Page 54 of The Feared Duke’s Found Family

“He said he belonged in the garden, not that he couldn’t think about gravy,” Peter countered, though he lowered his fork when Fanny laid a gentle hand over his forearm.

“Your father’s logic is sound on the gravy, Peter,” Fanny said, her voice warm as she nudged the dish of baked apples toward Michael. “Though I believe a moat made of toast might hold up better against an invading army.”

Michael looked up from his plate, a faint, genuine dimple showing in his pale cheek. “With butter on top to make them slip?”

“Precisely.” Fanny smiled, meeting his gray eyes, so like Lysander’s, yet entirely free of the heavy shadows that usually darkened his father’s brow.

The heavy oak door to the parlor creaked open, and Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, stepped inside. Her keys jingled softly at her waist, and her gray head bowed in a quick, polite nod. Behind her stood two younger housemaids, each carrying a wicker basket filled with fresh linen and brass polish.

“Good morning, Your Grace,” Mrs. Gable murmured, keeping her hands folded across her dark apron. “The staff is preparing the west wing inventory as requested. I wished to confirm if you still required the keys to the upper gallery today?”

Fanny set her teacup into its saucer with a delicate click. “I do, Mrs. Gable. Thank you. In fact, I think we shall make a full circuit of the east and west halls before luncheon.”

The younger maid, a girl named Hetty, glanced up with wide, hesitant eyes, her fingers tightening around the edge of her wicker basket. “The west wing, Your Grace? The blinds haven’t been drawn back in the grand portrait gallery since… well, not for many years, ma’am. It’s quite dusty.”

“Then we shall bring some light into it,” Fanny replied smoothly, rising from her chair and smoothing the rich wool of her skirts. “The children and I are taking a proper inventory of our home today. We cannot leave whole wings locked away in the dark.”

Emily set her napkin beside her plate, her dark brows drawing together in quiet curiosity. “The portrait gallery? Is the old Duke in there? The one with the big sword in the painting?”

“He is,” Fanny said, stepping around the table to offer her hand to Michael, who slid off his cushions without hesitation and took her fingers. “And so are the sea charts from your great-uncle’s voyages. Shall we go see if the ocean is as vast as Peter claims?”

Peter immediately abandoned his fort, wiping his mouth with the back of his sleeve before Fanny could offer a handkerchief. “I want to see the ships first!”

They left the warmth of the breakfast room, their footsteps echoing softly down the broad stone corridor of the main house. The morning air in the long gallery was cool, carrying faint scents of old beeswax, cedar, newsletters, and dried lavender.

As they walked, Fanny kept her pace slow, allowing the children to explore the quiet corners of the estate that had long been forbidden territory under Veronica’s rigid, isolated regime. Hetty and another maid, Sarah, followed a few paces behind with feather dusters and polishing cloths, their initial hesitation giving way to soft smiles as Peter darted ahead to inspect the hollow suits of armor lining the walls.

“Look at his knees, Lady Fanny!” Peter called out, pressing his nose against the cold iron leg guard of a sixteenth-century harness. “They look like giant acorns.”

“That is articulated steel, Master Peter,” Hetty offered timidly, stepping forward with a slight curtsy as Fanny turned to smile at her. “My brother works at the village smithy. He says those joint covers were shaped over round stones so knights could bend their legs to mount their horses.”

Peter’s eyes went round as saucers. “Did they jump onto the horses? Or did four men have to lift them?”

“They used mounting blocks, little goose,” Emily said, though she stepped closer to the armor, her small fingers reaching out to lightly brush the cold, engraved crest on the breastplate. She looked up at Fanny, her dark eyes searching. “Is this Father’s grandfather?”

“It is,” Fanny said gently, resting a hand on Emily’s shoulder. “He fought at Blenheim. Your father has his chin, I think.”

Emily studied the iron visor for a moment longer, then gave a single, satisfied nod. “Father’s jaw is wider. Like a stone step.”

Fanny let out a soft, low laugh that echoed against the high vaulted ceiling. “A stone step indeed.”

She led them further down the gallery, stopping before the grand double doors of the west wing’s morning room. The air here was heavy with the stillness of disuse. Fanny took the large brass key from Mrs. Gable’s ring, fitted it into the lock, and turned it with a firm, sharp click.

The heavy oak doors swung inward, revealing a wide, circular room shrouded in deep shadows. The furniture was draped in pale canvas dust sheets, appearing like sleeping white ghosts in the dim light. High above, three tall sash windows were blocked by heavy velvet drapes that had not been drawn back in years.

“It’s dark,” Michael murmured, his small grip tightening slightly around Fanny’s palm.

“Only for a moment, darling,” Fanny said softly. She turned to the two maids. “Hetty, Sarah, help me with the curtains, if you please.”

Fanny walked straight across the parquet floor, her skirts sweeping aside the thin layer of dust. She reached for the heavy brass pull cord of the central window and gave it a strong, steady tug.

The heavy velvet curtains parted with a deep, groaning sound, sliding along the iron rod.

A flood of brilliant late-morning sunlight poured into the room, cutting through the shadows and illuminating millions of tiny golden dust motes dancing in the air. Sunlight washed over the faded rose-and-gold carpets, the carved mahogany tables, and the high plaster moldings on the ceiling.

Sarah pulled the second set of curtains, and Hetty the third. The room burst into life, the bright light reflecting off the gilded frames of the massive oil paintings lining the far wall.

Peter gasped, pointing toward the center drape. “Look at the garden! You can see the maze from here!”