by Shéa MacLeod
“Where to, Miss?” Little crinkles fanned out from his eyes. Now here was a man who enjoyed a good laugh.
“Number two, Sea Breeze Lane,” I said, peering at the cramped hand-written instructions I’d been given. Jack had terrible writing.
Old Tom’s eyes widened in surprise. “Miss Grant’s cottage?”
Well, shoot. No use now in trying to hide anything. Hopefully, none of the people attending the party would have any reason to ask around about my living situation.
“Yes. I’m her niece, you see—”
“Say no more.” He revved the engine. “Thought I recognized the little mutt there. Welcome back, Tippy.”
Tippy woofed.
“And welcome to Meres Reach, Miss...?”
“Martin. Sugar Martin. Don’t ask.”
He grinned. “Wasn’t going to. Sugar sounds sweet to me.” And with a boisterous laugh, he pulled out of the parking lot and into the almost non-existent traffic.
The train station sat on a flat bit of land which nudged up against a tangled forest. Above it rose an imposing cape which jutted out onto the water. Perched at the very end was a building which glittered under the watery sun. Below the station, the ground sloped away gently down toward the sea. A ribbon of road ran down the slope all the way to the water, and on either side huddled gorgeous little stone cottages with colorful doors and window boxes overflowing with flowers. Almost as if they were posing for a post card.
About halfway down this main street, Old Tom turned right onto Ocean View Road and then took a right onto Sea Breeze Lane. Two doors down was an itty, bitty stone cottage with a thatched roof and wisteria arching above the door. The door and shutters, now closed, were painted a pale lavender. Tippy sat up and sniffed the air happily as if he knew he was almost home.
As for a sea view, I guess you could say there was one. If you stood on tiptoes on the front stoop and craned your neck.
“Here you are, Miss. You want I should bring in your luggage?”
“Yes, please. Everything but the blue suitcase and the train case.”
He glanced into the bed of the truck. “What do you want me to do with them then?”
How would he take this? “I’ll need you to take me back to the station with them in...” I checked my wristwatch, “...twenty minutes.”
He stared at me. “I gotta admit, Miss, that’s a strange request.”
“I’m going to a house party, you see. And the chauffeur is going to pick me up at the station.” There, hopefully that didn’t let the cat out of the bag completely.
“Oh, gotcha. It’s that party up at the big house.”
“You know about it?”
“Sure. Everyone does. Well, let’s get you settled then.” He hopped out, rounded the truck, and held the door for me like a proper gentleman.
While I dug out the key Mr. Woodward had given me, Old Tom wrestled my luggage out of the back of his truck. I pushed open the door to a wave of dried roses, dust, and dog. Tippy yipped and rushed straight in. I took a deep breath of fresh air before plunging in, leaving the door open for Old Tom.
There wasn’t much to see. You walked straight into the living room, which was crammed with old furniture, heavy oil paintings, and enough crocheted doilies to choke a horse. There was an open doorway which led into a small kitchen just large enough for a sink, stove, and a table for two. Other than the table, there was no counter space. Everything either hung from wall hooks or sat on open shelves on the wall.
There were two doors in the kitchen. One, which Tippy sat in front of, led to a back yard so small you could hardly turn around in it. There were a couple of flowerpots filled with dead plants and a square of grass just large enough for Tippy to do his business. Which he proceeded to do.
Leaving him to it, I explored the second door. It led to a bedroom hardly big enough to fit a full-sized bed, and beyond that, the world’s smallest bathroom. Although it was large enough to have a tub. Of sorts. It was more like a half tub. I could maybe sit down if I twisted myself into a pretzel.
So this is where I was going to live from now on. It wasn’t terrible, though it was probably smaller than my apartment, which was an astonishing feat. A good airing was what it needed. Yes, I could do this. Sure I could.
“Where you want your chest, Miss?” Old Tom shouted from the front room.
Since there was nowhere to put anything in the bedroom—the miniscule cupboard was still full of Aunt Euphegenia’s things—I had him leave everything sitting neatly behind the couch. I’d have to deal with it all later. Once I figured out if I could get rid of my aunt’s ancient wardrobe, or if that, too, belonged to Tippy.
