It was pretty much what she’d told herself earlier, but hearing him sound so glib and self-satisfied touched her on the raw.
Suddenly, he started to chuckle.
It was a deep, attractive sound that at any other time would have made her want to laugh with him. Now, she protested stiffly, ‘I really don’t see anything to laugh at.’
‘You’re not sitting where I am. If you could see your face!’
Her grey eyes sparkling with anger, she pointed out, ‘It’s all right for you. You’re at home, where you want to be.’
‘Do I take it you’d sooner be sitting alone in a bedsit? Or inflicting yourself on a family who may not really want you?’
Cheeks burning, Anna wished, not for the first time, that she hadn’t told him so much. She wasn’t usually so forthcoming. It had been sheer nervousness that had made her babble on.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said after a moment. ‘That wasn’t particularly kind.’
She grasped the nettle. ‘No, but it doesn’t stop it being true.’
‘Actually, I doubt if it is. Put it down to pique on my part, because I’m very happy with the way things have turned out.’
When, flustered, she said nothing, he went on, ‘If you were born and bred here, you must have plenty of close friends?’
‘After I left school I was away at college for three years, and then I lived in London for two. I lost touch with most of them.’
‘Well, if there’s nothing spoiling, so to speak, I don’t see why you’re so desperate to get away. I know that at the moment the Manor has a distinct lack of creature comforts, but I was hoping you might have enough spirit to be able to regard being marooned here as fun, a kind of adventure…’
That was how she would have regarded it, had the man been any other than himself.
But she could hardly tell him that.
Eyes gleaming between those fascinating long lashes, he went on with mock sympathy, ‘But I guess the whole thing must be terribly unnerving, especially when the lights keep going out—’
As though on cue, the lights flickered and dimmed, before brightening again.
‘—and you’re stranded in the dark with a man you know absolutely nothing about. A man who could be anything or anybody…’
Well aware by now that she was being teased, she smiled and said, ‘It’s not quite that bad. After all, I know you’re Sir Ian’s son, and the new master of Hartington Manor.’
‘Well, now you’re satisfied that I pose no threat—’
‘I didn’t say that.’ The words were out before she could prevent them.
Green eyes alight with laughter, he glanced at the mistletoe, which he’d hung from a hook on the beamed ceiling. ‘Ah! Well, perhaps if I burn the mistletoe?’
It was clear that he’d noticed her reaction to his kiss. But then an experienced man such as he could hardly have failed to.
Blushing furiously, she said, ‘I hardly think it’s necessary to burn it.’
‘You mean if I just refrain from making use of it?’ He sighed deeply. ‘A pity, really, as it’s the festive season. Still, if that’s what it takes to make you feel happy and secure… Now, would you like anything else to eat? Fruit? Cheese? Christmas cake?’
‘Nothing else, thank you,’ she said primly.
‘Then I’ll make some coffee.’
While he filled a cafétière and set a tray with sugar, cream and fine bone-china cups, she thought about what had just been said.
In an odd sort of way, bringing things into the open had eased the tension and created a more friendly atmosphere.
His whole attitude had shown clearly that any problem had been on her side. But then she’d known that from the start. It had been her reaction to him that had made things so uncomfortable…
‘If you’d be so kind…?’
Glancing up, anticipating his need, she pulled the small table into place.
Sliding the tray on to it, he asked, ‘How do you like your coffee?’
‘A little cream, please. No sugar.’
She noticed he took his own black, with neither cream nor sugar.
While they drank, they sat staring into the leaping flames and listening to the sizzle of snowflakes falling down the chimney on to the burning logs.
The silence had become easy, almost companionable, and the prospect of spending the rest of the evening in his company was no longer quite so daunting.
When their cups were empty, Gideon asked cheerfully, ‘Now, what shall we do until bedtime?’
‘Perhaps I’d better start by washing up.’
