Prince of Ravenscar (Sherbrooke Brides 11)

“I wonder if the baron will be the next to show himself,” Julian said, as he walked next to Roxanne back into Ravenscar.

36

Leah Cosgrove, Lady Merrick, saw only Sophie when she glided into the drawing room, gowned for the evening in her favorite pale blue, her lovely white shoulders bare, diamonds at her throat. Her niece was singing a Scottish ballad, accompanying herself on the pianoforte. She wished the idiot girl were twenty years older and didn’t carry her mother’s beautiful face and all that rich dark brown hair, and—well, no matter. She said, “How can you bear sitting there with your shoulders uncovered? Can you not feel the awful draft?”

Sophie broke off her song, sighed, and turned to look at her aunt. Leah was always stylish, and this evening was no exception. “I am very comfortable, Aunt Leah. Your shoulders are as bare as mine. Are you chilled?”

Leah walked to the pianoforte, drummed her fingers on the mahogany lid. “Richard decided I should see Ravenscar, since he spent so much of his time here as a child. I cannot believe he was not warmly welcomed. I thought it a disgrace the way Mr. Monroe—”

Sophie smoothly interrupted her. “He is a duke’s son, Aunt Leah, and thus he is Lord Julian.”

“That’s as may be, but he treated Richard like he was some sort of ruffian bent on mischief. Thankfully, he had enough manners to invite him to stay.”

“Do you so quickly forget someone burned the Dower House, Leah? People could have been hurt or killed.”

Leah was scandalized. “No one was. It was a simple accident, or a servant’s carelessness, nothing more. Don’t tell me he believes Richard to blame for that? I know there are misunderstandings between Richard and Julian, but it is not Richard’s fault. Julian murdered Richard’s sister, so how is he supposed to feel?”

“I assure you Julian did not murder his wife.”

“You know nothing about it, so I think it best you keep your opinions to yourself.”

“You don’t know anything, either, Aunt Leah.”

“Of course I do. Richard confided to me that he wanted to believe Julian hadn’t murdered Lily, but he saw—do you hear me, Sophie?—Richard actually saw Julian kneeling over her body. He said he still didn’t want to believe it, but there was no reason for her to have killed herself, none at all, despite talk of her having a lover. So there.”

“Did Richard also tell you he burned down the Dower House, a sort of stupid revenge, since if he killed Julian he would be hung?”

“You are a silly girl, Sophie. As I said, it was an accident. Richard was with me the entire time.” Leah eyed her for a moment longer, then turned and flung out her arms. “I must say I cannot like this pile of stone. So many steps and frigid rooms. I have never seen such disorder in a house’s design. I cannot imagine living here in the winter—your bones would freeze, and you would crack apart.”

Sophie said, “Whilst you are in this house, Leah, I strongly advise you against accusing Julian of murder. For myself, I very much like Ravenscar; it seems to bridge the past to the present and promises it will be here in a distant future. It has a sort of grandeur that quite moves me. You might consider not speaking so badly of his home.”

“Ah, I am polite, you know. But this house—no wonder Lily kept escaping back to her home at Hardcross Manor. I wager I would have wanted to leave this monstrous pile of rock, too.”

Sophie kept her voice even, but it required a good deal of effort. “Did you know the old duke had six water closets installed in the family wing, Leah? You must visit them, you will revise your opinion.”

“Oh, those ridiculous water closets—my maid couldn’t stop heaping on glowing praise when she told me about each and every one of them, over and over again. I wanted to slap her. So what is a water closet, anyway?”

There came a rustling from behind Leah, the clearing of a throat, and Leah whirled about to see Corinne looking at her, the London Gazette lying open on her lap. Corinne said very gently, “Surely you wish to revisit that statement, Lady Merrick. It sounded so very absurd, you know.”

It wasn’t fair, Leah thought, staring at the dowager duchess. She hadn’t noticed her at all, sitting so quietly, quite rude of her, really, not to announce her presence when Leah had come into the drawing room. No, Leah had seen only Sophie, heard that pitiful little voice of hers, her fingers butchering the simple tune she was trying to play. She wondered if the dowager duchess had been purposefully quiet, urging Leah to say what she thought, wanting to hear her honest opinion, only she hadn’t liked it. And now the old bat was angry because she’d disdained a few paltry water closets?

If only Richard hadn’t insisted he and Leah visit the cliffs to gaze worshipfully over the channel, lightly touching his fingertips to her mouth, stroking her bottom lip, something that both delighted and alarmed. However, the wind was violent, the air chilled, and she’d hated it.

She cleared her own throat. “Your grace, Ravenscar—where ever did that name come from?—it is surely impressive.”

To give the devil her due, it was an excellent distraction, Corinne thought, rising and shaking out her satin skirts. “I have no idea where the name Ravenscar came from. We will ask Julian. Ah, there you are, dearest. Since you are the Prince of Ravenscar, you must know the origin of the name of your kingdom.”

“Prince?” Leah snorted as she turned to face him. “Prince? She called you Prince? Richard said nothing of a title of prince for you. What sort of affectation is this?”

“Affectation? I prefer to think of it as an old amusement, nothing more,” Julian said pleasantly. “My solicitor told me the third Baron Horsly actually selected Ravenscar for the name of his destrier. He decided the name had grit, perhaps even some magical power, since he believed his horse somehow saved him from certain death at the hands of a French knight, and thus, he decided to bestow the same magic on his new house, to bring luck.

“Actually, the solicitor said the baron named everything in sight Ravenscar, including, I believe, his wife at the time.”

“Imagine,” Sophie said, grinning, “waking up to hear your husband call you Ravenscar.”

Julian arched a dark brow. “I believe he must have shortened it to Raven in moments of closeness. As a lady, don’t you think that rather romantic, Sophie?”

Leah wanted to shout that it was ridiculous, but she wasn’t stupid. She held her tongue. Perhaps she should be more conciliatory, encourage their confidences. Perhaps she could find proof that Julian Monroe was nothing but an upstart murderer.