Myrrden Lake lay cool and deep and still around Adam as he warily surfaced. A dozen bees had taken the plunge with him, and they floated on the surface with a final defiant leg twitch or two that sent minute ripples out around them.

Despite the cold plunge, this morning had actually progressed much more smoothly than he’d expected. And that truly surprised him – especially with Isabel de Rossi entering the room in nothing but a robe and her night rail. Even with the thing buttoned up to her chin she’d looked…fetching, her dark hair loose around her shoulders and her hands tucked into the huge sleeves.

As that thought crossed his mind she appeared at the edge of the water to wave at him from beyond the boundary of the estate’s garden. Adam lifted a hand in return, grabbed the hat which floated nearby, and dove to swim toward her. Quite a showing he’d made on her first full day at Nimway Hall. First trying to shove a valuable antique out the window, then ending up diving into the lake. And he wore multiple layers of clothes, currently trying to sink him, and had been caught wearing a modified woman’s hat. What a literal stuffed buffoon he must look.

“Were you stung?” she asked, taking a step back from the shore as he emerged from the water. She held out a blanket as if she feared he’d shed his seventy pounds of sodden clothes and would be entirely nude.

“Once or twice,” he returned, though he knew precisely that he’d been stung twice, once on each hand. These hurt like the devil, as had the stings he’d gotten two weeks ago when he’d last attempted the bee extermination. But he wasn’t about to let her know that. Instead he took the blanket from her and ran it over his hair.

“Oh, dear. We should have some apple cider vinegar in the kitchen, shouldn’t we?”

Adam tilted his head at her from beneath the edge of the blanket. “You know how to treat bee stings?”

Miss de Rossi smiled, and he amended his earlier assessment of her appearance. Even still wearing the puff-sleeved dressing robe she didn’t just look fetching; she looked…attractive.

“Bees aren’t exclusive to Somerset,” she commented. “Florence is rife with them, as well.” She gestured him toward the side of the house. “We had several apiaries, and some very fine honey.”

“Florence, Italy?” he asked, shaking himself a little. He was her steward, dammit all. Ogling her was most definitely not professional.

“Yes. I grew up there.”

That explained the slight accent in her otherwise flawless speech. It also explained a few other things. “De Rossi,” he repeated. “Simmons told me that a famous Italian sculptor named de Rossi carved that rather impressive fireplace in the dining room. Any relation?”

Her smile deepened. Not just attractive, he amended again. Enchanting. “Marco de Rossi is my father. He and Mama eloped. The fireplace is in her image. It was very romantic.”

Adam swallowed. The attractive, bare-chested lady carved into the fireplace was Isabel de Rossi’s mother? He’d…touched the thing. In admiration of the artist’s obvious skill, of course, but even so. And being Charlotte Harrington’s parents, having to see that carving every time they sat down for a formal dinner? With guests? Was that why they’d retreated to London? He certainly couldn’t blame them for that. But he wouldn’t term anything that led to such a fine house being abandoned for ten years “romantic”. “You’ve seen it, then?”

“Yes. The dining room was my first stop last night. I’d originally planned to go back and look at the fireplace by daylight this morning,” she continued blithely. “Detoured by bees.”

Oh, yes. The bees. They’d nearly slipped his mind for some reason. “Thank you for your assistance with the little pests. I’d tried relocating them before, but they never cooperated until today. They would settle on the curtains, the furniture, us – anything but return to their hive.” Adam grimaced. “I wouldn’t have been willing to sacrifice the furniture if I hadn’t attempted everything else first.”

She flipped her hand. “I would rather lose a dresser than see anyone stung. But thank you for making another attempt to save the hive. And for jumping into the lake. If any of your…multitude of clothes are ruined, I will of course replace them.”

A chuckle left his lips before he could remind himself that he was still attempting to make a competent first impression – and he’d already worn a woman’s hat and taken a swim this morning. He was currently dripping lake water on the hem of her very puffy dressing gown at this very moment. “They aren’t all my clothes. I borrowed from every large, burly man in the vicinity.” He shrugged wetly. “It seemed to work, at least. The only stings are on my wrists, between the leather gloves and my sleeves.”

