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“Looks dark, milord. No one about.”
“Lovely. Well, I’ll let myself in, Jackson. You get the horses settled, then come ’round the kitchen for something hot.”
“Yes, sir. My thanks, sir.”
Lancaster steeled himself against the shock of the frozen rain before he stepped to the ground and dashed toward the wide front doors. He made it to the faint shelter of the doorway, but Jackson was pulling away before Lancaster realized the doors were bolted tight against him.
“Christ.” A niggling suspicion that had begun to bounce around his head suddenly became solid and real. Beeks had neglected to inform Mrs. Pell that the viscount would soon be in residence. He could only hope that the housekeeper hadn’t decided to take this week to visit her younger sister in Leeds.
“Well, there’s no help for it,” he muttered, and stepped back out into the deluge. By the time he made it around the square bulk of the manor, he was soaked through and half numb with cold. But the knob of the kitchen door turned easily in his hand, and then he was rushing into warmth and glowing light.
“Adam,” a familiar voice called from the darkness of a short hallway, “if you’re dripping rain all over my floor, you’d best be planning to clean it up. I’ll not—”
When Mrs. Pell stepped into the kitchen, she looked up and gasped in surprise. Her shock did not turn to horror until Lancaster spoke.
“Good evening, Mrs. Pell. It seems my man in London has neglected to inform you of my imminent arrival. But here I am, all the same.”
“Nick?” she whispered, causing a little shock to course through his veins. No one had called him Nick in years.
“Yes, it’s me. Nick. Returned from the—” He caught himself just in time, and cleared his throat. “I apologize for catching you unawares, Mrs. Pell. I know the past two weeks must have been difficult for you, and now I have come to add to it.”
She’d yet to recover; her lips were still parted in shock, her skin pale, and he’d begun to fear she’d simply fall over, though she looked as sturdy as ever. The laugh lines around her eyes had deepened certainly, her hair had gone grayer, but she wasn’t as old as he’d remembered. Youth had a way of inflating age, it seemed. “Mrs. Pell?”
She blinked, and that finally seemed to release her from her trance. “Milord,” she gasped, and fell into a slow curtsy. “Milord, I apologize. Please forgive me. I—Let me put the water on for tea, and then I’ll open the library for you, if that will do for a few moments. I’ll need to make up your bed and…”
“I’m sure the library sofa would be just lovely for the night, if—”
“Never say so!” she gasped. “A bare hour, sir. That’s all I need.” She snapped into motion, and the teapot was on the stove and warming before he could form another sentence. A blur of calico and white cambric flashed by, but Lancaster managed to snag one trailing end of an apron tie and tugged hard enough to distract her.
“Mrs. Pell.”
She stopped, but she didn’t turn toward him. She stood frozen, hands clasped tight in front of her, wisps of gray hair drifting from her coiled braid. Her shoulders rose and fell in deep, rapid breaths.
“Mrs. Pell, I want to offer my condolences. I know how close you were to Cynthia. Her death must have been a terrible shock.”
Her breathing hitched, and he was sure that she would cry. He was reaching out to wrap a comforting arm around her when she nodded and stepped away. “Yes, sir. Thank you.” A brief glance over her shoulder showed eyes bright with tears, but she blinked them away. “You are as kind now as you always were, milord.” She brushed her hands over the apron as if she were dusting off flour. “Come now. Let’s get you settled in the library so I can brew the tea.”
“Hm. You wouldn’t happen to have any of my father’s special whisky about, would you?”
Her face creased into a familiar smile. “Only for medicinal purposes, sir. But you’re clearly on the verge of catching your death. I wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”
“You’re an angel sent from heaven, Mrs. Pell. The best housekeeper a man could hope for.”
The smile that had taken over her face fell away, and she dropped her clutched skirt and turned. Lancaster had no choice but to follow. Any questions he had would wait until the morning.
A half-filled cup of tea. An empty glass tumbler. The crumbs of a vanished bit of bread and cheese. These things lay scattered over the long table.
She drifted closer.
A man was stretched out along the dark green fabric of the sofa, his feet crossed at the ankles, hands folded over his flat stomach. A strange visitor. A stranded traveler. Or…
No.
The cool air of the room pressed her white gown to her legs when she stopped in shock before him. It could not be. Not now, not when he could no longer help her.
But the golden waves of his hair were undeniably familiar in the flickering light of the fire, as were the fine straight line of his nose and the gentle curve of his mouth. She did not need to see the color of his eyes to know it was him.
“Nick,” she whispered, the word falling from her unwilling mouth and stirring his eyelids.
