A Portrait of Love (The Academy of Love #3) - Minerva Spencer Page 0,33

as he pondered his brother’s unexplained illness. While it was true that Simon was angry at the duke’s behavior toward him—namely holding Simon’s inheritance hostage to force him to marry—he loved his brother a great deal.

Simon was tired of fighting with Wyndham and scheming—rather fruitlessly, truth be told—ways to get out from under his brother’s thumb.

Later today, when he went to him, he’d talk to Wyndham rather than yell. They used to be the best of friends when they were younger. It was time to stop his childish behavior.

Buoyed by that thought, he hastened his pursuit of Miss Keyes; he might as well amuse himself while he waited.

Simon passed through the meticulously maintained knot garden and into the manicured park. Miss Keyes wasn’t far ahead of him, heading in the direction of the maze. Simon slowed his pace; it wouldn’t do at all if she saw him.

The maze at Whitcomb was a superlative example of its kind. Hundreds of years old and towering a good ten feet tall, it was a tricky puzzle—at least for those unfamiliar with it. The pathways had narrowed over the centuries as the carefully pruned plants grew and expanded. Curves, sharp angles, dead ends, repeating patterns, one-of-a-kind diversions—all of these and more contributed to a massive rolling green of confusion or delight, depending on one’s perspective.

There were two entrances to the maze and Simon took the same one Miss Keyes used. At the first fork he noticed a small piece of paper impaled on a twig on his right. His smile turned to a grin and he plucked it off and put it in his pocket.

He followed the paper trail, removing each piece. Two times, when she encountered dead ends and tried the alternate paths he had to force his way into the dense hedge to hide as she passed him, close enough that he could have reached out and touched her. But that would have spoiled all the fun.

He followed her for perhaps a quarter of an hour. And when he was sure she’d gone the wrong way, yet again, he made his way to the heart of the maze—which wasn’t in the center at all, but off to the northwest corner, yet another trick played by the ancient designer.

A massive fountain surrounded by a half-dozen stone benches sat in the middle of the eerily quiet space. Simon took a seat and faced the only entrance, preparing himself for a long wait.

***

Honoria began to wonder if the maze was haunted.

Even as the ridiculous thought entered her mind, she felt embarrassed. She was the least fanciful person she knew.

But her pragmatic, practical mind couldn’t explain the mysterious disappearance of a dozen pieces of paper. She must be far more lost than she’d believed—so lost that she’d gone down a different path entirely. She stopped at yet another intersection, this one heading in two directions.

Although the day was mild her head grew hot and her dress started to stick to her.

She untied her cloak and threw it over the arm that held her increasingly heavy satchel. She’d stopped wanting to reach the center of the maze fifteen minutes ago. Now she just wanted out. She looked up at the sky but the sun was dead above her, giving her no clue as to where she’d entered.

How long would she be out here before somebody came looking for her? Would anyone come looking for her? In this household people seemed to come and go without comment or notice. She could be in here for hours—days. She could die in here.

A shiver rippled up her spine before she could stop it.

“You are acting like a fool, Honoria Keyes.” Her voice sounded muffled and far away, the encompassing walls of greenery swallowing up the sound. She inhaled until it felt like her lungs would explode, held it, and then exhaled.

After repeating the calming exercise twice more, she took a left. That’s what she would do: take only lefts until she could not.

She shoved the remaining pieces of paper into the pocket of her cloak and began walking.

She’d taken six lefts and was beginning to feel a lightness in her chest when she came up against a dead end.

She groaned, turned, and took a right.

Now she would only take right turns.

Part of her brain—a part she was desperately trying to ignore—told her there was no rhyme or reason in this approach.

Honey took three right turns and then stopped. Directly in the middle of the narrow path was a piece of