With a thin smile, Hillshaw inclined his head in assent.
Lizzie, released from that mesmerising gaze, spoke up, her soft tones a dramatic contrast to the masculine voices. “Yes. My sisters and I are the Duke’s wards, you know.” She held out her hand. “How do you do? I didn’t know the Duke had a brother. I’ve only dropped by to exchange some books His Grace lent us. Mr. Cummings was going to take care of it.”
Martin took the small gloved hand held out to him and automatically bowed over it. Straightening, he moved to her side, placing her hand on his arm and holding it there. “In that case, Hillshaw’s quite right. You should wait in the drawing-room.” The relief on Hillshaw’s and Mr. Cummings’s faces evaporated at his next words. “And I’ll keep you company.”
As Martin ushered Lizzie into the drawing-room and pointedly shut the door in Hillshaw’s face, the Duke’s butler and secretary looked at each other helplessly. Then Mr. Cummings scurried away to find the required books, leaving Hillshaw to look with misgiving at the closed door of the drawing-room.
Inside, blissfully unaware of the concern she was engendering in her guardian’s servants, Lizzie smiled trustingly up at the source of that concern.
“Have you been my brother’s ward for long?” Martin asked.
“Oh, no!” said Lizzie. Then, “That is, I suppose, yes.” She looked delightfully befuddled and Martin could not suppress a smile. He guided her to the chaise and, once she had settled, took the chair opposite her so that he could keep her bewitching face in full view.
“It depends, I suppose,” said Lizzie, frowning in her effort to gather her wits, which had unaccountably scattered, “on what you’d call long. Our father died eighteen months ago, but then the other Duke—your uncle, was he not?—was our guardian. But when we came back from America, your brother had assumed the title. So then he was our guardian.”
Out of this jumbled explanation, Martin gleaned enough to guess the truth. “Did you enjoy America? Were you there long?”
Little by little his questions succeeded in their aim and in short order, Lizzie had relaxed completely and was conversing in a normal fashion with her guardian’s brother.
Listening to her description of her home, Martin shifted, trying to settle his shoulder more comfortably. Lizzie’s sharp eyes caught the awkward movement and descried the wad of bandaging cunningly concealed beneath his coat.
“You’re injured!” She leaned forward in concern. “Does it pain you dreadfully?”
“No, no. The enemy just got lucky, that’s all. Soon be right as rain, I give you my word.”
“You were in the army?” Lizzie’s eyes had grown round. “Oh, please tell me all about it. It must have been so exciting!”
To Martin’s considerable astonishment, he found himself recounting for Lizzie’s benefit the horrors of the campaign and the occasional funny incident which had enlivened their days. She did not recoil but listened avidly. He had always thought he was a dab hand at interrogation but her persistent questioning left him reeling. She even succeeded in dragging from him the reason he had yet to leave the house. Her ready sympathy, which he had fully expected to send him running, enveloped him instead in a warm glow, a sort of prideful care which went rapidly to his head.
Then Mr. Cummings arrived with the desired books. Lizzie took them and laid them on a side-table beside her, patently ignoring the Duke’s secretary who was clearly waiting to escort her to the front door. With an ill-concealed grin, Martin dismissed him. “It’s all right, Cummings. Miss Twinning has taken pity on me and decided to keep me entertained until my brother returns.”
Lizzie, entirely at home, turned a blissful smile on Mr. Cummings, leaving that gentleman with no option but to retire.
———
An hour later, Max crossed the threshold to be met by Hillshaw, displaying, quite remarkably, an emotion very near agitation. This was instantly explained. “Miss Lizzie’s here. In the drawing-room with Mr. Martin.”
Max froze. Then nodded to his butler. “Very good, Hillshaw.” His sharp eyes had already taken in the bored face of the maid sitting in the shadows. Presumably, Lizzie had been here for some time. His face was set in grim lines as his hand closed on the handle of the drawing-room door.
The sight which met his eyes was not at all what he had expected. As he shut the door behind him, Martin’s eyes lifted to his, amused understanding in the blue depths. He was seated in an armchair and Lizzie occupied the nearest corner of the chaise. She was presently hunched forward, pondering what lay before her on a small table drawn up between them.
As Max rounded the chaise, he saw to his stupefaction that they were playing checkers.
Lizzie looked up and saw him. “Oh! You’re back. I was just entertaining your brother until you returned.” Max blinked but Lizzie showed no consciousness of the implication of her words and he discarded the notion of enlightening her.
Then Lizzie’s eyes fell on the clock on the mantelshelf. “Oh, dear! I didn’t realize it was so late. I must go. Where are those books Mr. Cummings brought?”
Martin fetched them for her and, under the highly sceptical gaze of his brother, very correctly took leave of her. Max, seeing the expression in his brother’s eyes as they rested on his youngest ward, almost groaned aloud. This was really too much.
Max saw Lizzie out, then returned to the library. But before he could launch into his inquisition, Martin got in first. “You didn’t tell me you had inherited four wards.”
“Well, I have,” said Max, flinging himself into an armchair opposite the one his brother had resumed.
“Are they all like that?” asked Martin in awe.
Max needed no explanation of what “that” meant. He answered with a groan, “Worse!”
Eyes round, Martin did not make the mistake of imagining the other Twinning sisters were antidotes. His gaze rested on his brother for a moment, then his face creased into a wide smile. “Good lord!”