Kitabı oku: «Haunted By The Earl's Touch», sayfa 2
She—who prided herself on being able to stand in front of a class of spoiled daughters and hold her own, at least on the surface, and who, as a charity boarder, had suffered pity and sly comments about her poverty all those years—had managed to stand up to the gloating way the old man had looked at her and crushed any hope that she might have found her place in the world.
But when that piercing gaze looking out from the shadows in the doorway had tangled with hers, it had sapped her courage dry. She’d scuttled ignominiously back to her place without a shred of dignity remaining.
The sooner she left this place, this house with its dark undercurrents, the better. She’d done her duty. Offered her thanks. Surely she was free to go? She would leave first thing in the morning.
She glanced left and right. Which way? The maid who had brought her to the dying man’s room had found her way with unerring ease, but Mary no longer had a clue which way they had come, there had been so many twists and turns on their journey from her chamber. Not to mention the odd staircase.
Part-dissolved abbey, part-Tudor mansion, part-renaissance estate, it sprawled and rambled inside and out. She’d glimpsed the house at dusk, perched high on a Cornish cliff, crenulated towers and chimney pots rising to the sky. A complete muddle of a house.
Her room was in one of those square towers. At the north end, the butler had told her when he escorted her there upon her arrival. The tower nearest the abbey ruins. She could see them through her small window. She had also heard the muffled rumble of the ocean somewhere deep below the house, in its very foundations. A very ominous sound. She shuddered as she imagined the house undermined by the force of the sea.
She eyed her two choices and selected the one that seemed to amble north. Picking up her skirts for speed, she hurried on, wishing there was more light, or a servant to show her the way.
Another corridor branched off to her right, going south? Or had that last corner she had turned set her off course? The maid had turned off the main corridor, hadn’t she? More than once. She plunged into the new hallway. It looked no more familiar than the last.
She needed help.
She tried the first door she came to. A bedroom, its furniture huddled beneath holland covers. If there ever had been a bell rope, it had been removed.
Blast. She returned to the corridor, heading for another room further along.
Footsteps. Behind her. Thank God. Help at last.
She turned around.
A light flickered and stopped. Whoever held the candle remained masked in shadow.
The wind howled through a nearby crevice, lifting the hair at her nape. Her heart picked up speed. The girls at school had told late-night stories of ghosts and hauntings that started like this. Deliciously wicked in their frightening aspects and heroic deeds. Figments of imagination. She did not believe in ghosts. People like her, practical people, did not have the luxury of such flights of fancy, yet she could not quite quell the fear gripping her chest. ‘Who is there?’ She was shocked at the tremble in her voice.
The light drew closer. A candle held in a square-fingered hand joined to a brawny figure still in the darkness. Him. The new earl.
How she knew, she wasn’t sure, but her skin prickled with the knowledge. Heat flushed up from her belly. ‘My lord?’ she said. Her voice quavering just a little more than she would have liked. ‘Lord Beresford?’
The candle went upwards, lighting his harsh face.
‘Great goliaths,’ she said, letting go of her breath. ‘Do you always creep around hallways in such a fashion?’ Oops. That sounded a bit too much like the schoolteacher taking a pupil to task.
The eyes staring down at her were not dark as she had thought in the old earl’s bedroom. They were as grey as storm clouds. And watchful.
‘Are you lost?’ he drawled in that deep mocking voice with its hint of roughness.
‘Certainly not,’ she replied, discomposed by his obvious indifference. Heat rushed to her cheeks and she was glad the dim light would not reveal her embarrassment. She let her gaze fall away.
‘Liar,’ he said softly.
She bristled.
‘That’s better.’
A snuffling sound drew her gaze down. The dog. It sank to its haunches and watched her with its head cocked on one side. It was enormous. ‘What is better?’ she asked, keeping a wary eye on the dog.
‘It is better when you stand up straight, instead of hunching over like a scared schoolgirl.’
As a schoolgirl, she had tried to disguise her ungainly height. It spoke to her discomfort that she had fallen back into that old habit.
She looked up past the wide chest and broad shoulders, past the snowy cravat and strong column of throat, his full mobile mouth at eye level, then up to meet his gaze. Most men were either her height or shorter. This one was taller than her by half a head—he must be inches above six foot tall—and he reeked of danger.
