She doubted they could be moldery. “I’d love to see them,” she told Jamie, hopping to her feet. Jamie rose just as eagerly, with Lord Kendrick only a few seconds behind.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott heaved a martyred sigh as she set aside her tea and rose to follow them from the withdrawing room.
Samantha had visited Kendrick Hall many times growing up. It was much grander than Dallsten Manor, with easily twice as many rooms. Each room she’d seen was paneled in silk or fine woods, the hearths all varying types of marble, with liberal use of gilding on every conceivable surface. In short, it was elegant, imposing and far too formal for her tastes.
She could not say the same for the room Jamie showed her now, located just down the corridor from the withdrawing room. The moment she stepped past the paneled door, she felt as if she’d been transported to another land.
Crimson and azure tapestries woven with gold hung from the walls; carpets patterned in fanciful flowers and bright-plumed birds graced the parquet floor. Tall bronze vases with fluted mouths held feathers from peacocks and ostriches. Tables inlaid with ivory and ebony supported delicate statuary and finely wrought boxes of gold and silver. The very air was scented with sandalwood and incense. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott turned up her aristocratic nose.
But Samantha wandered deeper into the room, gaze darting from one piece to another. Here was the William Wentworth the valley legends proclaimed—the world traveler, the mysterious adventurer. This room she thought, unlike any other in Kendrick Hall, truly reflected its master. That he was well aware of it was evident by the smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he too gazed about fondly. These were not just mementos; this was his life on display.
“Look here,” Jamie urged, taking her hand and pulling her to where several curved sheaths of beaten gold hung from mahogany arms on the wall. He lifted one down and drew on the jeweled hilt until the sword flashed in the light from the far window. “Father won this from a Janissary by defeating him in combat.”
“How interesting,” Mrs. Dallsten Walcott said, but she gravitated to a set of jeweled pins shaped like butterflies.
Samantha was far more interested in the swords. It wasn’t hard to picture Lord Kendrick, blade raised like a knight of old, ready to protect England. “A Janissary?” she asked, rubbing a finger along the metal sheath.
Lord Kendrick’s hands passed over hers and took the sword from Jamie. “A soldier hired to protect the Ottoman Empire and those who serve her,” he explained. “Janissaries are assigned to the foreign embassies and envoys as guards. They can be your best source of help in trouble. And I didn’t defeat one. The swords were a gift, like much of what you see here.” He returned the sword to its place on the wall.
“A gift for valor,” Jamie assured Samantha even as she wondered why Lord Kendrick didn’t seem to like his son touching his things. “Father fought to keep the French out of Egypt. Here, I’ll show you.” He hurried off to the leather-bound trunk along the opposite wall.
“You are too humble, I think,” Samantha teased Lord Kendrick, her hand falling to rest on a carved chest.
His mouth turned up at one corner. He had a nice mouth—firm lips above a firmer chin. She could imagine him ordering a battalion to action as easily as he called for tea.
“It isn’t humility to know one’s place in history,” he countered. “That’s one thing I learned in the diplomatic corps. No matter how important the ruler, there’s always someone else who fancies himself more important. And sometimes he’s right.”
“And just as often he’s wrong,” Samantha replied, thinking back to her family’s struggles against the powerful nobleman who had thought to help Napoleon conquer England. That man had intended to rule England himself one day, even if he had to kill a few Englishmen like Lord Kendrick’s brother along the way. Of course she couldn’t tell Lord Kendrick or Jamie about that. Everyone involved had been sworn to secrecy.
“You needn’t worry, Lady Everard,” Lord Kendrick murmured, hand covering hers on the chest. “We will beat Napoleon. It’s only a matter of time.”
He thought she’d meant the current war. She should find a way to explain or agree, but everything in her seemed to be focused on his gentle touch. The warmth seeped into her skin, relaxed muscles she hadn’t realized she’d held tight. Would his embrace be just as warm?
“Here you are,” Jamie declared, and Samantha sprang away from Lord Kendrick, her face heating. There she went again! She had to master these emotions. She’d thought she’d become more skilled at it, but after spending her whole life acting on her feelings, shutting them off now wasn’t easy, even understanding their danger.
She was merely thankful that Jamie didn’t seem to notice her lapse. Neither did her chaperone. Mrs. Dallsten Walcott, returning to join them, was obviously more interested in the scroll Jamie was unrolling. Samantha could only hope her host was as oblivious. She chanced a glance at him, but his gaze was on the scroll.
And what a sight it was, nearly two feet high and bound on golden rods. Gold and crimson figures ran along each margin and the top. Across the page danced fanciful writing in bold brown ink. She had never seen its like.
“What does it say?” she asked, peering closer.
“To Lord William,” Lord Kendrick read, long finger gliding along the words as he translated. “You have my everlasting gratitude for your help in settling the Egyptian question and my deepest affections for your friendship.”
“It’s from the ruler of the Ottoman Empire,” Jamie explained as Lord Kendrick’s hand fell to his side.
“The sultan, until he lost his place and life to a rebellion,” Lord Kendrick murmured, straightening. Samantha could hear the sorrow in his voice.
“Father was gone from there by then,” Jamie said as if the entire culture had ceased to be of interest once his father had departed. He carefully rolled up the scroll. “All the English left when the Turks started supporting the French. We even sent in the Navy.”
Lord Kendrick stepped back, jaw tightening. “The sultan was the most progressive ruler in that part of the world in the past hundred years. He would have seen reason without shoving a frigate down his throat. As it was, the Navy had to retreat in defeat from the Ottoman shore batteries after losing more than forty men. And the ambassador and his staff were forced to flee the country.”
He must have been one of those staff. Small wonder he hesitated to relive those days. His usual diplomacy had all but deserted him, and it was clear he was not a man willing to concede defeat.
It was a trait she unfortunately shared with him. She could only hope the two of them would never have cause to oppose each other, for the results could be devastating.
* * *
Will was glad to shut the door on his memories and chivvy his son and guests back to the more traditional surroundings of the withdrawing room. The way Samantha Everard’s eyes had brightened as she’d gazed around his room had made him want to stand straighter, point out his triumphs as proudly as Jamie.
And he knew he had reason to be pleased with his accomplishments. His work had built friendships between high-ranking members of the Ottoman Empire and Britain, safeguarded British citizens and protected antiquities from French conquest. His encouragement of the sultan’s reforms, however, had also resulted in rebellion and the deaths of friends and colleagues. He could never fully celebrate the good without being drawn into regret over the bad.
So he returned to the safety of his withdrawing room, which held far more benign memories. His efficient staff had refreshed the tea and replaced the stained carpet with one from a guest bedchamber. While the gold-and-brown pattern did not match the rest of the decor, it warmed the room, and he found he liked it better.
Mrs. Dallsten Walcott seemed to think she should rise to the position of his hostess again, for