Free Lord of Ice by Gaelen Foley Page B

am the founder and headmaster, Mr. Reed. How may I be of service?”
    Damien’s nape prickled with instinctive dislike. “I am Colonel Lord Winterley,” he said with an imperious stare, taking the letter from Jason’s solicitor out of his waistcoat and handing it to the man. “I regret to say that Major Jason Sherbrooke of the Hundred Thirty-sixth was killed in London last week. I have been named the guardian of his ward, Miss Miranda FitzHubert. I wish to see her.”
    “Of course, my lord,” Mr. Reed murmured, passing a curious glance over his face before skimming the solicitor’s letter. He looked up again a moment later and handed the letter back to Damien. “Forgive my hesitation, my lord. I have a duty to protect my girls.”
    “An honorable sentiment.”
    The clergyman’s sallow countenance brightened at Damien’s placated tone. “Won’t you step into my office, then we will call her in? Do bring the tea, Mrs. Warren.”
    Tucking the letter back into his waistcoat, Damien followed him across the entrance hall into another room with a few bookshelves on the walls and an impressive escritoire in the center.
    “Do make yourself comfortable, my lord.” Mr. Reed gestured toward a leather armchair positioned across from the desk, but as Damien walked toward it, another piece of furniture blocked his path—one that released a bevy of old memories and sent a shiver of dread down his spine. He stopped and stared at it with anger leaping into his veins. It was a prayer kneeler with a book rest across the top, but the leather cuffs that hung down the sides betrayed its true purpose as the stand on which students were strapped down to take their lashes.
    As a lad at Eton, he had been stretched across a similar device on a handful of occasions, usually due to his refusal to tell on Lucien for making mischief.
    “Mr. Reed.” He looked at the minister, who had gone to stand behind the desk. “If you have beaten my ward,” he said calmly, “so help me, I will thrash you from here to kingdom come.”
    “Lord Winterley! Goodness,” he said with a nervous little laugh. “You are indeed a man of arms. Rest assured, the prie-dieu serves only as a threat for our more unruly girls. It is never actually used.”
    Mrs. Warren sent Damien a sharp look out of the corner of her eye as she set the tea tray on the minister’s desk.
    “Thank you, Mrs. Warren,” Mr. Reed said. “That will be all. Kindly ask Miss Brocklehurst to bring in Miss FitzHubert for me.”
    “Yes, Reverend.” Sending Damien a last, worried glance, Mrs. Warren exited, leaving him alone with the headmaster. What a strange place this was, he thought, but he could not be sure if the tension he sensed lay in the atmosphere of Yardley School or if it was merely his own.
    “Now then.” The minister rested his bony elbows on his desk and interlocked his fingers. His pinched, sallow face was grave above his white collar. “About your ward.”
    “Yes. I have questions.”
    “As do I, my lord. After you.”
    Damien shifted in the large leather chair. “Is she in good health?”
    “Oh, yes, she is hearty and hale, my lord. She is almost never ill.”
    “Excellent. Is she a good student?”
    “To be sure, she is a clever girl, but . . .”
    “Yes?” Damien prompted at the clergyman’s hesitation. “Please speak freely, sir. I would like to know the truth of my ward’s disposition.”
    “Well, in terms of temperament, Miss FitzHubert is, shall we say . . . strong-willed.”
    “Hmm.”
    Mr. Reed took a sip of tea. “She is quite intelligent, but does not apply herself with any great effort. You see, my lord,” he said, leaning forward, lowering his tone, “what she lacks, in a word, is discipline. As an army man, I’m sure you can appreciate the value, nay, the necessity of that virtue.”
    Damien leaned his elbow on the chair arm and stroked his lips in thought, studying him. “Go on.”
    “She is prone to fits of temper. Defiance.