“Are we close? Did you used to be able to see the house from here?”
Lady Grace wrapped her arm around her younger daughter as thunder rocked the air around them and the coach lurched hurriedly in and out of ruts. “The park is extensive, but you should see it soon enough.”
The trees appeared ready to whip from the ground in the wind and the first drops of rain began to fall as they rolled from the secluded drive into the curving entrance of the manor. Marian tried to drink it all in as the coach turned and the house loomed before them, but there was too much to see at once.
The manor itself loomed upward in a solid wall of gray stone. The windows were large and evenly spaced, indicating a house built early in the last century, but both glass and stone were mostly covered in wandering ivy. Brambles that might once have been roses scratched at the bottom rows, and the noise was eerie when heard through the silences between booms of thunder.
The small party waited for some sign of footmen or grooms to come to their aid, but the rapid patter of rain sent Reginald and Darley to ordering their valets into action.
Without waiting for admittance, O’Toole dashed up the steps burdened with several valises, shoved open the massive carved doors, and led the way. Astounded by this impropriety but reluctant to remain in the rain, the ladies hurried to follow.
Marian glanced upward at the grand entrance hall. A skylight several stories above glistened with stained glass and she could imagine the dancing patterns it would send across the marble floor on a sunny day. Vague recollections of lying on the floor and letting the light dance over her simmered somewhere in the back of her mind, and she could almost hear the deep laugh of her father as he found her. Perhaps it was just her overactive imagination.
The walls were of a heavy dark wainscoting, without any of the grace and ornamentation of an Adams interior. There was a certain dignity in their lack of ornamentation that carried through in the formal paintings of Greek gods that provided their only decoration, Marian suspected the long corridor stretching out beyond the foyer led to masculine studies and offices and billiard rooms. Her attention was drawn upward to the graceful curve of the mahogany stair rail.
That was the direction in which O’Toole led them. With still no sign of a servant, the little party could only mill aimlessly in the foyer, watching the rain come down in buckets as the last piece of baggage was carried in. The coaches drove off around the bend to the stables, and still no one came to greet them. Taking the initiative, Reginald grabbed a valise and followed his valet up the stairs.
Lord Darley attempted to prevent Marian from carrying any of her own luggage, but it seemed the height of silliness to leave everything sitting belowstairs when it was becoming more than obvious that the manor was seriously understaffed. She managed their jewelry and cosmetic cases while Lily carried hatboxes. Even Lady Grace and Jessica picked up an item or two to carry with them as they ascended the magnificent stairs.
Glimpses of the rooms to either side of the corridor when they reached the top told the tale of abandonment. Holland covers still hung over the furniture. Spiders scurried into corners and cobwebs dangled from doorways. Desperately, Marian groped for some familiarity in the scene, but there was nothing.
Lady Grace led the way from there, directing the gentlemen to their wing, leading her daughters to the ladies’ wing. Lily and the valets scurried between them, arranging boxes and trunks in some semblance of order as the ladies chose two separate chambers and the gentlemen found their own.
Marian discovered Mr. Montague in the corridor when she went in search of one of her boxes, and he allowed her to go through the assortment he carried until she had identified those that belonged to her. He set the stack on an inlaid ebony table covered in dust and rearranged his burden, while thunder roared overhead and the pounding of rain on tile hit the roof.
“Your marquess is more eccentric than I imagined,” Reginald muttered as he dusted off his coat sleeve. “There are probably two fortunes in Ming Dynasty china in the sitting room connected to my chamber, but there doesn’t seem to be a single servant to see to the fires to keep out the damp. I shudder to imagine how much has been damaged just by neglect.”
Marian kept her voice to a whisper as if the walls might have ears. “Have you seen the library? It is utterly immense. I’m afraid to go in it. What if the roof has leaked? The thought of all those volumes ruined makes me shudder.”
Montague grinned. “Plan to snatch a few, do you? The old goat will probably not miss them. Shall we rendezvous there when we are unpacked and see what we can find?”
She gave him a sharp look, uncertain as to how much was said in jest, when Darley came up the stairs with the remains of their baggage.
“I say, this is the strangest house party I have yet to see. Do you think we’re the only ones here? I have an odd feeling that we ought to turn around and go back.” He had doffed his hat and his lanky dark hair bore the signs of wet weather, falling into his eyes until he impatiently shoved it back. His anxious gaze instantly went to Marian.
Realizing how their whispered conversation might be misconstrued, Reginald stepped out of the shadows and away from the mischievous Lady Marian. The skylight over the foyer provided some illumination for this end of the corridor. “O’Toole has gone down to the kitchens to see if he can arouse someone. If nothing else, maybe he can find some candles and fuel. It’s likely to get quite dark before long.”
Marian picked up her boxes and started toward her end of the house. “Damp and dark are unpleasant enough, but I am starving. Unless he scares up a cook, I mean to go down and see if the larder is as empty as the rest of this house.”
“You must allow me to accompany you when you do, my lady. There could be rogues secreted in these rooms and none would know until they were stumbled upon. If it were not for the weather, I would be in favor of returning to London.” Darley set down his own valise and hurried to take Marian’s burden.
