why she was here. Sybil normally handled visitors on her own without involving the teaching staff.

“Mr. Preston is acquainted with your brother,” the headmistress informed her, as if reading her mind.

The mention of Nolan wasn’t as welcome as it might once have been, but Devon did her best not to show it.

“I saw him over the New Year,” Brent said in a deep voice that was distinctively American. She didn’t fancy herself an expert on foreign accents, but she was quite certain his was what was referred to as a Southern drawl. It was fluid and mellifluous. “He had a horse running in the Gulf Classic in Florida.”

Devon tilted her head to one side. “Did he win?”

Brent chuckled softly. “Actually, he lost. By a nose. To my sister.”

“Your sister?”

“She’s a professional jockey.”

This time Devon had to laugh. “I hope he was a good sport about it.”

“A perfect gentleman,” Preston replied, showing even white teeth.

“And these are his daughters,” Sybil said, placing her hands on the shoulders of the two girls. “Rhea and Katie.”

Devon looked from one eight-year-old to the other, then folded her hands casually in front of her.

“Not fair dressing alike, girls,” she said. “One of you could at least spill a bit of your breakfast porridge on your shirtwaist to make it easier.”

The girls giggled.

One asked, “What’s porridge?”

“Oatmeal,” their father answered.

“Yuck—” her sister wrinkled her nose “—I hate oatmeal.”

Devon was keenly aware of the man watching her. She liked the way his daughters looked up at him and how the one on the right—Katie?—placed her hand in his. They clearly adored the man, and he, Devon suspected, doted on them. Seeing happy families always brought bittersweet emotions. Her own father had been anything but sentimental. When he wasn’t criticizing her, the best she could hope for was that he was mute.

“They’ve never been to an English primary school,” Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin explained, “and are interested in seeing how it differs from theirs in America. Since Mr. Preston knows Lord Kestler, I thought perhaps you would like to show them around.”

“I’d be delighted,” Devon replied.

Brent was entranced. The young woman who’d entered the room was nothing short of beautiful, with dignity and charm to match. She had an oval face, cream-white flawless skin, delicately rosy cheeks and coffee-colored eyes that sparkled with intelligence and, he perceived, a hint of mischief.

When they’d been introduced and she’d placed her hand in his, he’d had an instant impulse to raise it to his lips and kiss it. He couldn’t remember ever feeling that way before. It wasn’t, after all, an American custom, and he wasn’t even sure it was an English one, but somehow the intimacy it implied was enormously appealing.

Then he thought about Marti and felt a twinge of guilt. After exchanging a few more words with the headmistress, they left the office. Devon led them around a corner to a newer wing of the building that hadn’t been visible from the front.

“How old are you, girls?” she asked the twins, who were practically skipping along beside her.

“Eight,” Rhea responded.

Devon nodded, then thought a moment. “Your school system in America is different from ours. Let me see. You’re in the third grade. Is that correct?”

Katie nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, ma’am.”

“We start a year earlier than you, so here you would be in the fourth, but I expect what you would be learning would be about the same.”

“Do you teach a particular subject, Miss Hunter?” Brent asked.

“English grammar and reading. At elementary four—your third grade—we’re learning about nouns, verbs, adjectives and adverbs.”

“We are, too,” Rhea cried out.

“Shh.” Her father put a finger to his lips. “Not so loud. We don’t want to disturb the children in class.”

As they walked the corridors and Devon invited him to peek into classrooms through door windows or stand at the threshold of computer-filled labs, observing young ladies flicking their fingers over keyboards and mice, Brent found himself drawn more and more to the viscount’s younger sister in a way he hadn’t been drawn to a woman in a long time. He asked appropriate questions, all the time trying to figure out how to bring up the one subject that had brought him there. Apollo’s Ice.

She had saved her own classroom until last. When they arrived there, she took them inside and presented them to a group of twenty girls, all of whom were about the twins’ age. She had just completed her introductions when a bell rang out in the hallway.

