Goodson nodded as Charles strolled over to his side. “You can’t see the doorway because of the armoire,” Goodson explained, “but with the help of a few sturdy footmen, we can have it moved to a different location.” He looked a bit embarrassed. “The rooms haven’t been used in decades, sir, and will require some refurbishing, but I assure you that we can have everything ready for you by the wedding. Would you like to see the sitting room and the other bedroom?”
After a considering glance at the huge ancient oak armoire, Charles said, “Of course.”
Leaving Daphne’s room, Goodson led Charles a short way down the hall. Coming to a large door, he opened it and after taking down one of the candles from the sconces that hung on either side of the door and lighting it, waved Charles inside.
The place smelled musty and unused, but not unpleasant, and with a couple of days of opened windows and a thorough cleaning and airing of the drapes and rugs, that particular problem would be solved, Charles thought as he followed Goodson into the shadowy gloom. Goodson’s candle revealed a handsome room with a carved ceiling and several pieces of furniture cloaked in dust covers. Crossing quickly to a tall bank of windows, Goodson threw back the heavy honey-colored velvet drapes in an attempt to dispel some of the shadows. Even with the drapes thrown wide, there still wasn’t much light coming in through the dirty windows, but Charles glimpsed an exquisite old rug in shades of amber and green on the floor and realized that the flooring itself was a beautiful walnut parquet. An imposing green marble fireplace dominated the far wall; a gilt-edged mirror hung above the mantle. Nearby, he spied a set of double doors that led, he supposed, to the other bedroom.
He said as much to Goodson, and the butler nodded. “Yes, that is correct, sir. Miss Daphne’s room was used by the master, and these rooms were for his wife.”
After Goodson opened one of the doors, Charles followed him into another spacious room, the furniture hidden beneath dust covers looming ghostlike in the gloom. Charles didn’t waste much time on the bedroom and sitting room. They would suit him well enough.
Walking back into the sitting room, he looked around and finally found the doorway into Daphne’s bedroom hidden behind a heavy drape, giving the illusion of another window. Pushing aside the fabric, he grasped the crystal knob and after a bit of a struggle, opened the door. The rear of the armoire in Daphne’s room met his gaze.
He took another glance around the sitting room and nodded to Goodson. “Yes, I think this shall do nicely once it has been aired and cleaned.”
Goodson beamed at him. “I shall tell Mrs. Hutton, and she will have the maids start on it immediately. Would you like to see the furniture? It is old-fashioned but quite elegant. I’m sure that we can change anything that does not meet with your approval.”
“Ah, no,” Charles said hastily. “I’m sure that I can trust you and Mrs. Hutton to see that all is as it should be by the day of the wedding.”
Charles bid Goodson good day and walked slowly down the broad, sweeping staircase to the lower floor. A moment later, he rejoined Daphne in the salon.
At his entrance, she stood up, questions in her eyes. Charles shook his head. “I looked,” he said, “but I could see no sign of any doorway.”
Her face full of disappointment, she said, “Are you certain you looked in the right place?”
He nodded, and after refilling his snifter, he said, “Believe me, I stared at that Chinese wallpaper until I thought my eyes would cross.”
Daphne stiffened. “Do you doubt my word?”
Charles shook his head. “No. I just tend to think that in your confusion and terror, perhaps you thought you saw the outline of another doorway that night. You examined the wall by the light of a candle, and it’s possible that in the uncertain light, you were deceived in what you saw.”
“If you think that,” she snapped, “then why do you believe I saw the female apparition? Why don’t you think I didn’t imagine her, too? You didn’t see her in my room either, yet you claim to believe me. Why not the doorway?” She shot him a hard glance. “You cannot just believe in part of what I tell you and dismiss the other.” Passionately, she added, “I saw that outline. I did not imagine it, and it was not because I was frightened and my bloody candle threw shadows! It was there, I tell you!”
