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Cara seized her own suitcase, not about to have a woman in her sixties—seventies?—lug her heavy case. “I’ll follow you,” she said brightly.
It would have been a longer walk if they’d gone around to the front door, but instead, they crossed the pea-gravel drive, approached a side entrance, and Mrs. Booth climbed two steps and then opened the unassuming door, which led into a big room filled with coats and tall rubber boots, a shovel, a line of baskets on a leather bench, and framed sketches of the house on the wall. From somewhere in the house dogs barked. Two dogs, three dogs.
Cara closed the door behind her and Mrs. Booth moved forward to close another door. “They’re not loose,” Mrs. Booth said, “but it’ll be quieter without them listening to us. They know Lord Sherbourne is coming. They always know when he’s coming, so they’re very excitable at the moment.”
“Lord Sherbourne?”
“He’s the owner of Langley Park.”
“He doesn’t live here year-round?” Cara said, picturing a man her father’s age with thinning hair and ruddy cheeks and nose.
“He prefers London but it’s tradition to celebrate Christmas here—” She broke off at the sound of a car in the driveway. Mrs. Booth straightened and adjusted the string of pearls circling her collar. “I think that’s him now,” she said briskly. “Come with me. I’ll find you a place where you can get warm while we figure out where to put you.”
“The Gardener’s Cottage sounded good,” Cara said hopefully, as she followed Mrs. Booth out a third door, down a long stone corridor with two tall windows, and then through another door into what could pass as a sitting room with a huge fireplace. Beyond that was a soaring ceiling with dark beams, plaster walls, tapestries, and swords and armor.
Mrs. Booth poked the fire, drew an armchair close, and then fluffed a pillow. “Warm yourself here. I’ll be back in a jiffy.”
Mrs. Booth disappeared into the great hall and out a front door, the door closing firmly behind her.
Cara stood before the fire, rubbing her hands, but her curiosity got the best of her and she wandered to a window and peeked out.
The man had arrived in a low, sleek car. She suspected it might be a Jaguar. When the door on the driver’s side opened, a tall, broad-shouldered man climbed out. He was not old, and nothing like a lord, not in his fitted wool trousers and dark turtleneck. He lifted a long coat from the backseat of his car and turned to face the staff that was gathering now on the front steps.
Mrs. Booth seemed to have taken change and was speaking to him. He nodded, his expression hard. The staff had all gotten busy. Someone was unloading luggage from his car’s trunk.Another was taking his coat. Someone else climbed into the car to park it elsewhere.
Mrs. Booth and the dark-haired man were stepping through the front door, and Cara rushed back to her chair by the fire, not wanting to be caught spying, when she was more curious than ever.
Mrs. Booth’s cheerful voice echoed in the hall. “Welcome home, sir. Now it will feel like Christmas.”
“It’s good to see you too, Mrs. Booth. Not sure about the Christmas part,” he answered, his voice deep, his diction incredibly precise.
“Yes, it’s a bit of a trial for you, but you’re doing better with it every year.”
“You have the patience of a saint, Mrs. Booth. Not sure how you’ve been able to put up with me—” He broke off at the sound of dogs barking. “They know I’m home.”
“Indeed, sir. I was just saying to Miss Roberts that they know you’re arriving anytime.”
“Miss Roberts?”
“Yes, sir, she’s just arrived. She’s in the next room. It seems there’s been a hiccup with her booking—”
“Her booking?” He sounded increasingly unhappy.
“For the holiday cottages.”
“The cottages shouldn’t be your concern. That’s for the estate office to handle.”
“But Harry and Susan have gone, sir, and the bookings seemed well in hand, so Mr. Trimble and I promised to look after things. It is their first Christmas together—”
“And how is that my concern?” he interrupted curtly. “Now, where is this Roberts?”
“In here.” Mrs. Booth appeared around the corner, and she smiled at Cara, as if to encourage her.
Cara rose as Lord Sherbourne entered the sitting room. But once standing, she wasn’t sure what to do next, or where to look. “Hello,” she said, just jumping in, because that was what she did.
He didn’t say anything, not right away. His gaze swept over her, from the top of her blonde hair caught in a messy ponytail, over her sloppy travel clothes, to her scuffed clogs she loved for their comfort rather than style.
He didn’t exactly sneer, but he didn’t look impressed.
