Having once stood in the foyer of Cornelius Vanderbilt’s Fifth Avenue mansion, Marjorie was not completely unfamiliar with the opulent splendor in which the wealthy lived, but she hadn’t seen enough of that sort of thing to be blasé about it, and as she stepped inside Torquil House, the grandeur of the four-story entrance hall took her breath away.
Creamy white Corinthian columns and Gothic arches supported the floors that ringed the open foyer and enormous potted date palms flanked the walnut entrance doors behind her. In front of her was the grand staircase, sweeping upward in a graceful curve to the floors above. Various niches along the walls displayed sculptures and pottery that had probably been acquired on some previous duke’s grand tour, and oil paintings—priceless ones, no doubt—hung on every scrap of the remaining wall space.
“Bit grand, what?” Jonathan murmured beside her.
“A bit,” she agreed in a whisper as they watched the butler who’d shown them in depart up that stunning staircase to inform the duchess of their arrival. “We’re staying here?”
“Well, you are.”
Surprised by the clarification, she looked at him. “Aren’t you?”
“Well, I was supposed to.” He paused, stepping closer to Marjorie as a pair of footmen moved past him, carrying luggage from their taxi. “But now that I’m about to toss you into Irene’s lap with almost no warning, I’m wondering if I ought to reserve a room at a hotel.”
“Nonsense,” she scoffed, but then, she looked at him and noticed his thumbs tapping against his thighs. “Nervous?”
“After ten years, wouldn’t you be?”
“What happened to the man who worked as a bounty hunter and bravely fought off claim jumpers and mining magnates with my father?”
There was no time for him to respond.
“You must be Uncle Jonathan.”
Marjorie and Jonathan turned to find a pair of dark-haired, gray-eyed boys behind them, one perhaps five years of age, the other about three.
“I am,” Jonathan answered. “You must be my nephews.”
“Lord Mountmorres.” The older boy bowed in rather formal fashion. “At your service.”
“How do you do,” Jonathan said gravely, giving a proper bow. “Lord Mountmorres.”
“Mama says you may call me Henry.” He gestured to his brother, who was staring at Jonathan in wide-eyed silence. “This is Lord Christopher. But we call him Kit.”
“Pleased to meet you both.” Jonathan gestured to Marjorie. “May I present Miss McGann?”
“Miss McGann,” they said in unison. They bowed together, too, and Marjorie had to press her lips tight to hide a smile as she gave an answering curtsy.
“Master Henry?” a voice called from above. “Where are you?”
Henry heaved an aggrieved sigh. “Nanny,” he informed them without enthusiasm.
“Master Henry? Is Kit with you?”
A stout woman, clad in a black dress and white lace apron and cap, paused on the crescent-shaped landing. “There you are!” she cried, her wide face creasing with relief as she waddled down the remaining stairs. “I’ve been looking everywhere. You’re not supposed to go off without me. What have you been doing?”
“Meeting Uncle Jonathan,” Henry told her, pointing at him as the nanny came toward them.
“Mr. Deverill,” she said, dipping her knees in a quick curtsy as she came between the two boys and took each one by the hand. “Nanny Eliot. I hope the boys haven’t been making themselves a nuisance?”
“Not at all.”
“I’m glad of that, sir. Come along, you two.”
“But I wanted to show Uncle Jonathan the train set I got for my birthday,” protested Henry as they were led toward a door at the back of the entrance hall.
“Plenty of time for that later. Right now, we’re going to the kitchens to see what Mrs. Mason’s made you for high tea.”
They had just vanished through the green baize door when another voice came echoing down the stairs.
