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Chapter One
October 1897
A village near Glasgow, Scotland
Sylvia Sparrow bolted from her work space, which was tucked away in a corner of Castle Blackwood’s cavernous library, and rushed down one of its many hallowed halls toward the upstairs drawing room. If she didn’t hurry, she would be late. Though it seemed unnecessary that someone as inconsequential as a lady’s companion should be present for tea, her host, Mr. Wardale, had insisted after she had been absent the last few days—and even Sylvia wasn’t bold enough to question one of the wealthiest men in England. As her serviceable leather boots thudded against the fine carpet, she prayed no one else caught her in such a state.
She had spent the last several hours transcribing her notes from this morning’s session with her employer, Mrs. Crawford, which had covered a rather fascinating stint in Paris during the Second Empire, and had quite lost herself in the older woman’s recollections. The septuagenarian had lived a life marked by romance, intrigue, and heartbreak and had finally decided to publish her exploits after a well-known publisher expressed interest, along with a hefty advance. It wasn’t the usual set of duties for a companion, but Sylvia had first honed her secretarial skills while helping her late father with his academic work and was happy to provide assistance. She had also become an excellent typist during a brief stint working for a barrister in London after finishing her studies at Somerville College and had further developed her writing abilities while contributing a column to a weekly suffragist newspaper—but Sylvia had left outthoselittle details during the interview process.
As far as Mrs. Crawford knew, she had hired the well-educated but genteelly impoverished daughter of a deceased country scholar. Not a woman who had once enjoyed a very independent London life complete with a room in a ladies’ boardinghouse, fascinating friends, and a scandalous romance of her own.
And Sylvia was determined to keep it that way.
As she drew closer to the drawing room, Sylvia paused before a large gilt-framed mirror to smooth back a few loose strands of her unremarkable brown hair and straighten her navy tie. There. Now she looked perfectly respectable. No need to advertise that she was the kind of woman who raced down hallways in grand castles. That wasn’t the sort of thing one should announce about oneself. Sylvia took a deep breath and continued on, taking care not to movetooquickly.
Mr. Wardale preferred to host afternoon tea in a large, light-filled room that was part of the castle’s newest wing, built sometime during the Regency. Sylvia had never met the eccentric millionaire before this trip, but he was a common fixture in both the business and gossip sections of the papers. Based on what she had observed thus far, he lived up to his reputation as a man with a healthy appetite for both work and play.
Sylvia entered and immediately searched for Lady Georgiana Arlington, who was Mrs. Crawford’s niece by marriage and her childhood friend. It was thanks to Georgiana that Sylvia was here at all and not living under her brother’s thumb. Or worse.
Her friend was conversing with two other ladies on the opposite side of the room. All three were elegantly clad in airy afternoon gowns, but Georgiana, who possessed both a discerning eye and a comely figure, looked like a fashion plate come to life. Sylvia’s dull tweed skirt and matching vest made her feel uncommonly dowdy by comparison. She stopped a few feet away and clasped her hands, which were becoming clammier by the second. The other ladies didn’t give her any notice, but Georgiana caught her eye and nodded slightly.
While she waited, Sylvia pretended to be interested in a painting of a single brown horse in a field mounted on a nearby wall, just one of many at the castle.
“Terrible, isn’t it?”
She turned swiftly to find Mr. Wardale by her shoulder. “No, sir. It has an…an…Arcadian charm.”
“Don’t spare my feelings, Miss Sparrow.” He chuckled. “I had no hand in decorating this room. All credit should be given to the previous owner. In fact, I must insist upon it.” Mr. Wardale’s smooth voice bore no trace of the accent he must have had growing up. He was widely considered to be one of London’s most charming bachelors—if a tad eccentric—who had successfully evaded the marriage trap, though many a debutante had set her cap for him over the years. Even now in late middle age with his blond hair thickly streaked with silver, he still exuded an innate vitality that made him seem years younger—and an intensity that was, at times, unnerving.
“And here I thought you simply had an inordinate interest in bulldogs and brown horses,” she replied, attempting a wry smile.
Amusement flickered in the man’s dark gaze as he leaned closer. “If I had any interest in art, I assure you my tastes would be a tad more…eclectic.”
Sylvia couldn’t help but shrink a little under his attention, along with the suggestive note in his voice. Why on earth had he bothered to approach her, of all people? This room was filled with the very cream of society, if one was impressed by that sort of thing.
“How is your work with Mrs. Crawford progressing?”
“Very well, sir.”
“A fascinating woman. I’m quite looking forward to reading her memoirs.” He grinned, and it brought to mind a powerful jungle cat toying with its prey. “If you need anything—pens, paper, more typewriter ribbons—please don’t hesitate to ask.”
Sylvia nodded. “Thank you. That is too kind.”
“Good afternoon, Mr. Wardale.” Georgiana’s greeting put her immediately at ease.
“My lady,” the man said with a courtly bow. “I understand you were among the party that walked to the falls this morning.”
“We started to but then turned back at the threat of thunderclouds.” She cast a contemptuous glance toward the window, which was now filled with blue sky and sunshine. “The weather is so changeable here. I’m hoping to mount another attempt tomorrow.”
In addition to her philanthropic work, Georgiana was known for her seemingly boundless energy, which she applied to everything from planning a lavish charity ball to a simple afternoon picnic. It was a trait Sylvia didn’t share with her friend. She would much rather curl up alone with a good book and a cup of tea than traipse around the forest or attend a ball, not that Sylvia had ever been invited to one.
“A fine idea.”
They exchanged a few more empty pleasantries before their host moved on.
Sylvia let out a breath once he was out of earshot. “You certainly took your time.”
“Once Lady Delacorte starts talking, it’s difficult to get a word in. But I wouldn’t think conversing with Mr. Wardale is exactly a hardship.”