He glanced at her again as she looked down at his still-gloved hands. This morning had by no means been a vision of clockwork and efficiency. It had been a bumbling bramble of confusion that by some miracle had ended with the preferred result. He’d thought to be sacked over it. Not praised as a hero.

“It was very clever. And so was that extremely unique hat.”

“I found it in an attic room and added the lace myself. If it was something precious, I—”

“It was a hat,” she broke in. “I daresay you had more use of it than whichever of my female ancestors purchased it.”

From what little he knew of her grandmother, he doubted Olivia Harrington would have been as forgiving of all the chaos. “You managed the bees well.”

She nodded. “We keep bees in Florence. I used to assist old Pietro when he removed the honeycombs. I haven’t done it for years, though.”

They reached the kitchen, and Miss de Rossi sent everyone into a whirlwind of activity – chasing after apple cider vinegar, dry clothes and boots for him, someone to tend to the wet clothes he wore, and Mrs. Dall, the cook, to brew him some hot tea.

They were an efficient household – Simmons saw to that – but Adam could swear the servants practically flew to see to Isabel de Rossi’s orders in a way they never had for him. With this being by her own admission her first visit here, their immediate acceptance and apparent…joy at her arrival stunned him. Servants were always leery of change, and this was a huge change for them. Perhaps, though, they were merely trying to impress their new mistress.

She offered him a chair at the large kitchen table, pulling out the one beside it as well and turning the two to face each other. When she took the second seat and reached for his right hand, he frowned. “I can tend myself, Miss de Rossi. You do not need to—”

“You were injured beneath my roof,” she countered calmly, her fine brow furrowing as she tugged on the damp knots of the old cravat he’d knotted around his forearm to keep bees from crawling all the way up his sleeves. “And you saved countless bee lives with your bravery. Do stop protesting.”

“I… Very well.” His mouth curved, and he didn’t try to prevent it. “The bees might not see me as their rescuer, and I would tend to award you that honor anyway, but I’m pleased I at least made any onlookers laugh.”

The sharp glance she sent him seemed to measure instantly whether he was jesting or not, then to approve with a warm twinkle and a wrinkled nose. “I shall commission a very tiny medal for you to wear on your lapel. A gold bee on a field of red, sword crossed with stinger.”

Adam laughed. “Whether you manage that or not, in my mind I shall always be wearing it.”

At the same time, he began to wonder whether he’d struck his head when he dove into the lake. He generally wasn’t prone to silliness or flights of fancy. They didn’t mesh well with keeping an estate – this estate, in particular – in good order. Bees currently resided in a chest of drawers in the garden. When Miss de Rossi heard about the rest of the Nimway disasters and what a poor showing he’d made in response to them, he doubted she would continue to be amused.

And if she was amused by a chipped millstone, broken garden railings, a slipping irrigation gate, and the other half a hundred things that needed tending, then she didn’t belong there any more than he did.

Then she began to tug the glove off his hand, and he forgot what he’d been worrying over. Somewhere in the busy, logical back of his mind he did note that once Mrs. Dall set the bowl of vinegar and a cloth at her mistress’s elbow the cook slipped out of the kitchen – and that every other servant had already done so.

What the devil? Properly-trained servants – which the employees of Nimway Hall had been up to this point – knew better than to leave a single woman alone in the presence of an unmarried man unless expressly ordered to do so. He certainly hadn’t heard Miss de Rossi do so.

“You’ve been here for what, four weeks now?” she asked conversationally, dipping one corner of the cloth into the vinegar until it was well saturated, then holding out her free hand, palm up.

Taking in a slow breath through his nose, abruptly grateful to still be clothed in five layers of wet, uncomfortable trousers, he placed his hand in hers, palm down. She had a small hand, but her fingers were long and graceful and much softer than his rough ones. Her father was an artist, and he imagined she must be skilled in the arts, as well.