Charles realized that Daphne was absolutely correct. He hadn’t seen the ghost, yet he believed her about that, and if he believed her about having seen a ghost in her bedroom, why not the doorway?
“I apologize,” he said. “And you’re right. The doorway is part and parcel of this whole affair, and I was mistaken to dismiss it so lightly.” He frowned. “It could be that it was the presence of your little ghost that caused it to appear. It’s possible that your doorway is important to her, that there is some relationship between her appearance and the outline.” He rubbed his chin. “Did you know that your bedroom was once part of the master’s suite of rooms?”
When Daphne shook her head, he continued, “According to Goodson, it was Sir Huxley’s mother who decided to make a new suite of rooms for the master and mistress of the house and moved them down the hall. She was also the one who had the Chinese wallpaper hung. Something else I discovered—that big armoire in your room hides the doorway that leads to the original sitting room and the mistress’s bedroom and dressing room. Goodson gave me a tour. He and Mrs. Hutton will be preparing them for us and opening up the doorway between your bedroom and the sitting room.” He took a swallow of his brandy. “We shall be quite comfortable whenever we are in residence here.”
Daphne reseated herself on the sofa, her thoughts whirling. It gave her a queer feeling to think that she had slept in that room for months now and never once guessed that the old armoire hid a doorway into another set of rooms. In one way, she was pleased. She’d grown comfortable in her bedroom and the knowledge that upon her marriage, she wasn’t going to be moving into a different part of the house was comforting. But Charles’s words brought something to mind that had been troubling her for a while. How often and how long would he be willing to live at Beaumont Place?
They had never discussed precisely how their time was to be divided between the two estates. Daphne knew that Charles could not simply abandon his own home, Stonegate, in favor of Beaumont Place, but she didn’t think it right either that Adrian, until he was of age, be compelled to abandon his own lands and home. Of course, there would be trips to London for the Season, especially once April was brought out, and she was positive that Adrian intended to make a dash in London, but where, she wondered, would they all live when they were not in London?
Uncertainly, she eyed Charles. He had promised that he would not separate her from her brother and sister and she believed him, but where did he plan on them living? Stonegate? Her heart sank. She had grown to love Beaumont Place and the surrounding area, and she wasn’t happy at the notion of leaving behind her friends in the neighborhood, such as Vicar Henley and his family. And what about Goodson and Mrs. Hutton? Would they stay here or go to Stonegate? Her heart sank even lower. It had to be assumed that Charles already had his own servants, and so it was unlikely, even if only until Adrian was of age, that he’d hire Goodson and Mrs. Hutton to run Stonegate. She bit her lip, dreading the idea of being a stranger again and having to find her footing in a new house, with new servants, and all that settling into a new place entailed. A new home, she reminded herself, not a place. A home. Stonegate would be her home. And Charles would be her husband.
She looked down at her clasped hands, not willing to speculate too much on all the changes that were happening in her life at the moment. Charles would be her husband, but Adrian and April’s needs could not be pushed aside. She understood that her new husband would have his own estates to consider, but what about Adrian’s? Did Charles intend to leave Adrian’s holdings in the hands of someone like Mr. Vinton and for them all to live at Stonegate with just the fleeting visit now and then to Beaumont Place? He would have the power to do just that.
Aware of her covert stare, Charles asked, “What? You’re looking at me as if I have suddenly sprouted horns.”
Daphne flushed. “I was just, er, wondering—after we are married, how often you think we shall be staying at Beaumont Place?”
“Afraid I might lock you in the dungeon at Stonegate and throw away the key?” he demanded, a bite in his voice.
“That’s unfair,” she protested. “There are two large estates, two homes involved, with farms and tenants and servants and myriad other things. One is yours, and one is Adrian’s. We’ve never discussed what your plans are in regard to either one of them. When we marry, not only is my life in your hands, but until he reaches his majority, Adrian’s also. And until she marries, April’s as well.”
