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“A tiresome affliction at this chill time of year,” she soothed even as she maneuvered him into the foyer.
Which was currently employed as a manufactory for spiderwebs. Madam cast her eye around, and Arthur anticipated a tirade. Instead, she patted the butler on his arm. “Conlon, I suspect we have caught you and the household by surprise,” she said, her voice as gentle as the rain that now pattered on the windows. “We have a variety of cases and trunks the royal footmen will carry in if you would direct them to the ducal suite.” Todd slipped in the door and hovered at her side.
“There’s no ducal suite no more.” A figure loomed in the dark of the corridor, her voice as raspy as the lock on the front door. “Ain’t been no need in Arcadia for many a year.”
“Is that any way to greet our new duchess, Morag?” Conlon’s neck tucked in and out of his collar in agitation as the woman, red-faced and black-haired, moved into the light.
“Freya help us. Morag?” Arthur exclaimed. “Have we a single servant under the age of one thousand in this household?”
“Your Grace.” Madam turned to him. “It is a testament to the loyalty of this house’s retainers that they continue in service, given they had none present to tend.” She turned her back on him entirely, the little clawed spitfire cake of a minx that she was, a choice not lost on Conlon or Morag; both looked thrilled at her bravery. “Have I the pleasure of addressing the housekeeper of Arcadia? Due to His Highness’s deep desire that we wed without delay, I doubt you were given sufficient warning of our arrival.”
“I am the keeper of the house such as it is, Your Grace, such as it is a house and not a home.” The most cursory of curtsies accompanied this reply.
“Another plain speaker. I comprehend it is the custom of this pack.” No one dared reprove her incorrect application of the term. “Is the ducal suite habitable, or is it not?”
The housekeeper glared in Arthur’s general direction. “It is not, ma’am, not since—”
“That will do, Morag,” he interrupted. “Help Conlon and Todd see to our things.”
“I pray you will avoid the stairs, Mr. Conlon,” Madam said. “May I trouble you to ask Cook to lay on some tea?” The wee man beamed and creaked off down the corridor. Madam turned to the housekeeper. “Morag, this is Mr. Todd, royal factotum at our disposal. Please convene with him over the best placement of our things at this time.”
She then cleared her throat. “If I may have a word, Your Grace.”
Arthur preceded her to the door of a receiving room, which was not pulled shut as it was leaning against the wall of the corridor. The room itself was clear of dust as well as vacant of furnishings of any kind but for a lone footstool.
“Beginning as you intend to go on, Madam?” Arthur asked as she ran a finger over the mantelpiece. She offered no reaction to the state of her fingertip. “Coddling the help?”
“It is not coddling but respect for another human being. Or, or creature.” Madam removed her gloves and her pelisse and held them in front of her like a shield. “He is rather small for a wolf.”
Not a wolf!his bear howled. “Our sort come in many shapes and sizes.”
“I presume this is the Osborn homeplace?”
“It holds that distinction.”
“It appears to have been uninhabited for many years.”
“You are the picture of perceptivity.”
She opened her mouth to inquire further but seemed to think better of it. Pain or sadness moved across her features until they resumed their customary immobility.
That could not be right. What care had she for the state of this place and that it had no one to live in it? He didn’t care, and it was his family home. Arthur turned away from the bright-blue gaze that seemed to peer straight into his soul. He kicked the footstool and scratched at the shredded silk covering a wall.
He heard her take a breath, pause, and then say: “I believe a cup of tea is required before another step is taken.”
“I shall leave you to it, then. The kitchen is to the left, down a short hall, and then to the left again, if you condescend to take your refreshment there.” Arthur bowed her out of the room as well as any royal footman and watched as she disappeared down the gloomy corridor.
He glared as a spider spun itself down into his line of sight and stopped himself swatting it away; it had a greater right to be within these walls than he.
He turned his attention to the shadows lurking at the first landing.
There was nothing for it, then.
The staircase leading up to the first floor seemed sound enough until Arthur put his foot through the second-to-last tread.
The runner in the corridor looked to be composed more of dust than yarn, and its edges bore the marks of mice of theanimali purivariety. That they would dare enter the house of a Shifter was testament to the lack of predatory beasts under its roof.
More spiderwebs, dense as moss, hung from paintings listing on the walls, with several lying facedown on the floor.
