Legacy of Secrets. Sara Mitchell

What a scandalous observation.”

      Her nephew shrugged. “Just staying objective. You seem to think letters of introduction from solid citizens, detailed applications, and one personal interview are sufficient to protect you. But I’ve seen—”

      “As they have been,” Isabella interrupted. She tapped her foot several times, then forced it to stillness. “I’ve been operating this school for almost twenty years, my boy. I can count on one hand the students who had to be dismissed for lack of good character.”

      “All it takes is one,” Grayson muttered darkly. “Women have never been the ‘weaker’ of the species, regardless of how you view them.” For a nightmarish second an expression on his face turned him into someone Isabella didn’t know at all. “Contrary to your quaint notions about creating godly wives and ‘Able Stewards of Society’—isn’t that one of your slogans?—a lot of females these days prefer to dump their husbands completely, or marry a lonely old man in hopes he’ll die soon after the vows. They’d rather help rob a bank than work in one. Sweet young things with innocent-looking eyes can be ruthless, far more devious than most garden-variety male criminals. Women kill, Aunt Bella. And smile at you while they carry out the deed.”

      Oh, my dear, my dear. He was still suffering, deeply. “You are referring to your friend’s tragic death last fall, I presume.”

      Grayson had been in a very bad state, Isabella knew. He had written her a brief note explaining about the death of his childhood friend, asked if he could come for a visit—then spent the next months making a spectacle of himself with that dreadful pistol of his. Until the telegram two days earlier letting her know of his pending arrival, Isabella had not heard from him at all since the note.

      “‘Tragic death.’” He slammed the paperweight down hard enough to scratch the table and send several other knickknacks skittering toward its scalloped edge. “What an insipid description of the deranged woman who plunged a butcher knife in the back of an unarmed man. The partner I was supposed to be protecting. The friend I’d known for most of my life.” His eyes glistened as he stared through Isabella, seeing frightful images she could scarcely imagine before he covered his face with his hand.

      A knock sounded on the door. “Miss Isabella?” The door opened a fraction. “Can I talk with you for a little while? It’s about this afternoon—Oh!”

      Neala Shaw froze in the portal, her eyes flooding with dismay, guilt—and a smattering of outrage. “Mr. Faulkner. I didn’t know you’d be in here.”

      Though her aching knees protested, Isabella managed to rise without betraying the effort it required. “Do come in, my dear. As it happens, my nephew would like to talk about this afternoon, as well.”

      “Yes. Do join us, Miss Shaw,” Grayson echoed so mockingly Isabella almost swatted his arm. The mask was firmly in place again, all emotion smothered beneath the cynicism.

      Small wonder that Neala walked across the room with the aura of a condemned convict headed for the gallows. Isabella started to speak, then caught herself as she watched the pair of them size each other up as though they were the only two people in the room. Hmm. She silently thanked the Lord for His nudge, and waited for an appropriate moment to leave.

      “Mr. Faulkner, since you’re here, I suppose I should apologize for hitting you with a stick.”

      “Miss Shaw, no apology is needed, since in point of fact, you missed.”

      “Yes, I did.” Two bright spots of color turned her pale complexion the color of broiled salmon. “But it wasn’t for lack of trying. Perhaps I should extend an apology anyway, since in God’s eyes the intent of the heart, as much as the action, determines one’s guilt.”

      “Spare me your self-righteous homilies. I need them even less than your contrived excuses.” He stalked across to stand in front of her, hands fisted at his hips. “My aunt, and Mr. Pepperell—now, they’re the ones who deserve your apology. They’re the ones who would have worried themselves into early graves if I hadn’t been here.”

      “Your aunt knows I would never—” Neala broke off, then whirled around to Isabella. “Miss Isabella…are you all right? I thought you looked…fatigued, at supper, but I thought it was from the trip to Berryville. I didn’t know, I mean I didn’t realize…and I haven’t seen Mr. Pepperell since lunch. Is he—is he—”

      “Calm yourself, Neala.” Isabella slid Grayson a reproving stare as she laid a hand on the girl’s rigid shoulder. “Mr. Pepperell and I are both right as rain. You’ve done nothing wrong, and certainly nothing to cause me worry. Concern, perhaps, because you still tend to assume more responsibility than is appropriate. How fitting, isn’t it, that my nephew seems to share that very same trait?”

      Grayson made a derisive sound, which Isabella ignored. Keeping her lips pressed together to keep a smile at bay, she squeezed Neala’s shoulder a final time, then started for the door. “I’m sure the two of you can talk about me much more freely in my absence, so I’ll go take care of a matter and return shortly.”

      “Aunt Bella…”

      “Miss Isabella…”

      “I trust both of you to remember what they say about the spoken word? Once allowed to escape, it cannot be recalled.”

      She closed the door behind her, and let out a soft chuckle. Well, Lord, You wanted me out of the room. I leave them in Your far more capable hands.

      

      Gray stared at the closed door in consternation. His aunt had left him alone in the room with Neala Shaw. He didn’t know which would provide more relief: tossing the conniving little baggage out the window, or exiting that way himself.

      Neala cleared her throat. “Obviously she expects us to come to some sort of accord.” Her fingers fluttered at her waist before she twined them together. “Mr. Faulkner, it would help tremendously if you believed me, about someone shooting at me, I mean.”

      “Why should I, Miss Shaw?”

      “Because I’m not a liar!”

      “Well, now how would I be knowing that, me darlin’?” he retorted in a perfect mimicry of the Academy’s Irish stableman. Her obvious frustration pleased Gray more than was polite, but for some reason he couldn’t seem to quit needling her. He folded his arms, rocking a little on his feet while he watched a barrelful of expressions race across her face. “This is only the second time we’ve met, after all. Why, for all I know your hunter might be lying in wait in my bedroom.”

      “Well, if he was, at least he’d be close enough to do the job! Oh!” The brown eyes rounded in dismay as her palm flew to belatedly cover her mouth. “I can’t believe I said that! I can’t believe…I don’t know what came over me. I don’t talk like that, I don’t even think like that.”

      Abruptly she turned her back to him.

      Deprived of the entertainment of watching her face, Gray’s attention zeroed in on a long strand of curling hair that had escaped the pins to dangle down the back of her neck. She’d managed to stuff the rest of the mass into a twist of some sort; he thought it made her look dowdy, incredibly old-fashioned. Yet his fingers itched to twine that strand around his hand. He wanted to know if her hair felt as soft as it looked, if the curls were as untamable as the fire sparking in her eyes a moment ago.

      And he hated the longing almost as much as he hated himself.

      “Apparently you’ve not heard about my reputation,” he observed coolly. “Even if you send a man with a gun after me, Miss Shaw, I’m not the one who’ll end up in a pine box.” When she turned back around, something in the dark brown eyes goaded him to add, “Well? Why don’t you go ahead and say what you’re thinking—that your headmistress’s nephew is a dangerous fellow, and today he tried to shoot you out in the woods?”

      She blinked, and the expression disappeared. “Mr. Faulkner,” she began, then hesitated. Just as Gray