That she did not quite trust him was obvious. That she placed the welfare of her brother and sister above all else was also obvious. That she loved Adrian and April first, last, and always was obvious, too, and he wondered bleakly if the day would ever come that she would allow him a small place in her heart. Would he always come second to her brother and sister? Charles pinched the bridge of his nose. “I suspect that we shall divide our time between the two places and London,” he said finally. “If I am needed at Stonegate, then we will be there; if Adrian is needed here, then we shall be here. I have no set plan.” He gave her a steady look. “Naturally, once we are married, I shall expect us to spend time at Stonegate. It will be your home and for as long as they wish, the home of your brother and sister, but I imagine we will spend an equal amount of time here. Your brother has an excellent man of business, as do I; between them, I think they will be able to see to things when we cannot be here.” He made a face. “Or there.”
She still looked wary, and he came to sit beside her on the sofa. Taking her hand in his, he said, “Daphne, I cannot promise you that everything will be as you wish. There may be times that I will demand you put my desires above those of your brother and sister. I may be required to be at Stonegate for a time, and if I am, then I shall expect you to be there, too. Your brother and sister will always be welcome. We shall certainly spend time here—it is your brother’s home. He is young yet, but one day, he must oversee his own estates, and he cannot learn everything he needs to learn living at Stonegate—I understand that. I know that we will be here often, perhaps more than I would like, but I am willing to do it, certainly in these early years. Adrian must learn the ways of his lands, become the true master here, and I will help him in any manner that I can, but I will not lie to you—I will not sacrifice my lands for his.” Something implacable entered his face. “Nor will I sacrifice my life for his,” he said bluntly, “or allow you to do so.”
Daphne met his hard gaze head on. She resented his words, resented his coming power over them, but she knew he was being fairer than most men might have been. Still, it rankled, and her chin lifted. “Very well. Thank you for your candor.”
Charles smiled at her. “Candor? My dear, if you knew me better, you’d know that I was being most delicate.”
Long after Charles departed for Lanyon Hall, Daphne considered his words. She suspected that beneath that charming demeanor lurked unyielding steel, and she wondered uneasily how far the steel went…and how often he displayed the ruthless implacability she sensed within him. Was he hiding his true nature? Lulling her into a false feeling of security?
She wrinkled her nose. No. Charles Weston would do no lulling. He might have chosen his words with care this afternoon, but he had not tried to wrap them in clean linen. It was clear she was marrying a man used to getting his own way and intent on continuing to get his own way, but—and it was this but that soothed some of the fear in her heart—he would be fair in his dealings with them. She could ask no more of him.
It wasn’t until she had bid her siblings good night and retired to her rooms that evening that she thought about the other part of the conversation with Charles. Once she had dismissed her maid, before she climbed into bed, she walked over to the big armoire and looked at it. She could see no sign of the doorway that Charles told her lay behind its bulk. Shrugging, she walked back to her bed and snuggled under the covers.
Only when she blew out the candle and the darkness swooped down on her did she remember something else. Charles had said that this room had once been part of the original suite of rooms used by the masters of Beaumont Place. Her breath caught, and she sat bolt upright in bed. Good God! She was sleeping in wicked Sir Wesley’s bedroom!
Chapter 12
Sleep did not come to Daphne that night. With thoughts of Sir Wesley crowding out common sense she hastily lit a huge candelabrum and kept it handy. Crawling back into bed, she lay stiffly, her gaze on the shadows created by the candlelight that danced around the room, fearful images vaulting through her mind. Heart banging painfully in her chest, she watched all through the very long night for that frightful amorphous form she’d seen in the blue salon to leap out at her from the darkness beyond the candlelight. She would have almost welcomed the sight of the wispy female apparition—that, at least, would have driven Sir Wesley from her mind.
