As he did so, the door opened, spilling light down the stone steps. Zeb looked up, hoping for Cousin Wynn, or at least a butler, and saw a woman.
She was young, and very lovely, with dark hair spilling in loose curls over her shoulders. She wore a simple long white shift, possibly a nightgown, and appeared to be barefoot. He’d never seen a woman in such deshabille outside a painting. As he gaped, she clasped both hands to her generously exposed bosomand ran down the steps, fleeing past him into the dark gardens with a sob.
“Uh, hello?” Zeb said after her, too late. “Excuse me?”
She disappeared into the darkness, a dim white wraith fading to nothing. Zeb gazed at her retreat, bathed in the light from the house. That darkened with dramatic suddenness, and he turned to see that a tall man was silhouetted in the doorway.
“Oh,” Zeb said, blinking at the light. “Good evening. Do you know that a woman just ran into the gardens crying?”
The man didn’t reply. He stepped back and gestured towards the inside of the house, indicating that Zeb should come in.
Zeb looked at him, and back into the gardens. “No, but a young lady has legged it into the darkness, very much not dressed for the weather, and she seemed quite upset. I think someone should go after her.”
“Please enter the house. The cold is getting in.”
Zeb opened his mouth to ask if his interlocutor had somehow not heard him. The words never made it out because they were swamped by an impossible, overwhelming recognition that sent a shudder all along his spine. The tall silhouette. The deep, cool baritone voice.
He dropped his bags, ran four steps up the stairs, and saw a familiar face emerge from the darkness. Patrician nose, light hazel eyes, straw-coloured hair, its reddish tint made flame by the gaslight.
Gideon. It was actually, impossibly, Gideon. Zeb’s heart lurched joyously in the fraction of a second before his braincaught up and his stomach plunged. The combined experience was unpleasant.
“What the—?”
“Ah, Mr. Zebedee,” Gideon said over him. “You may remember me: Gideon Grey. I’m Mr. Wynn Wyckham’s confidential secretary. I trust you had a pleasant journey.”
Gideon didn’t sound like he trusted it in the least. He sounded like he wished Zeb had driven into a ditch.
Zeb bit backWhat the bloody hell are you doing here?Mixing in his circles, one learned to take people’s cues on one’s previous acquaintance. “Good evening. How nice to meet you again,” he managed, though his mind was scrambling.Gideon. Here.
Gideon gave it about two seconds. “Are you going to come in? Or just stand there?”
Right, yes, coming in was the thing to do. Zeb moved forward, realised he needed his bags, went back down again, and remembered. “No, but there was a woman. The young lady—”
“Miss Wyckham will come to no harm. Leave the bags. I’ll have them taken up.”
“Miss who?”
“Miss Jessamine Wyckham,” Gideon said, with some exasperation. “That was your cousin Jessamine.”
“Mywhat?”
“Cousin!” Gideon snapped. “Just come into the house, will you? Sir,” he added, more secretarially. “I would like to shut the door.”
“But—”
“It is cold,” Gideon said through his teeth. “If you come in, you can go up. You are the last to arrive, and dinner will be served in half an hour.”
This was a bad dream. In fact, yes, of course it was a dream. Zeb didn’t have a cousin Jessamine, and Gideon could not possibly be here calling himsir, therefore he was dozing in the motor-car and would wake up at any minute. Zeb prodded at that thought for a second in a hopeful sort of way. No waking occurred.
“Thank you,” he said, because some sort of reply was needed. “When you say ‘last’…”
“Getin.”
Zeb grabbed his bags and got in, finding himself in a huge hall. Gideon shut the door with the kind of deliberate care that was more pointed than a slam. “Alfred will show you to your room. Take the luggage, please, Alfred.”
A footman approached, with a truculent look reminiscent of the chauffeur. He hoisted the suitcases. Gideon added, “The rest of your family will be gathered in the drawing room, which is there, down the—”
“My family?” Zeb said. “You mean Wynn, yes?”