“Yes?” she prompted, placing the soaked cloth firmly against the tender, swollen back of his wrist.

The relief was almost instantaneous. What had she asked him, though? “Yes. Yes, four weeks. If I’d known you were coming, I would have prepared a written assessment already. I had intended to send one to Mrs. Harrington at the end of the month.”

She nodded, her gaze on his hand. “Have you been everywhere?”

“’Everywhere?’” he repeated. “I’ve visited every farm, tenant, and every shop in Balesborough, East Pennard, and West Pennard. Except for the blacksmith in Balesborough. Apparently he went north for a sister’s wedding. The—”

“I meant in the house,” she broke in, her cheeks reddening a little. “Have you explored the house?”

“Of course. I only found one leak, in the corner of one of the attic rooms, and I regret to report that it has yet to be repaired. The bees were using it to enter and exit, I believe, and I didn’t think it wise to trap them inside. Two doors are off plum, and one needs to be rehung, one window in the morning room is cracked, and three of them need re—”

“Did you see anything unusual?” she blurted, dipping the cloth in the apple cider vinegar again and reapplying it.

Adam lifted an eyebrow. She’d lowered her head, so he couldn’t see her expression beneath the disheveled tumble of thick dark-brown hair. If he had to put a name to it, though, he would say she was embarrassed. Over what, though? “Unusual in what way?” he asked in return. “All in all I found Nimway and its environs to be in remarkably fine condition, if that’s what you’re asking. If not, you’ll have to be more specific, Miss de Rossi.”

She cleared her throat. “In my mother’s time there was an…orb, I suppose, an oval-shaped moonstone of milky white, in a setting of gold eagle claws.” She released the cloth and turned her hand palm up, forming her fingers into claws to demonstrate. “A little larger than my closed fist.” Again she used her hand to demonstrate what she said. “Have you see that anywhere?”

Isabel held her breath as his pretty green eyes lost focus. Surely he’d seen the orb somewhere. If not, she would ask Simmons and, if need be, everyone else who lived within the Hall. The servants, though, would know the tales about it, and they would also know her reasons for wanting to find it. Even her no-nonsense grandmother had acknowledged its existence and its power, and her mother had said the orb appeared when it should, where it should, and to whom it should.

“A crystal ball, you mean?” her steward asked, his large hand flexing a little in hers. “A gypsy’s glass ball?”

“No, no. It’s very old, and has been missing for some time.” For nineteen years, actually, since it had shown Charlotte Harrington her true love, bound her to Marco de Rossi, then apparently vanished without a trace.

But she wasn’t Charlotte. She was Isabel, and now it was her turn. She’d come to be the Hall’s guardian, not just because of the romance of it all, but because Nimway had been without a mistress for ten years. That couldn’t be allowed to continue. Her ancestral home needed a descendant to live here. She would take care of Nimway Hall. And if she happened to be here without a suitor in sight, well, perhaps in return the Hall would take care of her. There didn’t quite seem to be rules, or at least not any that she knew about, but since well before her five-times great grandmother the Hall and its guardian had watched over each other. She was here to do her part. Therefore, the magic would happen. She only needed to wait for it – and to find the orb.

“I don’t recall seeing any such thing,” Mr. Driscoll replied unhelpfully.

Isabel sighed. “No, I don’t suppose you would have.” Lifting the cloth from his hand, she decided the swelling had subsided enough that she could remove his other glove to see to the nearly identical sting on the back of his left wrist.

The stinger remained in this one, and she sent him a sympathetic grimace before she scraped it out with her fingernails, careful not to pinch more venom beneath his skin. The steward didn’t even flinch. From his appearance last evening, he undoubtedly wrestled wild beasts on a regular basis, but she’d been stung before, and it had hurt.

“I’d wondered,” he said into the silence, “why Nimway Hall has been unoccupied for so long. It’s a fairly large holding, and from what your grandmother’s solicitor wrote, the owners haven’t lived here for ten years.”

