None of the clocks at Harrington House in London seemed to be in working order. Isabel de Rossi had noted this oddity the moment she’d arrived in Town. As time passed – crawled by, really – she became convinced that every one of the clocks slowed even further. For the phenomenon to grow worse, the hands would have to begin moving backward.

“It’s a clock, dear,” her grandmother commented, stepping into the morning room. “You must have had clocks in Italy.”

Isabel blinked, turning her gaze from the ornate gold mantel timepiece. “Hmm? Oh, of course we have clocks. I’m only… I’m eager to see Nimway Hall. I’ve heard about it all my life, after all.”

“Nimway isn’t going anywhere, I assure you.” Grandmama Olivia gave a brief smile as she put an arm across Isabel’s shoulders, guiding her granddaughter to the sofa. “Your grandfather and I haven’t seen you since you were twelve, however, and I am selfish enough to wish to keep you here in London for more than three days. For heaven’s sake, you’ve just turned eighteen, and you’re in London. You should be anticipating a season of balls and dashing young men paying you compliments.”

If she was being honest with herself, perhaps Isabel had dreamed of that, from time to time. But having a Season meant an audience with royalty, doing perfect curtsies and knowing all the steps to every dance, and all the correct words to say to people with titles and gold-filigree names on their calling cards. Taking a deep breath, she suppressed a shudder. “I wasn’t raised in anticipation of any of that,” she offered.

“No, you were raised by Italians, for heaven’s sake. Artistic Italians. I’m surprised you even wear clothes.” She lifted an eyebrow. “You did wear clothes in Florence, didn’t you?”

“Grandmama! Of course we wore clothes.”

“Well, how am I to know? Your mother allowed herself to be sculpted nearly nude by your father, before they were even married. And all of his people were artists, he said.”

“Yes, many of the de Rossis are sculptors. Quite celebrated ones.” Olivia Harrington likely knew that already, but in Florence Isabel had grown up among some very talented sculptors, painters, musicians, and writers – even if none of those abilities had rubbed off on her. That didn’t signify. Neither did she wish to mention that her father hadn’t stopped at the Nimway Hall fireplace when it came to sculpting images of his wife Charlotte. And some of those had featured no clothing at all – including one displayed prominently on the landing of the main staircase at their home in Florence.

“I suppose someone must provide decorations for homes,” her grandmother finally commented, with a smile that looked forced. “But my point is, you’re not there now. You’re here. And here, well-bred young ladies have Seasons.”

“I don’t wish for one. I’ve been looking after the household in Italy practically since I was twelve, Grandmama. I am ready for this. Isn’t that why you wrote me that it was time I take over responsibility for Nimway Hall? Mama already gave me papers signing her ownership rights over to me. Was it all only a ruse to lure me here? Because I—”

“Of course it wasn’t a ruse. I only hoped you would be more…reasonable than your mother.” She flipped a hand at the air as if batting away an insect – or some past annoyance. “I have learned my lesson, however. Whatever I might have wished for Charlotte, and whatever I might wish for you, I will satisfy myself with supporting whichever path you choose for yourself.” For a moment she looked not quite sad, but thoughtful. “I pushed your mother too hard, and so I can only blame myself for losing her to that Marco de Rossi and his gypsy Italians.” Olivia looked up again. “But I don’t wish to have to wait another twelve years to see you again. If you consider that a ruse, then I suppose I’m guilty.”

Isabel was fairly certain no de Rossi had ever been a gypsy, but at the same time, her upbringing at the hands of her over-indulgent mother and her adoring father did seem a deliberate counterpoint to Olivia and Jack Harrington’s much stricter views. Somewhere in the middle would have been nice – and considerably more useful, really. “Somerset isn’t so very far from London. It’s much closer than Florence, certainly.”

Grandmama Olivia smiled again. “It is much closer, yes.” The older woman reached beyond Isabel to pick up an embroidery hoop. She gave it a perfunctory glance and set it on Isabel’s lap. “I’m not one to criticize, but I believe even Miss Tatterbell could improve on this rose.”

Isabel sighed, sending an annoyed glance at the tabby cat in the front window. “It’s supposed to be a strawberry.”

“Ah.” Olivia rang the small bell on the side table, and a moment later a footman appeared in the doorway. “Tea if you please, Tom.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Biting her tongue against the wish to point out that she hadn’t journeyed all the way from Florence, Italy, to London, England, to embroider, Isabel poked the needle several times through the fabric. She had missed seeing her grandparents, and being in London was rather exciting. But she didn’t need anyone else to tell her that she wasn’t meant for proper Society, for soirees or evenings at the theater. For eighteen years she’d heard tales of Nimway Hall and its mysteries, and she wanted to see them for herself. The sooner, the better.

Sighing, she dropped the embroidery hoop back onto her lap. “Grandmama, if you’ve changed your mind, or if you think I’m not…capable of taking over the care of Nimway, I wish you would simply say so.” It would be painful, but at least she would know. At least she would be able to stop waiting for…something. For this restlessness that had begun a year or so ago to stop pushing at her.

“If I hadn’t thought you ready, I wouldn’t have written you and your mother about it.” Olivia nodded her thanks as tea appeared. “Shut the door, Tom,” she instructed, and the footman did so. “And I know how little Charlotte cares for household duties and that you’ve been seeing to them on your mother’s behalf. However, that said, your grandfather’s leg is likely to heal within a few weeks, and we could return to Nimway Hall with you. All see it together, as it were.”

“Grandpapa Jack shouldn’t be fox hunting at his age,” Isabel returned, accepting the cup of tea her grandmother poured then adding three lumps of sugar and a splash of milk to the watery concoction. The secret to drinking tea, she’d discovered, was to make certain it didn’t taste like itself.

