Free The Secret Pearl by Mary Balogh Page A

“And because he sent you.”
    Fleur smiled quietly to herself. She thought she had been making progress. But only outside the schoolroom, it seemed. Rome was not built in a day, she had to remind herself. “Shall we look at the alphabet book?” she suggested.
    “I have a headache,” Lady Pamela said. “I want to paint.”
    “A picture for your papa?” Fleur said. “A very good idea. But ten minutes of the book first.”
    Battle was engaged.
    “I shall get Papa to send you away again,” Lady Pamela said.
    “Will you?” Fleur said, seating herself beside the girl and taking her gently by the arm when she would have got up from her place. “Do you remember this letter?”
    “A for apple,” Lady Pamela said without even looking. “That is easy. I don’t remember the others. I have a headache.”
    Yes, Fleur thought, his grace might well dismiss her. She worked for no more than two hours a day, and even then, trying to teach Lady Pamela was rather like trying to pull a mule.
    But she would not think of dismissal and all it would mean to her. She would not allow herself to be plunged into gloom again. It felt altogether too good to be happy and alive.
    H OUGHTON WAS A VALUABLE EMPLOYEE . He had been in the Duke of Ridgeway’s service for more than five years—almost since the duke’s return from Belgium, in fact. And his grace had come to rely on him more and more to conduct the day-to-day business of his life. The man was sensible and hardworking and discreet.
    One quality in Houghton the duke valued as much as any other, though, and that was his ability to sense his employer’s mood and to adjust his own behavior accordingly. They took their meals together when in London and frequently conversed on a wide range of topics. But when the duke wished to be silent, his secretary seemed not to feel the necessity of keeping a conversation going.
    Today as they neared Willoughby, Houghton sat quietly in the carriage, regarding the scenery through the window beside him, and held his peace.
    His grace was grateful. That ache of love and nostalgia was in him again. They were driving beside the old park wall. Soonnow they would be on the lime avenue and he would be home indeed. He wondered if all men felt about their homes as he did about his. It was like a part of his identity, a part of himself.
    He thought in particular of that time six years before when he had returned after so long and so painful an absence. The porter’s wife had had her apron to her eyes, crying at the sight of him—her wrinkled face was wreathed in smiles now as she bobbed him a curtsy. He raised one hand in greeting and smiled at her. All the servants had been out on the upper terrace to greet him—they had even cheered him—and he would swear that their happiness had not been feigned.
    And Thomas. The memory lost some of its luster. He had not thought—foolishly he had not thought of what the year of his reported death had meant to Thomas. He had been the Duke of Ridgeway and was now merely Lord Thomas Kent again.
    The duke had always thought Thomas was fond of him, although they had had their differences and although they were only half-brothers—Thomas was the son of his father’s second wife. Perhaps he had been. Perhaps the blow of finding himself suddenly deprived of a title and property he had thought his had been just too much.
    And Sybil later that same day. Sybil, about whom he had dreamed for weeks before that, ever since his memory had returned. Back in his arms again—for a brief moment. More beautiful than ever.
    He would not think of it. He was coming home again now and there was excitement in him despite the fact that Sybil was there.
    Mrs. Laycock and Jarvis, the butler, were standing at the top of the horseshoe steps before the massive double doors leading into the hall. Dearly familiar. Mrs. Laycock had been housekeeper at Willoughby for as long as his grace could recall, and Jarvis had been at the house all his life,