“Aye, Mr Daventry, sir.”
Father and son had been loyal servants ever since Atticus had saved the boy from being sentenced to ten-years transportation.
Lucius left his horse in Samuel’s care, mounted the stone steps and cleaned his boots on the iron scraper. In truth, he would prefer to wait until morning to discuss matters with Miss Atwood. Daylight carried an air of respectability. Subdued lighting, dark corners and the need of a warm bed roused lascivious thoughts.
Miss Atwood was standing before the huge stone fireplace in the hall when he entered, warming her hands on the heat from the flames. She heard the clip of his boots on the checkered tiles and merely cast him a sidelong glance.
“Welcome to Bronygarth,” he said cheerfully to defuse the pricking tension. “I’m sorry if the journey was unpleasant, though I’m sure you understand the need for caution.”
“Bronygarth?” Her shoulders relaxed beneath the heavy material of her dark green cloak. “It’s an odd name for a castle situated ten miles north of London. Did your mother’s relatives descend from Wales?”
“Not that I’m aware, but then I know nothing about my mother’s family.” Nothing except that the maternal grandmother he had never met had named him sole beneficiary in her will. The inheritance wasn’t a huge sum by society’s standards, but it was enough to make wise investments and earn him a small fortune. “I bought the house as a ruin. Some parts are still in need of renovation.”
“Is it haunted?” Miss Atwood glanced at the lofty ceiling, at the broad staircase rising between vast gothic arches, at the hanging cobwebs, faded tapestry and the suit of armour in need of a polish.
“No doubt ghosts wander the halls at night.” He dismissed the image of her hurrying along the cold corridors in her flimsy nightdress, looking to throw herself into his comforting embrace. “Though I have yet to meet a phantom on the stairs.”
“What of your servants?” She straightened and looked around as if waiting for the butler to appear to take her cloak. “Surely they’ve heard eerie whispers, seen strange shadows.”
“Not to my knowledge. Besides, the house runs on minimal staff.” Lucius trusted only a handful of people to keep his secrets. He stepped forward and offered to take her cloak. “As there are no maids, you will need to fetch your own water, dress yourself, style your hair.”
“I am more than capable of washing and dressing,” she said, slipping the garment from her shoulders and handing it to him. “Though had you mentioned it earlier I might have put more thought into packing.”
He frowned. “More thought?”
“Front fastening stays would have been preferable.”
“Fear not, Miss Atwood. I’m adept at untying laces and ribbons.”
“I’m sure it is one of your greatest talents.” She turned to warm her hands on the fire. “Am I to clean out the grate, too?”
“Jonah attends to most household chores. He’s a footman-of-all-work, if you will. And Tomas prepares meals.”
She looked at him and arched a brow. “Poor Mrs Sinclair. How does she tong her ringlets without help?”
Did he note a hint of jealousy in her tone?
The possibility roused both hope and fear.
Lucius stepped closer. “You’re the first woman I’ve brought to Bronygarth.” He hadn’t wanted to feel a feminine presence in the house, or more to the point, feel its sudden absence.
Silence ensued as their gazes locked—the same silence that vibrated with a potent energy whenever they were alone together.
“The hour must be close to two,” he continued. “Sleep beckons. I can show you to your room, and we can discuss your father’s work in the morning. Or I can take you to see the journals.”
She glanced at the dim staircase, at the feeble glimmer from the candles flickering wildly in the standing candelabra. “There’s an air of loneliness here, a sense of isolation. I’m not sure I will sleep if left alone on a wing.”
Lucius shuffled uncomfortably. “You won’t be alone. You will sleep in the room adjoining mine.” Devil take it. His tongue felt clumsy as he formed the words. “We must take every precaution, and there are few chambers in the house I would call habitable.”
Miss Atwood swallowed deeply. “Oh, I see.”
“You can lock the adjoining door and take the key.” He didn’t mention he had a spare.
She opened her mouth to speak, and the slight tremble of her bottom lip belied the confident tilt of her chin. “Will I be able to sleep after learning about my father’s work?”
“I expect learning more about him will rouse old memories. The truth is often hard to hear.” Lucius’ stomach sank as an old memory burst into his mind. He recalled the day he begged the duke to tell him about his mother. The day his father uttered the words “she’s dead”.
Miss Atwood gave a weak smile. “Knowing more about my father’s secrets might bring comfort. And talking about loved ones can be a huge help.”