“Would you like a coffee or something before we go?” I asked Old Tom.
He glanced dubiously around the kitchen. “Wouldn’t mind a cup of tea, Miss. If you’ve got it. Want me to show you how to turn on the cooker? Might be different where you come from.”
“Thank you, but I think I can manage.” The gas stove was surprisingly modern, white enamel with black fittings. I suddenly worried the gas had been shut off after my aunt’s death, but a twist of the knob gave away to the tell-tale hiss of gas. I grabbed a box of matches off the shelf and had it lit in no time.
After enjoying a cup of tea, albeit without milk since the ridiculously small fridge had been emptied and turned off, we chugged back up the hill where Old Tom handed me off to the ancient porter, along with Tippy and my suit and train cases. As Tom drove off, the porter didn’t even question my reappearance or the fact that I didn’t want to board a train. We all scuttled back to the train platform.
Just in time as a man in a gray uniform appeared. “Miss Martin?”
“Yes. That’s me.”
“I am Marks, Lord Chasterly’s driver. Your car is waiting.”
Lord Chasterly. That was his name.
Mr. Woodward and I had agreed that I would use my real name. It was easier and, if anyone tried to look me up, they’d discover that I was indeed an American heiress. And since no one but Mr. Woodward and Mr. Chambers—and Old Tom and maybe the entire village of Meres Reach— knew the truth about my inheritance, my cover would hold.
I followed the chauffeur through a red brick arch. Tippy followed me, and the ancient porter followed Tippy with the trolley. I felt guilty about that. I was probably stronger than he was, but I had to maintain my image as a rich woman. That did not include pushing around trolleys and getting sweaty.
The car was even fancier than Mr. Woodward’s Bentley. For one, it was a newer Bentley. Brand new as far as I could tell. It was a rich cream with a slightly darker cream roof and matching interior of buttery soft leather. There was even a well-stocked burlwood bar. Whoever heard of a bar in one’s vehicle?
The chauffeur held open the door and didn’t even blink when Tippy hopped in after me. I had a sudden nightmarish vision of the dog tearing up the upholstery, but my aunt must have trained him well, for he curled up on the floor and went immediately to sleep.
Being from Oregon, I am used to lush greenery, but the countryside that spread out around me was beyond verdant. Like something out of a painting. Tangles of forest hugged the sides of the narrow road. The story book village exploded in a riot of flowers huddled along the water’s edge, while a church spire poked up against a brilliant blue sky. We trundled over a stone bridge beneath which tumbled a babbling brook. And in the distance the sea rolled endlessly toward shore.
The manor house was some distance above Meres Reach clinging to the cliff above the seaside village. The village itself sat mere inches from the water, little sherbet colored buildings marching up and down the promenade while colorful boats rocked in the bay.
We wound through the cobblestone streets, past a pub and a cafe and a greengrocer, until we came to a curlicued wrought-iron gate. Just on the other side of it, we passed a gatekeeper’s cottage with a thatched roof—adorable!—and a garage with multiple bays, then zoomed up along the cliffside, hugging the rock wall, a sheer cliff on
the other side.
At last we pulled up onto the rocky promontory and saw the house itself, a stark white Georgian manor with Greek columns and square windows that gleamed in the sun. Thick shrubs hugged the house, overflowing with colorful dark pink blossoms.
Marks hopped out and opened my door just as what could only be a butler appeared. Along with him was a tousled-haired boy of about fifteen—who looked like he belonged working in a garden—and a girl not much older in a maid’s uniform. The two kids helped themselves to my luggage, while the butler offered me a scant bow.
“Welcome to Endmere, Miss Martin. I am Johnson. I hope your stay here is a pleasant one.”
“Thank you, Mr. Johnson.”
He looked pained. “Just Johnson, Miss. Follow me, please.”
The foyer was as amazing as the exterior. The floor was set out in a diamond pattern with lighter and darker hardwoods. A crystal chandelier hung from an ornate medallion. To my left was a staircase carpeted in blue floral fabric, while straight ahead through a wide arch I could see a comfortably furnished living room.