“We had a steward,” she returned, reminding herself that she needed to sack this one and choose her own as soon as possible. “But yes, he became a little…negligent in his later months. Honestly, I think the fireplace carving made my grandparents uncomfortable. They’re very English.”

He chuckled. “I sense that isn’t a compliment.”

Oh dear, she probably shouldn’t have said that. “I agree that Nimway shouldn’t have been abandoned for so long. It has guardians, and a guardian should always be here to look after it. My mother would have been, except that…circumstances led her to Florence.” Circumstances that included parents who thought she’d married below her station, a previously-arranged marriage, and Charlotte’s need to be free.

As a consequence Isabel had lived an unrestrained childhood, running about with the children of other artists, sitting for huge, informal dinners where everyone was a storyteller, and daydreaming about the magical castle awaiting her back in England. It had also left her considering that with her bohemian upbringing, she needed a husband who knew the rules, knew how to behave like an English gentleman, and could provide her with the decorum that had clearly been missing from her lessons. Knowing how to smoke bees was well and good, but that was a very different task from hosting a proper dinner or attending a proper soiree.

“You mean to remain here, then?” he asked, shaking her out of her reverie again.

“I do. For the rest of my life.” She lifted her chin a little, waiting for him to question whether she’d be lonely or if she knew what she was getting into. When he didn’t reply, Isabel took a short breath. “My parents can come see me, and my grandparents are just in London.”

Yes, it already felt very different from the rambling house in Florence, where friends and family always filled the halls and laughter and song and conversation lasted well into the night. But this was her place, her adventure, and she couldn’t wait for it to begin.

“You’ve taken on quite a task,” he finally commented. “I’d be pleased to show you my points of concern and, of course, where I’ve kept the accounts ledgers and my observational notes.”

She looked up from his hand to find him gazing at her, though he lowered his eyes the moment she met them. No doubt he found her too young and too ridiculous and sentimental – she’d saved bees, after all – for the responsibility of Nimway Hall. Yes, the house in Florence had been smaller and with fewer assets and no tenants.

At least she was aware of that, and perhaps she would make use of him until she caught up. He could just enlighten her until she took over his job or found someone else who could – someone who would answer to her rather than to her grandmother. That all sounded horrible even in her own head, though; she wasn’t precisely ruthless. Perhaps a week would give her enough time to figure all this out. She did owe him for the bee stings, at the least.

“Thank you,” she said aloud, offering her best smile. “I would very much appreciate it.”

Abruptly Mr. Driscoll cleared his throat, pulling his hand from between hers. “Thank you for your ministrations, but I need to shed some layers of clothing and head to the mill. The runner stone is chipped, and I’ve held the stonemason here for an additional day already.” He stood, collecting the wet gloves and ruined cravats. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss de Rossi?”

This millstone would be one of her responsibilities once he was gone. It was one of them now, actually. “I’ll accompany you,” she decided, setting aside the vinegar and rising, as well.

“There was a mishap yesterday. Someone might have been hurt. If you—”

“I’ll risk it,” she interrupted. “Give me a moment to dress, Mr. Driscoll.”

“Adam,” he countered. “My oldest brother is Mr. Driscoll.”

Isabel inclined her head. “Adam, then,” she said, trying not to notice how well his name sat on her tongue. Nimway Hall might have a husband in mind for her, but it wouldn’t be one of her own employees. Someone not only knowledgeable about Society, but more than likely titled – that sounded much more fitting for the spouse of the Hall’s guardian. She loved her father, but a foreign sculptor? She wouldn’t be making that mistake. With the shortcomings she already had, she wouldn’t be doing anything to add to them.

As soon as she left the kitchen she gathered the skirts of her night rail and robe in her fists and raced up the stairs. Jane was still nowhere to be seen, so she ran back one door down from her large bedchamber to the room her past nanny and present companion had taken.

“Jane,” she called, knocking, then pushing open the door and walked into the room. “Are you still asleep? I must dress! Hurry!”