“Recess.” Devon turned to the twins. “Why don’t you join the girls for their break in the assembly area downstairs—it’s too wet to go outside right now.”

The twins didn’t need a second invitation. They rushed out the door with the other girls and disappeared from sight.

“Do you get to see your brother very often?” Brent asked, using the interruption to change the subject.

“I very rarely go to London,” she replied, “which is where he spends most of his time when he’s not traveling. On the occasional weekend—” she placed the accent on the last syllable of the word “—when I’m able to get home to see my mother in Abbingvale, the timing always seems to be off, and he’s not around.”

“I thought perhaps you shared his love of horses and joined him at races,” Brent observed.

For a moment she glanced at him quizzically, as though she were aware of his hidden agenda, but the expression vanished as quickly as it had appeared. “Indeed I love horses and still ride when I’m home, but for me racing has never been the passion it’s become for him.”

So much for getting information from her about Apollo’s Ice, Brent realized. But his interest by this point was no longer equine based. He reminded himself that his response to her was both natural and, with Marti gone, permissible, which made him wonder how he could find a way to spend more time with this young woman, the Honorable Devon Hunter.

Devon asked him questions about the girls’ school until another bell sounded. The girls filed in, not as loudly as the kids back home probably would have, but with no less enthusiasm. His daughters followed, decidedly more boisterous.

They bounced up to him, faces eager. “The kids want to know if we can come back tomorrow and sit in class with them,” Rhea announced to their father. “They said Miss Hunter is really, really nice.”

Only young children could make friends within a matter of minutes, Brent thought. He was willing to bet it was Rhea who had led the way. Katie wasn’t unfriendly or any less eager to join in groups, but she wasn’t as unconditionally gregarious as her sister. Rhea was impulsive, Katie more reflective. He suspected Katie would prove the stronger personality in the long run.

“It’s not up to me, girls.” He wanted to give both of them a big hug for solving his dilemma. “Perhaps…” He glanced over at Devon.

“We have visitors sit in from time to time,” she said, seemingly as agreeable with the idea as they were. “We must first get permission from the headmistress, of course.”

“Yay! We’re going to school.” They clapped their hands.

“It’s not certain yet, girls,” their father warned.

“There are two extra seats against the back wall,” Devon told them. “You may take those for now and watch, if you like, whilst your father and I confer with Mrs. Sherwood-Griffin.”

While Devon spoke privately with her assistant, Brent reminded the girls to remain quiet in class and to speak only if they were spoken to by the teacher. A minute later, he and Devon left the room as the lesson recommenced.

“Funny,” he said as they walked down the corridor toward the headmistress’s office, “I can’t recall them ever being that enthusiastic about going to school back home.”

Devon laughed. “Foreign intrigue.”

Speaking of foreign intrigue, he was falling under the spell of that laugh and wanted to hear more of it.

“Their mother…” she started tentatively, obviously seeking information. She was probably expecting him to say his wife had decided to stay home, maybe with other children, or that they were divorced.

“She died a few years ago.”

Her shock and discomfort were palpable. “I’m so, so sorry. It must be difficult for them…for you…” Her words trailed off. A moment passed. “What about sleeping arrangements?”

Startled, he glanced over before he realized she’d intended only to change the subject. He hoped she couldn’t read the thought that had instantaneously shot through his head.

“Hotel accommodations,” she clarified, her pretty face tinged with pink. “You’re staying in London, I presume.”

“Oh…um…” He suddenly felt like a clumsy teenager. “I didn’t know how late we’d be finishing up here and figured this would be a good chance to see Oxford, so I booked us into the Sword and Shield for the night.”

“Good choice,” she said with a nod. “Many parents visiting their children stay there. It’s not especially grand, but it’s convenient and I’m told quite comfortable.”

“If you don’t already have plans, Miss Hunter,” Brent said, as they drew closer to the headmistress’s office, “we’d very much like you to join us for dinner.”

Four

“What do you mean, you turned him down?” Heather asked that evening. “Are you daft?”