He shook his head. ‘We have a dishwasher when there’s sufficient electricity to run it. I meant what shall we do by way of entertainment? There’s television, of course, but the living-room is bound to be as cold as charity, and I’m not sure that the generator will take the strain.’
Anna shook her head. ‘I don’t care much for television. I’ve always preferred books.’
‘I’m with you there! Well, if it’s books you want, there are certainly plenty of those. Apart from the library itself, my father half filled the study with his own personal collection of first editions.’
‘Really?’
‘Though I’m not particularly knowledgeable on the subject,’ Gideon added levelly, ‘it’s an interest I share. So if you’d care to see the collection some time, I’ll be happy to show you.’
The offer was made casually, but she answered with undisguised eagerness, ‘Thank you. I’d like that.’
‘As you may imagine, going through catalogues and suchlike took up a great deal of time; that’s why Mary Morrison became his secretary.’
‘I’d no idea that your father was a collector,’ Anna remarked.
Just for an instant she saw a look that might have been angry disbelief on Gideon’s face, then it was gone.
‘You astonish me,’ he said coolly. ‘I’d always presumed it was common knowledge, at least among the people who knew him reasonably well.’
‘As I said earlier I didn’t know him personally. I just knew of him.’
‘All the same,’ Gideon persisted, ‘as you and he were presumably competitors in the same market, I would have expected you to have at least heard his name mentioned in that connection.’
Wondering why it mattered, why he was making an issue of it, she shook her head. ‘Not necessarily. You see, if it becomes known that a wealthy collector is interested in a certain item it can push the price sky-high, so a lot of the more serious collectors find it better to buy through an agent rather than get involved on a personal level.’
She couldn’t tell whether she’d convinced him or not. His face was expressionless, his green eyes hard and opaque as jade, hiding his thoughts.
After a moment, he shrugged and admitted lightly, ‘That makes sense, I suppose. Buying and selling is business, whatever commodity is involved.’
She was pleased that finally he seemed to have accepted what she’d told him.
Still the puzzle remained—why had he looked as though he disbelieved her in the first place? What possible reason could she have for lying about a thing like that?
CHAPTER THREE
ALL at once a log slipped and rolled on to the hearth in a shower of bright sparks. Gideon got to his feet and used a large pair of tongs to replace it.
Having resumed his seat, he gave her a lopsided smile that did strange things to her breathing and pulse rate before remarking, ‘Now, after getting sidetracked, suppose we continue with our discussion?’
Wits scattered, she said vaguely, ‘Our discussion?’
‘If you remember, we were trying to decide on our evening’s fun. We’ve just dismissed television, so that rules out two possibilities…’
‘Two?’
He gave a sideways glance at the mistletoe, then watched with undisguised amusement while the colour rose in her cheeks.
Gritting her teeth, she asked as evenly as possible, ‘Are there any playing cards? Or a chess set, perha
ps?’
‘There used to be, but I’ve no idea whether they still exist.’ His face suddenly wintry, he went on, ‘The only games my father enjoyed playing were with women… Or rather with a succession of girls, most of whom were young enough to be his daughter.’
Catching sight of her expression, he commented, ‘You look surprised.’
‘I am.’ Without thinking about it, she had always presumed that Sir Ian was the epitome of respectable upper-class morality.
The green eyes pinned her. ‘Then you had no idea?’
Shaking her head, she said, ‘No.’
‘Now it’s my turn to be surprised. Though he was always very careful to be discreet, more often than not that kind of thing gets about, and mud sticks, especially in a small town like Rymington.’
Again she shook her head. ‘I’ve never heard a word breathed against him.’
Gideon shrugged, and changed the subject to query casually, ‘How much of Hartington Manor have you seen?’
Wondering why he was asking when he knew quite well, she answered, ‘The hall, the kitchen, and the library.’
‘You haven’t seen the rest of this wing, or the older part?’
‘No. I didn’t know there was an older part.’
