Free An Untitled Lady by Nicky Penttila Page A

Deacon, never.”
    “What if her father isn’t even a squire?”
    She rested her hand on his shoulders. “So strong.” Her touch melted some of the stiffness. He rolled his head to ease the tension in his neck. “This has nothing to do with you, my sweet. Don’t vex yourself. You have enough to worry about, with that monstrous warehouse and all your men scurrying over the seven seas.”
    He allowed himself the luxury of a moment’s relief. His mother’s voice could always soothe him. It was good to know that, at least, still held true.
    “After all,” she said in that honey voice, “this is family business.”
    Nash shot to his feet, chest burning.
    “You seem to forget, ma’am, that I am part of this family too.”
    “I have not.” Her voice was nothing soft now. “You were the one who deserted us, and who kept away. You always make it so clear how unhappy you are whenever you deign to make an appearance.”
    “I will not argue with you, Mama.”
    “Because you haven’t the standing.”
    “No. Because family is a birthright. Regicides still have families. It seems that only I do not.” And Miss Wetherby, he suddenly saw.
    She frowned, a paper subterfuge. As he walked away, she called after him. “Make peace with Deacon.”
    “I have no argument with Deacon.” He could not keep the anger out of his voice.
    “Then you should have no problem with it.”
    Nash had just enough control to keep from slamming the door.
    * * * *
    Maddie remembered the castle as a medieval palace, but the truth was it had been built only a century ago by an earl whose chief image of a castle was square turrets and walled gardens. The entry might have a weighty iron drop-gate, but the outer walls had wide windows, difficult to defend.
    Its name, Shaftsbury Castle, had captured her imagination. At school, during gusty winter afternoons, she would conjure up a vision of her life-to-be, queen of the castle. Its king, the new earl, had been no more than a dark shadow at her left as she walked the corridors or welcomed guests to the many evening entertainments at which she would be the perfect hostess. She sat through countless fine concerts in Bath’s upper Assembly Room, transposing them in her mind onto a stage somewhere in the castle, with herself the proprietress. She would host singers and harpists especially.
    Now, on this very real day in late May, Maddie wanted only to escape the castle, to be free of this tangle if only for an hour or two, to be somewhere that made sense. The walled gardens, which rambled alongside the south wall, were the perfect choice. Her traitorous feet took her in the opposite direction, though, toward the castle’s working side. She passed the kitchens, their animal pens just below the hill. When she saw the two-storey horse barn, she knew why her steps had brought her here. This was where she’d hidden on that long, fretful, summer’s night.
    At the side entrance, her hand reached down for the latch, not up as she had then. As she passed through, her shiver was memory, not terror. Just as on that night long ago, no one saw her.
    She trod carefully through the tack rooms and skirted the stalls, her quick breaths pushing the strong animal scents out as fast as she took them in. The ladder was in the same place, leading to the loft.
    This time, she had to climb it one-handed, her other hand managing the folds of her grown-girl skirt. Ladies did not climb ladders. Still, she didn’t hesitate, drawn forward as if she were a pilgrim only steps away from Mecca. She stepped onto the platform, amid barrels of oats and bales of hay and straw. The window in the far wall was square and paned, but now only as high as her waist. Her sturdy boots made little sound as she walked toward the glass, but her steps slowed nearly to a crawl. Now that she was here, taking the last steps was almost too much. Even her shallowest breaths stung.
    She touched her necklace, stroking the length of its tiny cross with her