“I am certain you will wish to wash up before you meet your host.” It wasn’t a question. In fact, it was just this side of an order. “Penny will show you your room.”
A second maid popped out of thin air. She was older than the first one, but still at least ten years my junior, making her barely past eighteen. Her head of coppery red curls only half hidden by an old-fashioned mob cap matched her moniker.
“I will happily take your... dog.” Johnson said the last word with disdain.
I would have loved for him to take Tippy off my hands, but instead I said, “That’s alright. I’ll keep him with me. Though he probably needs something to eat and some water.”
Whatever Johnson thought of that, he kept wisely to himself. “Very well. I will have something brought to your rooms. Penny can take him out later.”
“Sure I can,” Penny said cheerfully. “If you’ll follow me, Miss.” She demurely led me up the stairs and down the hall to the third door on the right. “This is where you’ll be staying, Miss. His lordship just had it redone. Has its own wash room and everything.” She opened the door with a dramatic flourish.
I stepped inside and stopped with my mouth hanging open. Tippy did the same. Whether from shock or simply because he wanted to lie down, it was hard to tell. You could have fit Aunt Eephegenia’s entire cottage in that one room.
The walls had been painted midnight blue and the carpet was a damask midnight blue and gold. On the wall above the bed was painted a rather gaudy mural of a basket of flowers which was mimicked on the matching midnight blue nightstands. In fact, all the furniture—from the vanity seat to the armchair and ottoman to the blinds on the windows—was midnight blue. All the soft furnishings were sheer, ruffled, and very pink. Pink curtains with ruffles trimmed in midnight blue ribbons, pink vanity cloth swathed in ruffles tied up with the same color ribbons. Even the bedspread bore pink ruffles and blue ribbons. There was even a pink robe and matching pink slippers laid out for my use.
“Isn’t it lovely?” Penny cooed.
“It’s... a lot of pink.” I managed.
“I know! I just love pink! Can’t wear it with my hair though.” She looked crestfallen.
I decided it would be better not to comment on her hair color. “You said there was a bathroom?” I nudged.
“What? Oh, yes, this way.” She opened a door to reveal more pink.
The floor was a midnight blue linoleum, the walls stark white tile, but the bathtub, sink, and toilet were all pink. Even the curtain around the tub was pink with those ridiculous blue ribbons. Good grief.
“Very nice,” I managed.
It wasn’t that I minded pink. It was just that there was an awfully lot of it.
There was a loud thump from the bedroom.
“That’ll be Billy with the luggage,” she said. “I’ll get you unpacked, and you have a nice freshen up.” Before I could answer, she’d exited, pulling the bathroom door shut behind her.
I stared at my reflection in the mirror. “Sugar Martin, what have you gotten yourself into?”
Tippy whined. I hoped that meant he was hungry and not that things were about to go terribly wrong.
BY THE TIME I’D FINISHED washing up and exchanged my new lavender travel suit for a silk robe, Penny was done hanging my clothes in the wardrobe. She’d even managed to get one of my dresses pressed. A pretty teal dress with a bow at the neckline, shirred sleeves, and a light shirring to the skirt to give it the right amount of fullness. It was perfect for afternoon wear and even a semi-formal cocktail party, as Mr. Woodward assured me would take place early every evening. I paired it with black duo-strapped shoes with peep toes and simple gold jewelry.
The jewelry wasn’t terribly expensive, but it looked like it was. Mr. Woodward had assured me that it was excellent gold plate, completely indiscernible from solid gold. He was determined to ensure I was tempting to the burglar.
Penny showed me the way to the living room, not that I needed it, but I was grateful for her cheerful chatter. “You’ll never believe who’s coming.” Her bright eyes shone. “Lady Antonia. She arrives tomorrow. I overheard Mrs. Mills—that’s the housekeeper—telling Francois—that’s his lordship’s French chef. Apparently, he has a very discerning palate. Whatever that means.” She giggled.
“Who is Lady Antonia?” I couldn’t remember Mr. Woodward or Mr. Chambers mentioning her.