‘It’s quite spooky,’ he said with relish. ‘There are sliding panels and a secret passage. I’ll show you round if you like. It’s just the sort of thing to do on a dark and snowy Christmas Eve.’
Anna found herself wondering if he was trying to wind her up. Or had he perhaps, in his youth, read too many adventure yarns?
Perhaps her expressive face gave away what she was thinking, because he grinned at her and added, ‘Then we’ll come back and sit round the fire and tell each other true-life ghost stories.’
Carefully, she said, ‘I’m afraid I don’t know any true-life ghost stories.’
‘No personal experience? You’ve never actually met a ghost?’
‘Not to my knowledge. But then that’s hardly surprising, considering where I’ve lived. You can’t expect any self-respecting ghost to bother haunting a tiny three-bedroomed cottage or a bedsit.’
‘Yes, I can quite see it might cramp their style. Whereas a place of this size…’ He paused, waiting for her to ask.
Widening her eyes, she obliged. ‘You mean Hartington Manor has a real live ghost?’
He gave a pained frown. ‘I can see you don’t take the matter seriously.’
‘Should I?’
‘Oh, definitely. We can’t have Sir Roger upset.’
‘Sir Roger?’
‘Sir Roger Strange. But I’ll tell you all about him later… Now, are you game?’
‘I suppose so,’ she agreed a shade doubtfully. There was something about his manner, the glint in his eye, that she didn’t altogether trust.
‘Then let’s get started.’ He got to his feet and offered a hand to pull her up.
Pretending she hadn’t seen it, she rose obediently.
‘It’s bound to be cold,’ he remarked, ‘so we’d better have our coats.’
He lifted Anna’s down and held it one-handed while she slipped it on, before shrugging into his own jacket. ‘And we’ll need a candle and some matches to take with us.’
Wondering what he was up to, she asked, ‘But surely the lights will work?’
‘Oh, yes, if the generator holds out. But not all the house has been modernised, so we’ll need the candle for later.’
Trying to sound merely practical, she asked, ‘Wouldn’t it make more sense to go when it’s daylight?’
‘What, and spoil the fun?’
‘I think you’re trying to scare me.’
Instead of denying it, he asked, ‘Am I succeeding?’
‘No,’ she said firmly.
Collecting the matches, he dropped them into his jacket pocket. Then, while she watched with growing misgivings, he crossed to the huge dresser and picked up a beautifully ornate candlestick.
Made of black wrought iron, it was fashioned in the form of a dragon standing on clawed feet, while its tail curled to form a handgrip and its raised wings and open mouth held the candle.
‘Perhaps you wouldn’t mind carrying it for the moment?’ he asked politely.
She took it from him and found it was surprisingly heavy.
‘Now, shall we start in the basement?’ He turned to lead the way.
They went through a small door at the end of the hall and descended a flight of worn stone steps. There was a wide stone passage which branched off into a series of storerooms and sculleries.
Opening the door into a large, stone-flagged room, Gideon told her, ‘This used to be the kitchen, while the present kitchen was once the servants’ hall.’
Peering in, Anna saw deep stone sinks, a scrubbed oak table flanked by massive dressers and, in the huge fireplace, an old iron spit, big enough to roast a whole ox.
It was so cold their breath made a white vapour on the air, and she wasn’t sorry when he switched out the light and moved on.
At the end of the passage, another flight of steps led up to the main living quarters. A peep into the various rooms showed they were elegantly furnished, with beautiful wall-papers, ornately plastered ceilings, and everything necessary to gracious living.
‘As you can see this part of the house has been altered and brought up to date as much as possible, without spoiling the old place. It used to be quite comfortable, and no doubt will be again when the heating’s working,’ he added dryly.
‘On the floor above, apart from the Morrisons’ self-contained flat, there are seven bedrooms and various bathrooms, but there’s nothing much of interest, so I won’t take you upstairs until we go to bed.’
His words were innocent enough on the surface, but there was something, some nuance, that made every nerve-ending in her body tighten.