She gave him an impatient glance but allowed the courtesy. “Mother would be most disappointed. She is taking a sentimental journey through the bed chambers at present, and she means to show me my father’s portrait when I am done here. After all, she was once lady of the house. It seems natural that she act the part of hostess again.”
Darley glanced at the niches along the halls filled with busts of Greek gods on marble pedestals and shook his head. “It is in serious need of redecoration. These styles went out with the first George, I should think. Perhaps the new marquess wishes to ask your mother’s help in renovating this monstrosity.”
“Do not let us dream, my lord, we will only be disappointed. Come, if we hurry, we may catch up with her tour.”
Reginald watched them go with Marian’s words ringing in his ears. Do not let us dream. He gazed up at the particularly ugly portrait of some earlier marquess garbed in the court dress of the sixteenth century. Lousy bastards, all, he decided, to steal a young girl’s dreams.
It was a damned good thing he was a practical man. Otherwise, he might be tempted to find the last sorry bastard who had stolen the lady’s dreams and beat some sense into him.
The sorry bastard of Montague’s thoughts was leaning against a wall, listening to the scurry of footsteps up and down his dust-covered stairway. With a minimum of effort he could listen to their conversations, but the snatches he had heard were enough to make him uncomfortable. Eavesdropping had never been one of his vices.
But his damned curiosity had him watching for the ladies as they explored along the west wing. The building was still in sound repair so far as he had been able to determine. There shouldn’t be any danger in their explorations. He just wished to have some glimpse of his only living relations outside his addle-pated brother.
The hidden corridor he occupied hadn’t been built for viewing. When he had first discovered it, he had thought some perverted ancestor had enjoyed watching the inhabitants of the various bedrooms off this floor.
But he had been unable to locate viewing holes. He had since come to the conclusion that the hidden corridor was there so the master of the house could visit his mistress undetected. It led directly from the master chamber to a prettily decorated room at the far end of what he now knew as the ladies’ wing.
He waited outside the door to that room now. It was hidden behind a wardrobe, and he had left the wardrobe door ajar. If they stood in just the right place, he would be able to see them.
He heard their voices. Already he was beginning to separate the sounds and identify them. The placid, assured tones of an older woman was undoubtedly the Lady Grace, his late cousin’s wife. The timid, whispery voice of a young girl apparently belonged to Jessica, Lady Grace’s daughter by her second marriage. The third voice ...
The owner of the third voice was standing just where he hoped, at the foot of the portrait that was her father. The eighth Marquess of Effingham leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, and studied his young cousin.
She was just as Michael said. Lawrence blood ran true. Dark curls framed a slim face of no great beauty, but the velvet darkness of her eyes and the rosy flush of her cheeks and the soft exclamation of her lips as she looked up at the portrait painted her in all the character of her ancestors.
The marquess fingered his scarred cheek, a cheek that had once been the same sun-warmed hue as hers. His gaze went to the portrait of the man with those same features. His own father had looked much like that, although he scarcely remembered the man. His memory came from the miniature in the watch that he had inherited from his mother. The resemblance was strong, although his father had apparently tended toward corpulence in his old age. The marquess didn’t like thinking of that, because then he would remember how much younger his mother was, and he began to make excuses for her.
Well, now they were here. What in hell was he going to do about it?
To find Michael and thrash him within an inch of his life seemed the only alternative open at the moment.
* * *
Chapter 12
Reginald sat staring morosely at his mud-spattered boots as the air rang with laughter around him. It seemed the ladies of Effingham and Oglethorp were as familiar with kitchens as they were drawing rooms.
They were having a grand adventure exploring larders and pantries and wine cellars, sending the maid and valet scattering in search of fuel for the ancient stove and the lanterns hanging from the beams overhead. His own valet had gone missing at the first hint of any work that might besmirch his immaculate cuffs.
Reginald fingered the necklace in his pocket to reassure himself. He had already hidden the copy from his valise in a secret drawer he had located in the desk in his sitting room. Let O’Toole spend his hours searching for that.
His trouble wasn’t related to the necklace, however. Reginald grimaced as Darley asked if he had minced the carrots fine enough. The resulting laughter answered the question without need of further explanation. Reginald’s trouble was that he was almost beginning to believe that Lady Marian might be the wife for his friend after all.
He didn’t know why that should bother him. He should be relieved. Instead of sitting here admiring his boots and tending the fire, he should be on his way back to London to fetch a preacher and a license. Darley’s wealth would set the ladies up in comfort and they need no longer worry about a pestilent marquess who hadn’t the grace to put in an appearance in his moldering castle.
Perhaps he ought to once more attempt to make Darley see the lady’s true colors. He couldn’t let his friend go into marriage thinking his lady all sweetness and light when she could also be tart as a cold lemonade on a hot summer’s day, and swift and sharp as a surgeon’s scalpel. Reginald wasn’t certain Darley would be as appreciative of these character traits as he ought, but he was smitten enough to accept them if he must. He just needed to have his eyes wide open before he proposed this marriage.
The thought of the scene that must be enacted made him surly. Reginald poked at the fire and announced it ready, then started for the door with the immediate goal of hiding in the library.
