Ashadowed spectre seemed to hover over the manor house as dusk fell, clouds gathering apace, the air harsh with cold.
Marcus frowned from the carriage window before twisting to Charlotte. “Why the devil are we at old Grimslee’s place?”
“You wished to attend my third event, so this is it.” Her eyes shone bright in the coach’s lantern light. “The Duke of Shawdale, that’s you, and a guest, that’s me, have been invited to dinner. With a few other neighbours.”
“He sends a yearly Christmas invitation which I always refuse. The wine is watered down and the meat unidentifiable – likely the corpses of his servants.”
Charlotte smirked. “Too late to be lily-livered now. You agreed.”
With a growl, Marcus threw himself back into the squabs. “If you’re not careful and I leave here famished, I’ll have my governess for dinner.”
Silence fell as Marcus ruminated on nibbling Charlotte’s nape before the carriage came to an abrupt halt.
He peered through the window once more. The manor was straight out of some Radcliffe novel – not that he’d read them, of course. Nude twisted creeper stems smothered the stonework and the steps looked mossy and dank.
“Did you know,” Charlotte said whilst gathering her cloak about her russet dress, “that Grimslee is Lord Crockett’s second cousin? The man you are to deal with regarding canals.”
“I did. But then everyone seems to be related somehow in this area.”
The coach door opened and a meagre globe of light shone forth.
“Welcome,” declared a rasp, “to Roachford Manor. The master is awaiting you in the parlour.”
Marcus rolled his eyes.
They followed the skeletal butler up the steps, through the front door and down a hallway, dingy as Hades and reeking of mould.
Marcus cast a glance to Charlotte, his emotions a shimmering cascade.
After raking up the past last night, he’d expected to sleep poorly as nightmares still tormented him on occasion – of himself as a callow youth, scared, trembling and facing death.
Yet instead, he’d dreamed of Charlotte, of chasing her over fells trimmed with snow. She’d hoicked her petticoats, flashing her ankles with a laugh, and he’d felt…young again.
Joyful.
Last night, she’d listened. Understood why he’d become the man he was. But he was aware she would need time to assimilatehis revelations. In the cold light of day, she might well feel resentment towards him for ruining everything.
The funereal-black parlour door was opened and they paused on the threshold.
In utter silence stood five people, as though attending a wake and not a Christmas dinner – the dour host, his dour wife, the vicar who hoped to save Grimslee’s eternal soul, Sir Edward Spratt who would attend a sacrifice if there were free victuals, and a young Mr Slater who was new to the Lake District having inherited a goodly sum; he looked petrified.
“Shawdale,” crooned Lord Grimslee, gliding forward, a gaunt hand appearing from his dark sleeve. “So pleased you could attend this year. And I hear you are to do business with my cousin Crockett.” His lips formed a line – possibly a smile? “Welcome to the family.” A hacking laugh sprung forth.
It gave Marcus the shivers.
“Grimslee. A…pleasure to be here. And nothing is signed yet. May I introduce my guest, Miss Webster?”
The lord gave a shallow bow and then raised an eyeglass. “Ah, John Webster’s chit. A governess now, I hear?” His magnified eye lingered on her décolletage. “Lucky you, Shawdale, eh?”
Marcus gritted his teeth and stepped forward to–
“No longer a chit, my lord,” replied Charlotte with a pull on Marcus’ coat-tails. “And yes, I am a governess.”
“The best,” interrupted the vicar, rubbing his hands together for warmth. “Miss Webster was governess to my brother’s daughter in Keswick for a year and wrought miracles.”
Charlotte curtseyed with a broad grin. “How pleasant to see you again, Vicar. And Rosie is an adorable girl, just…”
“Has feathers in her head, you can say it, Miss Webster. We all adore Rosie but she just gets in such a fluster.”