She managed to get through the night, and by morning, she could chide herself for being foolish, but she could not pretend that she would ever be entirely easy in this room again. It was too tainted by the knowledge that Sir Wesley had once roamed through it for her peace of mind. Though she knew it was silly, as she dressed, she kept glancing over her shoulder, worried that she might actually see something forming in the dust motes that drifted in the sunlight that filled the room. Dressed and ready to face the day, she wandered around the room as if seeing it for the first time, wondering what it had looked like in Sir Wesley’s time, wondering what ugly deeds may have been plotted or even carried out here at his behest.
Her first instinct was to change her bedroom, but she hesitated. For months, she had slept here without complaint. Refusing to use the room now was sure to cause gossip in the household. There was another reason to remain here—only yesterday, Charles had inspected the rooms that adjoined this one and had declared that they were suitable. While she’d been dressing, she’d heard movement next door and guessed that the servants were already hard at work readying the rooms for their use. She made a face at herself. Unless she wanted more gossip, she was just going to have to endure sleeping here and pray that Sir Wesley didn’t decide to pay her a visit…or any other ghost.
Some judicious questioning over the next several days revealed that she was, indeed, sleeping in Sir Wesley’s former bedroom, his own bed, in fact. Daphne felt ill at that unwelcome bit of news. Mrs. Hutton hurriedly assured her that the feather mattress and the bed hangings were of a more recent date. Only the bed and the big armoire dated from Sir Wesley’s time. Daphne wasn’t comforted. Just the idea that Sir Wesley, that thing from the blue salon, had once slept in the same bed left her feeling chilled and uneasy.
No one knew the fortitude it took for her to return to her room each night, the room that was now forever labeled Sir Wesley’s in her mind. She kept a candle lit but slept poorly, jerking upright at the slightest sound, be it the pop of the fire or the rattle of the windows on a windy night. But as the nights passed, her fears lessened, and by the time a fortnight had passed, she could sleep almost undisturbed through the night.
The descent on Beaumont Place by friends and neighbors curious about what had transpired in the blue salon never materialized, and Daphne was devoutly grateful. She discovered that as soon as it was learned that Anne Darby had been present, all the gossip was simply brushed aside as some very clever theatrics by the local witch.
The wedding was little more than ten days away. Notes of congratulations and presents were pouring in, and the household was in a tizzy preparing for all the guests that would soon be descending upon Beaumont Place. The doors of musty rooms that had not seen the light of day in decades were thrown wide and thoroughly aired and cleaned; Cook demanded more staff and seemed to Daphne determined to concoct meals that would please the palate of a king. There were trips to the dressmaker in Penzance for the ladies of the house, even Miss Kettle breaking down and agreeing to a new gown in puce silk for the wedding.
Though a visit with Anne Darby was high on her list of things to do, there was simply no time. She had managed, however, a word with Vicar Henley during the small dinner party he and his wife hosted for her and Charles a few days later. Seeking a private moment with the vicar, she mentioned Sir Wesley’s name, and the vicar had sent her a soothing smile. “My dear,” he said, “never worry that some of that old villain’s blood runs in your veins. Perish the thought! He may have had a hand in doing away with his nephew, but no one was ever able to prove it.” He rubbed his chin reflectively. “From the surviving letters of that time, it was certainly suspected that he killed John—or had him killed. The point for you to remember is that Sir Wesley died without issue.” He looked solemn. “It was an ugly time with ugly doings, and I must say, from my research, that it is fortunate for your family that Sir Wesley was not able to get his hands on his nephew’s wife and child. I shudder to think what might have happened to them. The moment Anne-Marie’s parents heard of John’s arrest by his uncle, they swooped down and carried their daughter away to the safety of their own home, well out of Sir Wesley’s grasp. It was at her parents’ home in Suffolk that Anne-Marie gave birth to John’s son, Jonathan. Only after Sir Wesley died did John’s widow and his son return to take their rightful position at Beaumont Place.” He patted her shoulder and smiled. “You are descended from Sir Jonathan, and from everything I’ve read, he was an ancestor to be proud of. Put any thoughts of Sir Wesley out of your mind.”
Seduction Becomes Her Page 18