“Mr. Montague! You cannot desert us now, unless you are going to fetch that annoying valet of yours. Someone needs to slice the bacon, and these knives seem quite dull.” Lady Marian indicated the assortment of cutlery hanging near the cutting board.
Reginald scowled. He wished to say he knew nothing of kitchens or knives, but in reality he did. He would have starved long since if he had not worked out a few of the intricacies of his landlady’s kitchen in the days of his misspent youth. He crossed the floor, grabbed a knife, and went in search of the whetstone.
“I do believe Mr. Montague is sulking,” Marian said brightly to the room in general. “P’raps we ought to let him sit upstairs and enjoy the must and damp while we wait upon him.”
Darley grinned at his friend’s rigid back. The scene earlier when Darley had discovered the lady in earnest and intimate conversation with Montague had left him feeling uncertain, but Marian’s teasing tones now reassured him. Ladies did not generally insult gentlemen whose attentions they wished to attract.
“I thought I saw a throne in one room. We could sit Reginald there and fetch a few hounds to lay at his feet. But I think we need venison with bones he can gnaw and fling to the dogs. I believe his valet can successfully play the part of fool for his master’s entertainment.” Darley brandished his knife so his carrots could be inspected again.
Lady Grace swiftly gathered the vegetables and added them to the pot, ignoring the badinage between the young people. She hummed happily to herself as she stirred the contents of one pot and kept an eye on Jessica, who was managing the egg dish.
“If I am to be crowned lord of this castle, I’ll demand better peons than the lot of you, I should say. Insolence will get you horsewhipped.” Reginald finished sharpening the knife and slammed the hunk of bacon on the cutting board for slicing.
O’Toole miraculously appeared through the back entrance with two plucked chickens, and the entire company turned to stare. The storm was still rattling the rafters, but the valet didn’t appear in the least bit damp. He looked questioningly to his employer.
Reginald gave him a surly glare. “Excellent. We shall have eggs for dinner and fowl for breakfast. You’re a trifle late, lad.”
Lady Grace gave the young man a gracious smile and relieved him of the hens. “I shall simmer these tonight and we can have them for lunch tomorrow.”
Darley looked uneasy. “I think we should leave in the morning. It does not appear as if our host is at home.”
“He sent his coach for us,” Marian reminded him. “P’raps we ought to instigate a search of the house after we eat. He may be lying ill in a chamber we have not yet discovered.”
“Oh!” Jessica let her spoon clatter against the pan. “If he is ill, we should go look for him right now. The poor man could be dying as we speak.”
“Unless the ‘poor’ man is given to doing his own cooking,” Marian said, “he is undoubtedly caught by the storm in the village with his servant. He is probably tucked up at the inn keeping his frail old bones warm and dry while cackling at the thought of our arrival.”
The hint of sarcasm in Marian’s voice drew Darley’s questioning look, but then a sound that seemed to echo from the walls made them all jump.
“That sounded like a moan,” Jessica whispered, her face growing pale with fright and anxiety as she scanned the dark shadows in the far corners of the kitchen.
“I’d say it sounded more like some dimwitted ghost laughing,” Reginald said dourly, then regretted the remark when the timid Oglethorp ladies both went white. Marian, on the other hand, appeared intrigued.
“I could not tell the direction,” she said softly, listening for a repetition.
“It was, no doubt, squirrels in the walls. We had them once in our hunting box. The wretched things made all kinds of racket until we chased them out. I’ll take a look after we eat.” Darle
y offered the women a reassuring smile.
Lady Grace and Jessica went happily back to their cooking, but Reginald noted Marian gave her suitor a look of irritation. Squirrels did not moan or laugh. Or perhaps it was a groan or chuckle. Whatever it was, it was more human than squirrel, unless one believed in ghosts. Remembering their jests about the missing marquess, Reginald had his own theories on the matter.
He waited until after their impromptu supper—which was quite good considering he had been hungry enough to eat boiled haddock if need be. Then while Darley was lighting the way to the drawing room, Reginald slipped back downstairs to explore.
Minutes later he heard the sound of light footsteps, and he stepped behind a door to hide his candlelight. The thunder had moved away, but he could still hear the rapid patter of rain on the windows. The roads would, in all probability, be impassable on the morrow. He ought to save his explorations for morning.
“Mr. Montague, I know you are in there. Do not try to scare me or I’m likely to set the place on fire with this infernal candle.”
At the sound of Marian’s voice, Reginald stepped from his hiding place. “I should have known better than to think you’d sit quivering in the drawing room with the others. Do you have no fear of what happens to young ladies who wander about strange places all alone?”
In the candlelight, her upturned oval face seemed smooth and serene. The dark hair pulled back from her brow and dangling in curls about her ears was no more than a shadow in the darkness. Reginald had the insane urge to bend and kiss those parted lips. He wasn’t at all certain that wouldn’t be the best thing to do for all of them.
“This was my home, sir. Why should I fear it?” she asked before he could take action on his thoughts.
Reginald moved to a safer distance, searching for a lamp on the desk. “It hasn’t been your home for nearly twenty years, as best as I can determine. Anything can happen in that length of time.”
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