of uninterrupted parkland.
“It was the spring of ’39,” Kit said.
“Yes, that’s right,” Percy said, puzzled that Kit would know this. “It was my second year away at school.”
“Did you ever wonder how the castle got its name?” Kit asked.
“It was named after the priory that used to stand here,” Percy said.
“And how do you think the priory got its name?”
“Oh—there used to be a village, didn’t there?” He only vaguely remembered it as a place he was occasionally allowed to visit with his nurse, his cooperation secured with a boiled sweet. At some point, the village hadn’t been there anymore, but he had been too occupied with school to ask what had become of it, and in any event conversation with his parents did not extend to the duke’s improvements to the property.
“Yes,” Kit said flatly, then rode ahead of Percy.
They probably ought to ride around to the stable block, but Percy wanted to walk up the broad white steps one last time. There was the usual awkwardness that attended arriving home unexpected, but Percy took advantage of the general confusion to avoid explaining Kit’s presence. “Really, I was hoping to see my father and the duchess, but if they aren’t here, then I’ll only stay long enough to rest the horses,” Percy said airily. “No, no, don’t trouble yourself about supper.”
Eventually he and Kit were in the great hall, alone except for the small army of servants that no doubt were just out of sight.
“This is the great hall,” Percy said redundantly, because it was fairly obvious where they were, with its enormous hearth and its minstrel gallery. “And this is the Grand Staircase,” he said. “We lack a certain creativity when it comes to naming things, I’m afraid. You’ll never guess what color the Blue Library is.” He spun on his heel and saw Kit standing in the middle of the hall, not looking at the ornately carved ceiling or the impressively large, if tragically ugly, oil painting of a battle scene that hung above the hearth, but rather at Percy himself, and with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Can you climb stairs?” Percy asked. “Frankly, I’m not certain I can, and there’s a solid chance a footman will have to carry me down, but would you like to give it a try?”
Kit shrugged. Percy’s wound pulled a bit with each step, and he regretted this idea by the first landing.
At the top, he led Kit toward the portrait gallery. “That’s my grandmother,” he said, gesturing at the portrait of a raven-haired lady who had an affronted-looking pug on her lap. And then, indicating a gentleman with an enormous black wig who was sitting in what was obviously the great hall downstairs, “That’s the ninth marquess, shortly before he was beheaded. He had several pet monkeys. Too many monkeys, if we’re honest. And this is my mother.” He hadn’t planned to stop, hadn’t planned to stare, but this was the first time he had seen his mother’s face since he left England. And while this portrait was a poor likeness, it was close enough to take his breath away. It had been painted shortly after her wedding, so when she was about twenty. The portraitist had contrived to give her a dreamy air, which was far from the sharp-eyed, quick-witted woman he had loved.
“You look like her,” Kit said. They were the first words he had spoken since entering the house.
“Thank you,” Percy said, even though it wasn’t exactly a compliment, given how daft his mother looked in that portrait. But he knew Kit meant that Percy looked like his mother, too. He let himself stare shamelessly at the portrait for another minute. “It’s a pity it’s so large, or I’d smuggle it out in my coat.” Most people didn’t even have the option of stealing portraits of their dead mothers, so leaving this behind wouldn’t really be a loss, he reasoned. Eventually his memory of his mother’s face would fade. It was fine. He would cope, just like everybody else.
“And these are my apartments,” he said, pushing open a heavy oak door. The rooms had been dusted and aired recently, and smelled fresh and clean despite having been unoccupied for over two years. “The Talbot family tradition of obvious naming continues unbroken, as these chambers have been known as Lord Holland’s Rooms since my first ancestor used the courtesy title.”
Kit stood in the doorway, his jaw set and his expression dark. Again, he looked at Percy, rather