The older woman gave a broken snore and sat straight up. “The rabbits are loose!” she muttered, flailing at her disheveled red-gray hair, presently wrapped about her head like a shroud.

“There are no rabbits,” Isabel said calmly, walking over to throw open the curtains.

“What? Where are they?”

“Only in your dream.” Waking Jane Davies from a sound sleep had once been one of Isabel’s favorite guilty pleasures; the woman evidently had very vivid – and unusual – dreams. “We did catch a beehive in the attic and transport it out to the garden. Mr. Driscoll – Adam – was stung twice.”

“Oh, my,” Jane said, wrestling free of her hair and the bed sheets. “Is he allergic? I had a second cousin who perished from a bee sting.”

“He’s fine. I put a cloth soaked in apple cider vinegar on the stings. But we’re off to the mill, and I cannot go in my night clothes.”

Jane froze, swiveling around to stare at her. “Your night clothes? Oh, good heavens. You – the servants – you were outside in your night clothes?”

“People were yelling,” Isabel explained, deciding she was being quite patient. “I couldn’t take the time to dress.”

“Please don’t ever tell your grandmother about this,” her companion urged, crossing herself. “She thinks I’m too indulgent as it is.” To hear Jane Davies tell it, her family had been so Catholic they’d had to flee England for Italy. Isabel actually thought their flight from Bristol had had more to do with the grandfather’s gambling debts, but she would never say such a thing to Jane.

“I am trying, Jane,” Isabel returned. “The idea of having someone about who would yell at me makes me shudder.”

“Me, as well. No more going about in your night rail, Isabel.” Straightening her own voluminous night rail, Jane shooed Isabel out of the room and followed her into the master bedchamber. “Curse my sound sleeping. Next time you must wake me.” Jane dug into one of the trunks that hadn’t yet been unpacked. “Your green muslin?”

“Where’s my riding habit? I imagine Adam means to ride, and I doubt there’s a rig I can drive. We must purchase one.”

“But you cannot go riding alone with a man, Isabel. This isn’t Florence, and Mr. Driscoll isn’t one of your cousins. And you shouldn’t be addressing him as Adam.”

“He asked me to. And one of the grooms is accompanying us, of course,” Isabel decided, making a mental note to request one. She’d thought an isolated estate in the middle of rural Somerset would be a bit less tricky to navigate than London, but given nearly everyone’s reaction this morning, she’d misjudged. In fact, Adam – Mr. Driscoll – was the only one who hadn’t gawked at her for not taking time to dress.

They found her riding boots and the two-piece habit of deep forest green. She’d never worn this one; a wool riding dress was far too warm for Italian summers. Thankfully it fit as well as it had when she’d tried it on at the dressmaker’s a month ago.

The moment Jane finished pinning up her hair and set the matching green hat artfully askew atop that, Isabel hurried back downstairs. Simmons stood, also completely dressed and much more composed looking, in the foyer. “Have I beaten Mr. Driscoll?” she asked, as she pulled on her black leather riding gloves.

The old butler lifted an eyebrow. “If you were engaged in a race, Miss Isabel, you have lost. The…fellow went out to the stables five minutes ago.”

“’The fellow’?” she repeated. “Do you dislike Adam?” If Simmons knew something that would make sacking the steward easier, she certainly wanted to know about it.

“He’s not from here.”

The way he spoke the words said that that explanation should be more than enough to suffice, but Isabel frowned. “I’m not from here, either.”

“You were born elsewhere, Miss Isabel,” Simmons countered in his dry voice. “You are most certainly from here. More so than anyone else beneath this roof.” He leaned a breath closer. “And if I may be so bold, we are all very happy to have you here finally. Nimway needs her guardian.”

Now this was the greeting she’d wanted. An affirmation that the house – and the household – were pleased she’d come home, even if she’d never been there before. “Thank you, Simmons. I’m very happy to be here.”

And she would be even happier when she had a moment to walk the rest of the house by herself, to let the peace of this place wash over her, and to find that blasted orb so she could begin the task of finding the man with whom she was meant to share Nimway Hall and her new life.