A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,11
a full stop the man strode toward her, two liveried servants following in his wake. For a moment, Honey’s heart thundered in her ears: Simon?
Impossible, Simon had just passed her carriage.
The man’s resemblance to Simon became superficial the closer he came. While he was blond, his hair was not Simon’s striking gold. He was shorter—perhaps even shorter than Honey—his build stout rather than lithe and well formed. His eyes were blue, but sky-blue rather than hydrangea.
“Welcome to Whitcomb House, Miss Keyes. I am the duke’s cousin, Raymond Fairchild.” He helped Honey descended from the carriage. “The duke had wanted to greet you but, unfortunately, he’s indisposed. How was your journey?”
“It was lovely, thank you.”
“Excellent, I’m glad to hear it.” He looked so overjoyed that Honey actually believed him. “I daresay you would like a cup of tea and an hour to rest.” He gestured toward the house, not waiting for an answer. “His Grace will see you in the library before dinner. But come, I will show you to your rooms.”
Honoria followed the shorter, bustling man into a hall that was straight out of Shakespearean. Her jaw sagged as she gazed up at the four-centered-arch ceiling.
“This is the Great Hall and was built in the 1490s,” He said, not slowing. “The older parts of the house are not used as much as the South Wing, which was added in the 1740s and affords far more convenience and comfort. The family dines in the smaller dining room when not entertaining. His Grace has requested that you dine with the family.” His tone said the request was not really a request.
They ascended ancient flagstone steps that turned twice at ninety-degree angles and opened onto yet another long hall, this one heading back in the direction they just came.
“This may seem a rather odd way of reaching the South Wing,” he said in a confiding tone, as if reading her thoughts, “But it will make more sense shortly.”
They passed through a lengthy wood-paneled hall; the dark wood floor covered with an ancient carpet runner that muffled their steps. Heavy iron sconces lighted their way at intervals and a massive rose window at the far end added an almost religious air.
He turned down a hallway on the right before they came to the spectacular window, leading them down an almost identical corridor.
“Is it only the duke and duchess and their daughter who live here?” Honey asked as they ascended what felt like half a story, entering a much wider and airier hall illuminated by cathedral windows with intricate tracery.
“His Grace’s mother, the Dowager Duchess of Plimpton and his brother, the Marquess of Saybrook, also live at Whitcomb.” He cut her a quick smile. “As do I.” He took yet another right, this hallway narrow and windowless.
Lord, she was so lost she could wander for weeks.
“The only one of the family to keep chambers in the East Wing is my cousin, Lord Saybrook.”
Honey blinked at the disapproval she heard in the jovial man’s voice. So, the marquess was … difficult? Or was that merely the opinion of an envious poor relation?
They turned yet another corner but this time she staggered to a halt.
“Goodness,” she murmured.
“This is the older of the two portrait galleries,” Mr. Fairchild said, his increasingly distant voice causing Honey to resume walking, her head swiveling wildly to take in the staggering number of portraits that covered the high, paneled walls, jammed together so tightly that the frames touched in places.
Good God—she recognized the unmistakable style of Holbein. Holbein! She made an undignified squeaking sound. Her portrait would hang in a collection which contained one by Hans Holbein?
“Miss Keyes?”
Pulling her eyes away from the portrait—the subject a middle-aged man with no great physical beauty, but with a countenance so knowing that Honey felt as if he were looking right at her—was like pulling a heavy wagon from deep, sucking mud.
“Yes?” she said dazedly, turning her head and blinking, as if she’d just been blinded by a lighthouse lantern.
“This way, please. It is just a little farther.”
Honey hurried after him, pointedly keeping her eyes from the flow of portraits that assaulted her peripheral vision.
Later. She would come back later. This gallery would be reason enough to learn the layout of the maze-like house.
Something Mr. Fairchild had just said sank in.
“Did you say this was the old gallery?”
“Yes, the new gallery is on the first floor. That is where the newer portraits hang.”