Page 3

Leaning to one side, Georgia tried to peer into the dark interior of the house. “Look, Mrs. Kettel, could you not please take a message to your master? Tell him I am here as a representative of my father, the Earl of Bonkinbone, with whom he has been corresponding?”

The housekeeper—surely this was a housekeeper, and not a housebreaker, or a squatter, or stranger who had wandered through?—merely shifted her ample hips to one side to block Georgia’s view of the evidently neglected front hall.

“Sorry, dearie.” Still grinning, the woman shook her head. “The master’s no’ at home. No’ today, no’ ever.”

Frustration mounting, Georgia’s fingers curled inside her gloves. “And when will Baron Endymion be at home? I can return then.”

“Oh dear, yer hearing is broken?” The older woman clucked and shook her head sympathetically, then all but yelled, “Never! He! Doesnae! Want! Visitors!”

Georgia had to actually back away from the force of the woman’s voice—and the spittle. Thank heavens she managed to catch herself before she tumbled down the three steps to the gravel front drive, but she wobbled dangerously nonetheless.

This wasn’t the first time she’d been told the person she was calling upon wasn’t at home to her; a scandalous marriage had assured that fact. But it wasn’t just her pride at stake now…Danielle’s Happily Ever After rested on her ability to convince Baron Endymion to allow Father to repay his debt.

So Georgia pulled herself up to her quite-inconsequential height and fixed her sternest gaze on the housekeeper. “Madam Kettel, I insist on being allowed to speak with Endymion!”

“Sorry, milady!” The woman shook her head hard enough to cause the mop cap to tumble over one ear. “Ye’ll have to leave.”

And she shut the door.

Again.

This time, however, Georgia heard the lock slide into place.

And there she stood, on the front steps of Castle Endymion, gaping up at a cursed front door. She’d not only been denied entry: she’d been locked out, as if the strange Mrs. Kettel assumed Georgia would try to push her way in.

Well, she should! Father had sent word she’d be arriving; it wasn’t as if she’d hurried, no. She’d given the Baron plenty of time to alert his staff to expect her.

Perhaps he had. Perhaps that is why the housekeeper shut the door in your face.

Georgia huffed and tugged the sleeves of her coat into place, trying to ignore the sour taste of embarrassment in her throat. It really was too bad if the Baron didn’t want to allow her into his home; she would meet with him, and she would give him the cheque to cover Father’s debt. Even if she had to force it between his fingers.

There is more than one way into a castle.

Right.

Tipping her head back, Georgia glared up at the ivy-covered stonework, knowing the so-called “castle” couldn’t be much more than a hundred years old. There might not be a portcullis and bailey, but there would most definitely be a back door. A servants’ entrance or a way in through the kitchen gardens would work just as well.

Even though she’d walked from Banchot, there was no reason she couldn’t walk a bit farther.

Once inside, she’d avoid Mrs. Kettel and find the Baron herself!

Straightening her shoulders and lifting her chin, Lady Georgia Stoughton marched her way down the steps and toward the back of the house.

Her irritation slowly abandoned her as the wind tugged at her hat and tried its best to send icy fingers up her skirts. It also brought the scents of pine and evergreen ferns, which never failed to improve her spirits. As she turned the corner, her march slowing to a stroll, she thought she could detect hints of the herbs which must be planted in the kitchen gardens.

Gardens had always been her refuge, and she couldn’t deny she was intrigued by the sight of Castle Endymion’s overgrown shrubbery, beds full of weeds, and untended lawns. Her fingers itched to attack the out-of-control ivy and lopsided holly, to set some aside for decorations during the coming Christmas celebrations, her favorite time of year.

But this wasn’t her father’s gardens, and she had no right to plunder the clippings. She’d heard the Baron, never terribly sociable, had retired from the public eye two years before. Clearly he’d also allowed his estate to go to ruin, which perhaps explained the cursed rumors in the village.

Her fingers itched for a pair of shears and a rake.

Father had never approved of his eldest daughter working in his gardens “like a common laborer,” but she still slipped away to her refuge. Her father’s gardeners were loyal to her, and wouldn’t reveal the fact she occasionally did something as improper as lift a spade.

Yes, the gardens might belong to Father, but they were hers in a much realer sense. The man couldn’t tell a thistle from a rose.

Even now, with the Sword of Damocles—otherwise known as her sister’s upcoming marriage—dangling over her head, the sight of so many growing things calmed her soul.

Although “overgrown” might be too kind.