Devon tried to ignore the question, as she gathered up the newspapers and magazines left on their sitting room settee. For the most part she enjoyed sharing a flat with her friend, but the girl could be so slovenly at times.

“For heaven’s sake, why?” Heather persisted.

“He’s too old for me.”

“He’s mature,” Heather corrected her. “He’s also handsome, well-mannered, and he’s certainly not poor. He’s also available. I heard him tell Mrs. S—”

“That his wife is dead. Yes, I know.”

“Well, then?” Heather raised both her brows and grinned. “And the way he speaks makes me want to curl up on a warm bed. Really, what more could you ask?”

Devon picked up a three-day-old copy of the Times, folded it and added it to the stack of things destined for the rubbish bin.

“And judging from the way those dreamy eyes of his follow you,” her roommate persisted, “he’s interested in more than advice on what to order from the menu selection at the Sword and Shield.”

Devon continued to ignore her.

“Okay, so he’s got two daughters,” Heather conceded. “Twins at that. Probably not something you were bargaining for—”

“I’m not bargaining for anything…or anyone.”

“But they’re well enough behaved,” Heather prattled on, ignoring the interruption. “They obviously love their dad, and he as obviously loves them. That counts for a lot.”

Devon gave up with the paper gathering. It was busywork anyway, a diversion from listening to Heather, and wasn’t doing any good. If her friend didn’t say it, Devon was saying it to herself. What’s more, fully half of the litter was hers.

“It’s not the girls,” she protested. “You know why…”

“Charles.”

Devon nodded. Just the sound of his name had her muscles tightening.

“You can’t allow him to dictate—”

“Stay out of it,” she snapped.

“I won’t.” Heather seemed impervious to her friend’s flare of temper. “I care too much about you to let you ruin your life this way. Besides, he hasn’t called in weeks, months.”

“Because I haven’t been out with anyone in months.”

“And who’s the loser there? Keep this up and you’ll be a wizened old crone who’s never experienced living, much less loving. Like it or not, you’re going to have to stand up to him and take control of your destiny.”

“Leave me alone, will you?” Devon implored.

“I shan’t.”

Devon plopped down on the sofa, her arms flung out, her head thrown back against a cushion. She sighed. “I know you’re right, but…”

It had started two years ago when she was still at university. Her brother, Nolan, had introduced her to his friend Charles Robinett. Charles was a duke, several steps higher up in the aristocratic pecking order than a viscount, and from a family of considerable prestige. He was young, only twenty-eight to her twenty-one at the time, a large, physically imposing ex-rugby player. Despite having broken his nose twice, he was a reasonably good-looking chap, if not exactly handsome. He was also reputed to be worth millions.

Immediately after she graduated, he proposed marriage.

For all his pedigree and fine public manners, Charles Robinett was hardly her ideal for a husband. Looks were fine, and wealth certainly made life easier. But looks faded, and she had sufficient means of her own to live a respectable life. She didn’t need a man for security or social position. She certainly didn’t need one who was a tyrant, who demanded unquestioned compliance with his wishes without any consideration of her desires or interests.

When she rejected his offer, he swore he’d do physical violence to any man she showed an interest in. She took it as bluster at the time, the idle petulance of someone who was used to getting his own way without much effort on his part. After all, he was a duke. Then her next two dates were mugged after delivering her home. The first time she could dismiss it as coincidence, but the second established a pattern. The assailants were never apprehended, so there was no way to link the attacks to Charles, but Devon knew he was behind them, especially after he called her to renew his threat. She got the message.

“You know what happens when you give in to a bully,” Heather stated now. “He becomes more demanding.”

Would Brent Preston welcome a chance to play Sir Galahad? Devon wondered.

That was what she’d expected of her brother when she reported Charles’s threat to him. She was sure he’d warn the duke off. Instead Nolan had called her foolish for passing up such a rare opportunity to climb the social ladder. He’d dismissed Charles’s “supposed” threats as a misunderstanding on her part, declaring instead that in his opinion she should take what the man said as a compliment and proof of his devotion to her.