What snatches of conversation she’d heard between him and the dying earl had been positively menacing. And, unless she was badly mistaken, some of the venom shifting back and forth between them had been directed at her.
‘If you will excuse me, I must be on my way.’
‘On your way where?’
‘To my room.’
He shot her a wolfish smile. ‘So that was not your room. The one you just left.’
‘No,’ she muttered, making to step past him.
‘What were you doing in that chamber?’
Did he think she was trying to steal? She stiffened her spine, meeting his gaze full on. Such directness usually sent men running for the hills. On this one it apparently had no effect. Or none visible, though she did sense a sharpening of interest in those wintery eyes.
She huffed out a breath of defeat. ‘I will admit I am a little turned about. My chamber is in the tower at the north end of the house. I thought I would ring for a servant to guide me, but there was no bell pull in the first room I tried.’
‘A clever thought.’
‘I am clever.’ She bit her lip. That was just the sort of quick retort men did not like. A habit of bravado honed in the schoolroom.
He didn’t seem to notice. ‘Follow me.’ He strode past her down the corridor, the dog following at his heels, leaving her to trot along behind as best she might.
He took a flight of stairs down and then passed along a stone corridor that smelled of must and damp. She was sure she had not come this way.
He hesitated at yet another intersection of passageways.
She huffed out a breath. ‘Don’t tell me, you are lost too.’
He gave her a scornful look. ‘I never get lost.’
Doubt filled her mind. ‘Have you ever been to this house before?’
‘North is this way.’ He set off once more with the dog padding beside him.
Hah. Avoidance. He was just as lost as she was. More lost. Because she was quite sure from the increasingly dank feel to the air that they were now in the cellars. The sea growled louder too. Typical. Why would men never admit to being lost?
About to insist they stop, she was surprised when he took off up a circular flight of narrow stairs she hadn’t noticed. At the top, he turned left and there they were, at her chamber door. How irritating. And she still had no idea how she got here. It didn’t matter. She had no reason to learn her way around, since she would be departing at once.
‘Thank you, my lord.’ She dipped her best curtsy and prayed he would not hear the wry note in her voice.
He held his candle high and caught her chin in long strong fingers just like the old man had done. But these fingers were warm with youth and strong with vigour and, while firm, they were also gentle. She jerked her head, but he held her fast.
She stared up at his face, at the beautifully moulded lips set in a straight line hovering above hers. His head dipped a fraction. Angled. She could feel his breath, warm on her cheek, inhaled a hint of cologne, something male, mingled with leather and horse and briny air that made her feel dizzy.
She drew in a deep breath as his gaze fell on her mouth, lingering there, until she thought he would kiss her. Longed that he would to break this dreadful tension between them.
Nervous, she licked her lips.
His eyes narrowed and he raised that piercing gaze to meet hers as if he would read her mind. Stroked her chin with his thumb and, she shivered. He leaned closer and for a wild moment, she thought he really did intend to kiss her and her body hummed at the thought.
Instead, he spoke. ‘Who are you?’ he rasped softly.
‘Mary,’ she managed to gasp in a breathless whisper, her breathing beyond her control. ‘Mary Wilding.’
‘Wilding?’ A brow went up. ‘And what brought you here, Miss Wilding?’
She swallowed. ‘I was invited. By the earl.’
‘The late earl.’
She nodded.
He stepped back, releasing her face. ‘And what is your purpose here, I wonder?’
‘It doesn’t matter. I will be leaving first thing.’
‘I see. Well, Miss Wilding, I bid you goodnight. We will talk before you go.’
She remained frozen as he disappeared back down the twisting stairs and she was left alone, in the silence, not hearing even his footsteps and feeling strangely giddy.
Breathless, from … fear? The fluttering in her belly, the tremble in her hands, could be nothing else. Though what made her fearful, she wasn’t sure. Perhaps her reactions? To him? Would she have actually let him kiss her, had he wanted to do so?
Could she have stopped such a powerful man taking whatever he wanted? A little thrill rippled through her. Perverse. Unwanted.
All he had wanted was to question her.
She pressed cold fingers to her hot cheeks and hauled in a deep breath before stepping inside her small chamber. While thanking her benefactor had been one of the less pleasant experiences of her life, meeting the new earl had been something else entirely. Disturbing and exciting. It might be as well to avoid him before she left.
Coward.
Chapter Two
The maid Betsy, assigned to help Mary dress, arrived at nine the next morning.