“You are not the first one to say so,” Olivia commented, sitting back in her seat and sipping.

“But his leg is not the reason you’ve been gone from the estate for ten years. His leg being healed is therefore not the reason you would wish to make a return to it.”

Her grandmother eyed her over the rim on her porcelain cup, which was trimmed with silver and featured a flock of blue doves circling some sort of shrubbery. “You’re a clever thing, aren’t you?”

“I do try to be.”

“Cleverness isn’t always a welcome trait, especially when one is seeking a husband.”

Isabel blinked. “I’m not seeking a husband. I’m seeking a chance to become Nimway Hall’s guardian, just as you did. And as Mother did not.”

“She did, in her way. As long as her heart continues to beat, my Charlotte protects the land and our people. As do I. As will you. Nimway can be a large and demanding mistress, Isabel. And a duty not lightly taken, nor lightly set aside.” She sat forward again, lowering the cup and her voice. “And as you are the only daughter, the only child, of your generation, you will also be required to produce an heir. Which means that yes, you are seeking a husband. The female line must continue.”

Well, she hadn’t thought of it that way. After eighteen years in Italy, broken by a holiday or two to England, she’d wanted to come home. And though she couldn’t explain it, and though she’d never even set eyes on it, Nimway Hall was home. Not the large, rambling house in Florence or her loving, contented parents, or the loud, boisterous extended Italian family on her father’s side and the conclave of artists that had always surrounded them. Yes, she loved them all, and she missed them dearly, but for nearly all her life something had pulled at her. She needed to go home.

Olivia patted her on the knee, making her jump. “Nimway Hall will affect you,” she said, her voice soft and her gaze unfocused, as if she’d become lost in a daydream. “It’s a busybody and has no qualms about pushing people into directions they would not choose to go if left to their own devices.” She shook herself a little, her gaze returning to her granddaughter. “You know your grandfather and I did not favor a match between Charlotte and Marco de Rossi. An artist – a sculptor, for heaven’s sake – and an Italian. He dared carve your mother’s half-clothed image on our dining room fireplace.” She shuddered, nearly spilling her tea. “I can assure you, that is nothing a mother or a father wants to see on a daily basis.”

“But Papa is a master sculptor,” Isabel couldn’t help retorting.

“Yes, he is, which means no one could mistake the identity of his subject, bared to the view of every diner from now to eternity.” She set her tea aside. “But the Hall thought nothing of that. I think it likes strong feelings, and…lustful thoughts, and all manner of unacceptable behaviors.”

“You…talk about Nimway likes it’s alive,” Isabel commented. Her mother seemed to believe so, but Grandmama Olivia was so much more practical than her daughter Charlotte. “Surely—”

“Yes, you may think I’m a madwoman. I did as well, when we lived there.” Olivia stood, then walked to the writing desk and pulled a large, leather-bound stack of papers from a drawer. “And that is why I intend to remain in London and why I agreed to pass it on to you now. I still urge you to stay on with us here, my darling, at least until you can be assured that you won’t have to walk through the front door alone.”

“I won’t be alone. I’ll have Jane with me.”

“Your companion is not a protector. Not unless she can wield a musket.” Frowning, Olivia reached down for Isabel’s tea and set it aside as well, then took her granddaughter’s hands and turned them palm up. “And no, I don’t think you’ll require a musket. I’m merely… I’m getting to be an old woman, so don’t mind what I say. Only do be cautious. As I said, the house affects everyone differently. You may not like what it does to you. But for better or worse, it’s now yours.”

With that, she set the papers onto Isabel’s palms. They felt heavy, but then keeping a house within the female line of a family had taken a considerable amount of paperwork through the years. A rush of excitement swept up her spine as she clutched the bundle to her chest. A house, a mansion, abandoned for ten years and all hers. Hers, to shape and guide, to put her own stamp upon. And the magic of Nimway Hall, the mysterious orb and the bountiful crops and the ancient Balesboro Wood that confused foes and aided friends, the place of wizards and ladies of the lake, knights in shining armor – it belonged to her now. Finally.

“I should tell you,” her grandmother went on, releasing her hand and turning for the morning room doorway, “when I decided to write you, I had our solicitor hire a new steward for Nimway Hall. I would have preferred to leave you with Prentiss in charge, but now I’m discovering that he may have become a bit eccentric in his later years, and a property as large as Nimway Hall certainly can’t manage without a steward. No sense in you arriving to see a tumbled ruin or overgrown garden.”

Oh. A steward. Of course there would be one, but for heaven’s sake, her grandmother might have waited another month or two and let the new guardian of Nimway hire her own. How could it be her home if someone else, some random man hired by random men, had barged in before she could ever arrive? A man who would no doubt have a criticism for everything she attempted and who’d probably already seen to everything she’d wanted to do herself. “Do I have to keep him on?”

“The steward? Of course not. But Mr. … what was it? Ripple? Dripple? At any rate, he presently knows more about Nimway Hall than you do. And if we – I, at least – go about hiring and sacking employees willy-nilly, people will think us frivolous. Will think me frivolous. So please keep that in mind.”

“Will he answer to you, or to me?”

“Well, you, of course. Though I did hire him. Just listen to his suggestions and keep my reputation in mind before you sack him and hire someone else. I don’t doubt your enthusiasm, but you’ve run a household – not an estate. There is a difference. Believe me. Now. You will be staying for luncheon and dinner, I hope? Or are you in such a hurry to leave that you don’t even have a moment for goodbyes?”

Isabel set aside the bundle of papers and stood to hurry over to wrap her arms around her grandmother’s slender waist. “I am never in that much of a hurry, and I never will be. I know you have your doubts, but I don’t.”

Olivia put a finger beneath her granddaughter’s chin and kissed her forehead. “And that is why I’m worried.”