‘This archway leads through to the East Wing,’ he went on smoothly. ‘It hasn’t been lived in for donkey’s years, and it’s by far the most interesting. There’s neither gas nor electricity, so this is where we’ll need to light the candle.’ Taking it from her, he went on, ‘The matches are in my right-hand pocket, if you’d be kind enough to fish them out.’
Feeling in his pocket seemed somehow so personal that Anna had to brace herself to do it.
Judging by the mocking gleam in his eye, he knew exactly how she felt, and was enjoying her discomfort.
As she stepped closer, she fancied she could feel the warmth emanating from his body, and shivered in response.
The box located, she struck a match and lit the candle he was holding. She was annoyed to find that her hand shook.
‘Something bothering you?’ he asked innocently.
Hurriedly blowing out the match before it burnt her fingers, she replaced the box in his pocket, and answered, ‘I’m cold.’ It wasn’t a complete lie.
The candle held high, making black leaping shadows on the walls, he led her down a flight of stone steps and into the East Wing.
There were frequent changes of direction and level, two steps up here, three down there, and what seemed to be a maze of passages.
Some appeared to be merely dead ends; others led to small bare rooms with panelled walls and mullioned windows, through which they could see and hear the blizzard still raging.
‘I don’t know how you find your way.’ Anna’s voice sounded small and lost in the hovering blackness.
‘My sisters and I used to play here as children.’
Their footsteps echoing hollowly, they climbed an old oak staircase and went through an archway into a panelled antechamber.
Beyond were several bedrooms that, doors standing wide, led one into another. As Gideon lighted their way through them, Anna glimpsed huge four-posters with rich brocade hangings, many in tatters, and heavy sixteenth-century furniture.
The last room gave on to what appeared to be a long internal gallery panelled in dark wood from floor to ceiling.
Unlike the other panelling she’d seen, the lo
wer half was heavily carved with flowers and fruit and trailing vines, while at intervals along the upper part were metal sconces.
Though the gallery had no windows, she could still hear the muffled moaning and whistling of the wind.
‘Now we come to the really interesting bit,’ Gideon said softly.
A quick glance at his face told her that this was the whole purpose of the little expedition.
His next words proved it.
‘This is the haunted gallery and Sir Roger’s domain,’ Gideon told her in sepulchral tones. ‘It’s where he met his gruesome end, and where he still appears.’
‘How did he meet his end?’ The instant the words were out Anna wished she’d saved the question until they were safely back in the kitchen.
Not that she was scared. She didn’t believe in ghosts. It was just that the hovering darkness, the all-pervading chill and the flickering candle made the atmosphere decidedly eerie.
‘Before I tell you that,’ Gideon said, ‘I’d better provide a spot of background.’
Something about his manner, the way his eyes gleamed in the candlelight, was anything but reassuring.
She swallowed hard and waited.
‘During the Civil War,’ he began, ‘Henry Strange, the then owner of Hartington Manor, while pretending to support the Roundheads, was in secret a Royalist. Henry’s cousin, Sir Roger Strange, was an acknowledged Royalist and, late one snowy Christmas Eve, wounded, and with his enemies hard on his heels, he took refuge at the Manor. Because of the tell-tale tracks in the snow, a servant was dispatched to ride Sir Roger’s horse well away from the house. Unfortunately the subterfuge failed, and in the middle of the night Cromwell’s men banged on the door and demanded entry.
‘Before he went down to let them in, Henry told his young wife Anne to hide Sir Roger until they’d gone. So, carrying a candle, Anne led him along this gallery and hid him in a small space behind the heavy panelling, promising to come and let him out as soon as the coast was clear. But after a fruitless search of the house, the Roundheads imprisoned Henry and set up temporary headquarters here. Afraid for her husband’s life, and under strict surveillance, Anne could do nothing. It was over a month before they finally left…’
A Vengeful Deception Page 4