Mary didn’t needed help dressing. Just as always, she’d been awake and dressed by six, before light touched the grey wintery sky. At school, it was her task to see that the girls were washed and dressed before they came to breakfast. The maid had to content herself with drawing back the curtains and putting coal on the fire. ‘This room is always cold,’ the girl announced cheerfully. ‘Will there be anything else, miss?’
‘I would like a carriage to take me to St Ives.’
‘You will need to speak to Mr Manners,’ the girl said, her Cornish vowels hard to decipher.
Of course. The butler. He would be in charge of such things. ‘Where will I find him?’
The small brown-eyed girl raised her brows. ‘In the breakfast room. Serving the family.’
The grieving family. She wanted nothing to do with any of them, especially the new earl. But since she needed to order the carriage, she straightened her shoulders and smiled. ‘Perhaps you would be good enough to guide me there?’
Betsy bobbed a curtsy. ‘Follow me, miss.’
It wasn’t long before she was deposited in front of a large oak door off the entrance hall. ‘In there, miss.’
‘Thank you.’ Mary sailed through the door as if she had been making grand entrances all her life. Or at least she hoped she gave that impression.
What a relief. No brooding earl awaited her in the oak-panelled room with its polished furniture and gleaming silver. Only his cousins sat at the table. Blond and handsome, they rose to their feet as she entered.
‘Good morning,’ she said.
‘Good morning, Miss Wilding,’ they replied gravely.
The older one, Mr Jeffrey Beresford, gave her a swift perusal. A slightly pained expression entered his vivid-blue eyes. No doubt he thought her dreadfully shabby in her Sunday-best dress, but it was grey and she’d thought it the most appropriate under the circumstances. The younger one nodded morosely.
Both young men wore dark coats and black armbands. Of Mrs Hampton there was no sign. No doubt she preferred to breakfast in her room on such a sorrowful day.
‘Miss Wilding,’ the butler said, pulling out a chair opposite the Beresford cousins. She sat.
They followed suit.
‘Did you sleep well, Miss Wilding?’ Mr Beresford asked, assuming the duty of host in the earl’s absence.
‘Yes, thank you.’ She certainly wasn’t going to admit to her mind replaying the scene with the earl outside her chamber door over and over as she restlessly tossed and turned.
‘Really?’ Mr Hampton said, looking up, his face angelic in a shaft of sunlight that at that moment had broken through the clouds and found its way into the dining room to rest on him.
‘Is there some reason why I should not?’ she asked a little stiffly, surprised by his sudden interest.
He looked at her moodily. ‘They do say as how the White Lady’s ghost haunts the north tower.’
‘You are an idiot, Ger,’ the other cousin said. ‘Don’t listen to him, Miss Wilding. It is an old wives’ tale.’
‘‘Tis not,’ Gerald said, his lips twisting. ‘One of the servants saw her last week.’
‘And that is a bouncer,’ his cousin replied repressively. ‘One servant saw her fifty years ago.’
The younger man scowled.
Mary felt sorry for him. Boys liked their ghost stories as much as foolish young girls did, no doubt. ‘It would take more than a ghost to scare me,’ she said calmly, ‘if I actually believed in them.’ It would take a tall dark earl with a sinful mouth to make her quiver in fear. Or quiver with something.
The young man looked a little insulted. ‘If you see her, you will tell me, won’t you? I’ve been keeping track of her sightings.’ He pushed his food around with his fork. ‘They say she appears when there is to be a death in the house.’ The utter belief in his voice gave her a strange slithery sensation in her stomach. It also reminded her of last night’s events with a pang of guilt.
‘Although I had never met your grandfather before last night, I hope you will accept my deepest sympathy for your loss.’
Both young men nodded their acceptance of her condolence.
‘Coffee, miss?’ the butler asked.
She usually had tea in the morning. And only one cup. But there was another scent floating in the air, making her mouth water and her stomach give little hops of pleasure. ‘Chocolate, please, Manners.’ She’d had her first taste of chocolate this morning when Betsy had brought her tray and really couldn’t resist having it one last time.
The man poured a cup from the silver chocolate pot on the sideboard and added a generous dollop of cream. Such luxury. Wait until she told Sally. Her friend and employer would be so envious. Chocolate was one of those luxuries they dreamt of on a cold winter’s night.
