I cringed at the mental image. “And who was she to Alexander?”
Douglas frowned at me as if I was dense. “Why, his mother, ducky.”
“Oh, and whatever happened to his father?”
Before he could answer me, the sharp clip of expensive shoes echoed down the hall, heralding the imminent arrival of a man who was most definitely not a servant.
He was exquisitely clothed in a charcoal suit, silk shirt, and matching tie with his dark blond hair brushed back from his broad forehead in a smooth wave that heralded back to the jazz age. It wasn’t his expensive suit or formidable demeanor that gave away his clear status in the household, but his very obvious resemblance to Alexander.
“He is very much alive and well,” the man in question said as he came to a stop in the entryway.
“Your lordship,” Douglas addressed with a deferential tip of his head. “What a pleasure to have you visit us here. Is there something I can do for you?”
“I’ve come for the girl.” He stared at me with dark, unerring eyes. “Miss Cosima Lombardi, we haven’t yet had the pleasure to meet. I’m afraid my son has been remiss in this regard, so I’ve taken it upon myself to make the introductions. Come here so I may do so while I look at you.”
I swallowed roughly and placed my delicate tea cup on the butcher block table in front of me before sliding off the stool, careful to hold down the edges of the shirt so I didn’t flash my Master’s father.
There was an instinctive kernel of fear in my belly, but I couldn’t be sure if the source was the heavy force of Lord Greythorn’s personality radiating throughout the room or the simple fact that he was Alexander’s father.
And if I thought Alexander was the spawn of Satan, maybe it was the devil himself I was then approaching.
When I stopped in front of him, he stepped close and tipped my chin with two of his furled fingers to study my face in the light streaming through the high windows.
“Golden eyes against inky hair,” he murmured. “Like the summer sun against the night sky. A beautiful study in contrast.”
“Thank you, Lord Greythorn,” I said, because I’d learned from an early age how to take a compliment, however discomforted I was by it.
His broad face broke into a surprising smile, creasing his pale skin into pleasing fold. “Please, we will be closer than all that. Call me Noel.”
I could tell by the sudden vibration in the air behind me that the servants were surprised by this allowance, and I didn’t know what to make of it.
“Yes, of course, thank you, Noel.”
“I’ve come to give you a proper tour of the house,” he told me, dropping my chin and offering his arm up like a true gentleman. “If you will do me the honour.”
I swallowed convulsively, fighting the instinct to look over my shoulder at Douglas for some indication of what the hell was going on. Instead, I placed my hand on Noel’s arm.
“I know you walked the house this morning,” he continued, clasping my hand over his arm in a way that felt just as final as the shackles I wore in the ballroom. I shivered as I realized that it might have been him behind the camera tracking my every move throughout the day. “But I thought I would show you the dungeon.”
To my utter shock and uneasy delight, my afternoon with Noel was incredibly diverting, and while it did include a brief foray into the dungeon, it was only to peek at the ancient cells and torture equipment mounted like art on the stone walls. He took me through the hall of pictures that spanned the length of the house on the second story, telling me interesting anecdotes about the Davenport family and Pearl Hall. The house was first built in the 1600s but had be consequently added to and renovated throughout the ages so that now the interior resembled more of a French chateau than a typical British home. It was elegant even in its enormity, each of the over 250 rooms a marvel of colour coordination and detail. I learned that the first fork had been used in the dining hall in 1632, and that the extremely pious Bess Davenport, Duchess of Greythorn in the 18th century, had added a small, exquisite chapel to the left wing of the house. Each room was relatively overstuffed with furniture acquired across the centuries and busy with hand-painted wallpapers, gilt moldings, and elaborate plaster ceilings. It awed me to step over the worn stone steps, concave from the passing of many feet, to know that I was living in a home that had seen generations of royalty and important historical dealings. I’d never been a student of history, but by the end of the tour, I itched to read more about Pearl Hall and British culture.