“She’s the widow of the Earl of Netherford,” Penny explained in a low voice as we descended the stairs. “Technically, she’s the Countess of Netherford or Lady Netherford. There’s no new Lady Netherford, you see, since her husband died without an heir, so she wouldn’t have to use the term Dowager, like most widows. But Lady Antonia insists on being terribly informal. It drives Johnson and Mrs. Mills absolutely batty!”
“Good grief, it’s all so confusing,” I said. “We don’t have all these titles in America. It’s just Miss, Mrs, or Mr. Well, unless you’re a doctor or a professor or something.”
“You should have a good time now Lady Antonia will be here,” she confided. “She’s sure to make things interesting. She always does. Well, here you are. Go on in and make yourself comfortable. I’ll tell his lordship. And don’t worry about Tippy. I’ll take good care of him.”
“Thank you, Penny.”
The living room—or I suppose the British would probably call it a drawing room or something fancy like that—was a surprisingly feminine room. The walls were painted a pale blue with drapes in a floral pattern of the same color to match. To one side was a white marble fireplace in which a low fire burned, built-in bookshelves on either side were stuffed with books and curios from around the world. Above the mantle hung a series of paintings of various birds in shades of blues and yellows. On one side of the fireplace sat two chairs in yellow, blue, and pink floral with a simple antique table between them and opposite sat a comfortable looking sofa in a blue and white damask the same color as the drapes. In the middle of the seating arrangement was a low coffee table painted the same yellow as the chairs and on which sat a heavy glass ashtray and a selection of colorful magazines.
Maybe when I got home, I could decorate my place like this. Well, the cheap version. Then I remembered Devon was my home now. I wasn’t sure how I felt about that.
Since I was alone in the room, I took a seat in one of the chairs as they faced the door and selected a magazine which featured the homes and lifestyles of Britain’s rich and famous. I was deep into an article on Lady Somebody’s fondness for peonies when the French doors behind me were flung open accompanied by a gust of chilly air from outside.
I started, whirling to face the newcomer. Dressed in what I could only assume was hunting gear based on the shotgun held in the crook of his arm, he was nearly as broad as he was tall, with a florid face and eyebrows in need of trimming. He was around the same age as Mr. Woodward, but while Mr. Woodward was calm and matter of fact, this man was lo
ud and blustery.
“What, ho! Is that Miss Martin at last? Old Jamie said you were on your way. Come to assist us with our little problem, I hear.” There was a bit of eyebrow waggling and suggestive winking, and I could only assume “Old Jamie” was a reference to Mr. Woodward as his given name was James.
“Yes, that’s so, Lord—” Oh, dear what was his name? Oh, yes! “Lord Chasterly.”
He let out a braying laugh just as Johnson appeared to take his hat, coat, and gun. Once divested of these items and with Johnson out of the room, he said, “Call me Freddy. Everyone does.”
“Sure. Freddy. I’m Sugar.”
His eyes widened. “That’s an actual name? I though Jamie was having a laugh.”
I grinned good-naturedly. “Unfortunately, my actual name is much worse. I prefer Sugar.”
“Then Sugar it shall be. Drink?” He turned toward a cabinet on the other side of the room and began pulling out bottles of liquor.
“Um, sure.”
“I know it’s not summer yet, but I fancy a daiquiri.”
“That sounds nice.” I wasn’t much of a drinker, but when I did imbibe, I enjoyed a good cocktail.
He dumped ice and an enormous amount of rum into a cocktail shaker, added from a bottle of some sort of yellowish-green juice, and then a clear liquid which I hoped was simple syrup and not more alcohol. He gave it all a vigorous shake and then filled two martini glasses to the brim. I was astonished he didn’t spill a drop on the way to deliver it.
I took a sip and almost hacked up a lung.
He chuckled. “What can I say? I like ‘em strong.”
“I see that.” I took another sip, more gingerly this time. It actually wasn’t bad.
“Now,” he said, settling back on the sofa and ignoring a clump of dirt which had dislodged itself from his boot and fallen on the carpet, “Jamie told you why you’re here, correct?”