The butler brought her toast on a plate and offered her a selection of platters. Deciding to make the most of what was offered—after all, she was an invited guest—she took some shirred eggs and ham and sausage and tucked in with relish. Breakfast at Ladbrook’s rarely consisted of more than toast and jam and porridge in the winter months. Ladbrook’s School for Young Ladies was rarely full to capacity and the best food always went to the paying pupils. As a charity case, she had managed on leftovers. Since becoming employed as a teacher things had improved, but not by much.
Hope of improving the school was why she had agreed to travel all the way from Wiltshire to meet the late earl. If he had proved to be a distant relation, she had thought to convince him to provide funds for improvements, to make it more fashionable and therefore profitable, as well as enable the taking in of one or two more charity boarders like herself.
She let go of a sigh. The earl’s death had put paid to all her hopes, including any hope of some family connection. She ought to speak of the school’s needs to the new earl, she supposed, but his behaviour so far had led her to the conclusion that, rather than a man of charitable bent, he was likely to be one of the scandalous rakes one read about in broadsheets and romantic novels.
‘What do you think of the Abbey, Miss Wilding?’ Mr Hampton asked.
‘It’s a dreadful pile,’ his cousin put in before she could answer. ‘Don’t you think?’
Tact seemed to be the best course between two extremes. ‘I have seen very little, so would find it hard to form an opinion, Mr Hampton.’
‘Call me Gerald. Mr Hampton was my father. That pink of the ton is Jeffrey.’
His older cousin inclined his head, clearly accepting the description with aplomb. Mary smiled her thanks, not quite sure what lay behind this courtesy for a virtual stranger.
‘What shall we call you?’ he asked. ‘Cousin?’
She stiffened. Had they also formed the mistaken impression they were related, or had they heard the earl’s mocking reply to her question and thought to follow suit? Heat rushed to her cheeks. ‘You may call me Miss Wilding.’
Gerald frowned. ‘You sound like my old governess.’
‘I am a schoolteacher.’
Jeffrey leaned back in his chair and cast an impatient glance at Gerald. ‘Miss Wilding it is then, ma’am. At least you are not claiming to be a Beresford.’
Mary caught her breath at this obvious jibe at his absent older cousin. She had heard some of his conversation with the old earl and gathered there was some doubt about the legitimacy of his birth. She hadn’t expected the issue addressed so openly.
Last night she’d had the sense that the old man’s barbs had found their mark with the heir. Not that he’d had shown any reaction. But there had been something running beneath the surface. Anger. Perhaps resentment. And a sense of aloneness, as if he too had hoped for acceptance from this family.
She certainly did not approve of sniping at a person behind their back and their family quarrels were certainly none of her business, so she ignored the comment and buttered her toast. She had more important matters on her mind. Getting back to school. Preparing her lessons. Helping Sally find ways to reduce expenses still further if the earl’s munificence was indeed ended.
She smiled at the butler as he added chocolate to her cup. ‘Manners, may I request the carriage take me to St Ives after breakfast? I would like to catch the stage back to Wiltshire.’
‘I can’t do that, miss,’ Manners replied stone-faced.
Startled, she stared at him.
Gerald frowned. ‘Why not?’
‘His lordship’s orders. You will have to apply to him, miss.’
The heat in her cheeks turned to fire at the thought of asking his lordship for anything.
‘Damn him,’ Jeffrey said with more heat than he seemed wont to display. ‘He hasn’t been here five minutes and already he’s acting …’ His voice tailed off and he reddened as he realised Gerald’s avid gaze was fixed on his face.
‘It isn’t fair,’ Gerald said. ‘You should be the heir. He should have the decency to withdraw his claim.’
‘He can’t,’ Jeffrey said. ‘The heir is the heir. The proof is irrefutable.’
‘It still isn’t right,’ Gerald muttered.
Jeffrey gave Mary an apologetic smile. ‘Gerald takes things too much to heart. And I am sorry about the carriage, Miss Wilding. Would you like me to speak to … to his lordship?’ He stumbled on the last word as if he was not quite as sanguine as he made out.
‘I would certainly hate to inconvenience anyone,’ Mary said. ‘Perhaps I shall walk.’
‘There’s a path along the cliffs,’ Gerald said. ‘I’ve walked it often. Take you a good while, though.’
‘I advise you not to try it, Miss Wilding,’ Jeffrey drawled. ‘The Cornish coast is dangerous for those who do not know it.’
Another roadblock. Her spine stiffened. She gave him a tight smile ‘Thank you for the warning. Perhaps I should seek the earl’s permission to take the carriage, after all.’
Or not. How difficult could it be to walk along the coast? Sea on one side, land on the other and no earthly chance of getting lost. Unlike her experience in this house. And she had absolutely no intention of asking his lordship for anything. The thought of doing so made her heart race.
‘Where is the new lordship,’ Gerald asked, his lip curling with distaste.
‘I believe he rode out, sir,’ the butler said. ‘More coffee?’
Gerald waved him off.
‘I wonder what he is riding?’ Jeffrey said. ‘A man like him probably has no idea of good horseflesh.’
Like him? Now that was pure snobbery. She wondered what they said about a woman like her, a penniless schoolteacher, behind her back. No doubt they had thought she had come to ingratiate herself. How mortifying that they were very nearly right. She felt her shoulders rise in that old defensive posture and forced them to relax, keeping her expression neutral. These young noblemen were nowhere near as vicious as schoolgirls, nothing to fear at all.
‘Aye,’ Gerald said. ‘A man like him will be all show and no go.’
Jeffrey raised a brow. ‘As if you would know, cuz. Isn’t it time your mother let you have a decent mount of your own?’
Gerald hunched a shoulder. ‘I’m to get one on my birthday. And a phaeton.’
‘God help us all,’ Jeff said sotto voce.
The door swung back and the earl strode in. His silver gaze swept the room, taking in the occupants in one swift glance before he made for the empty place at the head of the table.
The new earl was just as impressive in the grey of morning as he had been in the glow of lamplight. Perhaps more so. His black coat hugged his broad shoulders and his cravat was neatly tied. He was not wearing an armband. Perhaps he considered the black coat quite enough, though the rich fabric of his cream waistcoat, embroidered with blue sprigs, suggested he hadn’t given mourning a thought when he dressed.
The shadowed jaw of the previous night was gone, his face smooth and recently shaved. He was, as her girls would say when they thought she could not hear, devilishly handsome. Devilish being the most apt word she could think of in respect to the earl, since his face was set in the granite-hard lines of a fallen angel who found his fate grim.
Oh, jumping Jehosophat, did it matter how he looked? After today, she would never see him again.
‘Good morning,’ he said to the room at large.
The two young men mumbled grudging greetings.
‘Good morning, my lord,’ Mary said with a polite calm. It wasn’t right to treat him like some sort of pariah in his own house. She wouldn’t do it. She would be civil. Even if it was hard to breathe now he took up so much of the air in the room.
His eyes widened a fraction. ‘Miss Wilding. Up and about so early?’
‘As is my usual wont,’ she replied, sipping her chocolate, not tasting it at all any more, because all she was aware of was him.
Heat rushed to her cheeks and she hoped he did not notice.
After responding to Manners’s enquiries about his preferences for breakfast, he picked up the newspaper beside his plate and disappeared behind it.
A strained silence filled the room. It demanded that someone break it. It was just too obvious that they had stopped talking the moment he entered. He would think they were talking about him. They weren’t. At least, not all of the time. It made her feel very uncomfortable, as if her skin was stretched too tight.
She waited until he had eaten most of his breakfast. Sally, widowed by two husbands and therefore an expert, always said men were not worth talking to until they had filled their stomachs. ‘My lord?’
He looked up, frowning.
Perhaps he hadn’t eaten enough. Well, it was too late to draw back. ‘May I request that your coachman drive me to St Ives this morning? It is time I returned home.’
He frowned. ‘Not today. Your presence is required in two hours’ time for the reading of the will.’
The will? What did that have to do with her? ‘That is not necessary, surely?’
He gave her a look that froze her to the spot. ‘Would I ask it, if it were not?’
She dragged her gaze from his and put down her cup. A tiny hope unfurled in her chest. Perhaps the earl had left something for the school after all. Had she been too hasty in thinking her quest unsuccessful?
The earl was watching her face with a cynical twist to his lips, as if she was some sort of carrion crow picking over a carcase. Guilt twisted in her stomach. She had no reason to feel guilty. The school was a worthy cause, even if it did also benefit her. And if she had previously hoped the earl’s summons had signified something more, something of a familial nature, those expectations had been summarily disabused and were no one’s concern but her own. ‘If it is required, then I will attend.’
The earl pushed his plate aside and pushed to his feet. ‘Eleven o’clock in the library, Miss Wilding. Try not to be late.’
She bristled, but managed to hang on to her aplomb. ‘I am never late, my lord.’
He gazed at her for a long moment and she was sure she saw a gleam of amusement in his eyes, but it was gone too fast for her to be certain. ‘Unless you become lost, I assume.’
Once more heat flooded her face at the memory of his rescue the previous evening and her shocking responses to his closeness. Her incomprehensible longings, which must not recur. It was ungentlemanly of him to remind her.
He departed without waiting for a reply, no doubt assuming his orders would be carried out. And if they weren’t then no doubt the autocratic man would find a way to rectify the matter.
‘I’m for the stables,’ Jeffrey said. ‘I want to take a look at his horseflesh.’
He wanted to mock.
‘Can I come?’ Gerald asked, his expression pleading.
‘If you wish,’ his cousin said, kindly, which made Mary think a great deal more of him. He bowed to Mary and the two of them strolled away.
Now what should she do? Go back to her room and risk getting lost? Sally hadn’t expected her to spend more than one night here at the Abbey, no matter what hopes Mary had secretly held. What she should do was despatch a letter to Sally telling her what was happening and why her return might be delayed by another day. She could while away the two hours before the appointed time in writing and reading more enjoyably than spending the time wandering the chilly corridors of this rambling mansion looking for her room.
‘Will you direct me to the library, Manners? I assume there is paper and pen there?’
The butler bowed. ‘Yes, miss. It is located further along this hallway. You cannot miss it.’
If anyone could miss anything when it came to directions, she could and would. But that was her own personal cross to bear. ‘Thank you.’
He gave her a kind smile. ‘There is a footman going to the village this afternoon, if you would like a letter posted, miss. Ring the bell when you are finished and he’ll come and collect it. You will find sealing wax and paper in the desk drawer, and ink on the inkstand.’
She smiled her thanks and made her escape.
The library proved to be exactly where the butler had said and she found it without difficulty.
Nirvana could not have looked any more inviting. Shelves, packed with leather-bound books in shades of blue, red and green, rose from floor to ceiling on three dark-panelled walls. Wooden chairs strategically placed beside tables of just the right height encouraged a person to spread books out at will. Deep overstuffed sofas and chairs upholstered in fabrics faded to soft brown tempted the reader who liked to curl up with a novel. Cushioned window seats offered comfort and light on dark winter days. All was overseen by a large oak desk at one end.
The delights on offer tested her determination to write to Sally first and read afterwards. But she managed it, sitting at the heavy desk, putting out of her mind what she could not say about the new earl as she wrote of the demise of their donor.
She flicked the feather end of her quill across her chin. Should she mention a possibility of some small sum in the will? It seemed a bit presumptuous. She decided to write only of her delayed return. A mere day or two, she said.
Having rung the bell and sent off her missive, she turned her attention to the feast of books. She selected a book of poems by Wordsworth and settled into one of the window seats.
She didn’t have long to indulge because, within the half-hour, Mr Savary, the solicitor who had been at the earl’s bedside, arrived with a box full of papers and began fussing with them on the desk.
Mary decided she would remain where she was, at the furthest point in the room from where the family would conduct its business.
At a few minutes past eleven, the family members straggled in. First Gerald with his mother. Mrs Hampton looked very becoming in black. It suited her air of delicacy. She would have been an extraordinarily beautiful woman in her youth. She and her son, who took after her in the beauty department, sat beside the blazing hearth not far from the desk.
Jeffrey, his saunter as pronounced as any Bond Street beau, came next. Not that Mary had ever seen a Bond Street beau, but she’d seen cartoons in the paper, read descriptions of their antics and could use her imagination. He struck a languid pose at the fireplace, one arm resting on the mantel while he gazed pensively into the flames. Regretting being cut out of the title? He didn’t seem to care much about anything. Perhaps it was the idea of the earl holding the purse-strings that had him looking so thoughtful.
The upper servants gathered just inside the doorway: the butler, the housekeeper and a gentleman in a sombre suit who could have been anything from a parson to a land steward. They must all have expectations. The old earl had proved generous to her over the past many years, so why not to his servants? Though, in truth, on meeting him, she had not liked him one little bit. There had been an air of maliciousness about him.
