FIVE #2
His abrupt question set alarm bells to clanging. Like his apology and question about her Christian name, it was not the done thing. Was Lord Matthias attempting to ascertain her suitability? Or, worse, leading their conversation to a specific conclusion, namely dismissing her from her post?
“About six years in total, my lord.” She was proud that the calm steadiness of her voice did not reflect the riot of emotions—pitchforks bobbing, torches flaring—in her chest.
“Have you been at Avoch the entire time?”
“Nae. I have been here a wee bit over two years.” And I hope to stay a while longer, she mentally added.
“And your previous employer?”
Yes, his lordship was definitely prying into her history and assessing her connections.
“My previous employer was an elderly lady in Ayrshire. Unfortunately, she had to make staffing adjustments, and I secured employment with Colonel Gordon here.” It wasn’t the truth, but Cecily and Mrs. McIntyre had decided “staffing adjustments” would be the tale they told.
Silence.
The stairs ended in a small landing that led into the great hall.
“The former medieval great hall, which now serves as the main drawing room. Colonel Gordon loves to mention that the decorative plasterwork ceiling is original to the castle.” Cecily pointed to the intricate white carvings overhead—vining shapes swirling around a central coat of arms. “The Colonel ordered the windows enlarged about ten years ago.”
Again, Lord Matthias nodded, head turning to take in the three large windows punctuating the south wall. He still refused to meet her gaze.
“From where do you originally hail, Mrs. Armstrong?” he asked, eyes fixed on the velvet curtains.
Cecily frowned. Why this intense curiosity about her personal history?
Her anxiety expanded. Surely, he wasn’t attempting to suss out her past as Miss Cecily Moulton?
She hadn’t known Lord Matthias existed before learning he was to be the new tenant.
If she hadn’t heard of him, then he certainly wouldn’t know of her or her former life.
He had most likely been off fighting the French when she had been flirting and dancing her feet sore in London.
He waited patiently for her answer.
“I was raised in Edinburgh, my lord,” she lied, Scottish accent strong. Anything to lead him away from the truth.
He nodded. That was it. No reaction. Nothing more than a simple nod.
Lifting his palm, he ran it down the nap of the velvet curtain. Cecily forced herself not to notice what a fine hand he had—long fingers, broad palm.
Taking a breath, she crossed through the door at the other end of the hall.
“The dining room,” she said. “The painting over the mantle is believed to be a landscape created in Caravaggio’s studio. The castle has a lovely set of Sèvres china commissioned by Colonel Gordon’s father.”
Instead of studying the carved fireplace or drifting to study the painting more closely, his lordship crossed and stared out one of the two windows.
“What happened to Mr. Armstrong?” he asked.
Cecily’s heart gave a lurching stumble, but she kept her smile politely in place.
“He died in the war, my lord. The Battle of Trafalgar.”
That perked his attention. “A naval man, then?”
“Aye.”
As a general rule, she detested lying, but as everything about her current life was a precarious house of cards—one falsehood teetering shakily atop another—each part had to remain in its place.
To survive, she had shed her old life and become Cecily Armstrong, wife of midshipman George Armstrong, lost at sea amid the Battle of Trafalgar.
They passed through a door into a small room off the dining room. She didn’t particularly wish to traipse through the space given its current furnishings, but as it led to the back stairs . . .
“Colonel Gordon calls this room the snug, generally because it is the warmest place in the castle on a cold winter’s evening.” Cecily clasped her hands before her.
Though small, the space featured a large window and two leather armchairs with a small table between them pulled before the fire.
Unfortunately, the dismantled frame of a poster bed had been leaned against the wall behind the chairs—head and footboard reclining on tall crosspieces.
Truth be told, Cecily had rather forgotten about the bed frame until about four minutes ago.
They both studied the bed frame.
It felt horrifically conjugal, the two of them, standing side-by-side, staring at the bed. As if they were a couple and he would abruptly say, “Shall we assemble it facing toward the window or the wall?”
A blush scalded her cheeks.
“Do you still have family in Edinburgh, Mrs. Armstrong?” He cleared his throat. “Yourself or your late husband?”
This was the problem with lies. They quickly became a towering hydra—forever growing new heads that one had to quash.
Her blush deepened.
“Nae, my lord. I am quite alone in the world.” Another untruth, but the relentless questions set her hackles to bristling.
Perhaps his lordship was merely an inquisitive sort of person, but intuition told her otherwise.
Given Grayburn’s admonition to sack her, his lordship’s interrogation felt portentous.
His next question confirmed her hunch—
“Do you enjoy working as a housekeeper?”
Again, he kept his face averted, speaking to the absurdly out-of-place bed frame.
His intent was clear. Lord Matthias was searching to guide their conversation toward terminating her employment. Perhaps trying to gather information about her to assuage his conscience.
“I do, my lord,” she answered steadily. And then, because she hadn’t fought so hard and long these past six years to go down without swinging, she continued, “I must confess, I overheard His Grace’s recommendation to replace me.”
That got his lordship’s attention. Finally, he looked directly at her, dark brows drawing into a line. She expected his gaze to be outraged or turbulent or appalled. Instead, she saw concern.
“My elder brother holds a great many opinions that he shares freely. I haven’t quite decided . . . or rather . . .” A breath. “You appear competent.”
Competent. High praise, she supposed.
But distressingly, Lord Matthias didn’t deny that he was considering replacing her. Her mind flashed to the dark ink of the letter she had received—Lord D has become more bold—and her clasped fingers twisted into a knot.
“I have greatly valued my employment here, my lord, and I would find it difficult to locate another post that suits me as well.” Or rather, one as isolated and remote. Leaving in haste would pose a tremendous risk to her person. She needed time to find an appropriate position.
“I see.” Frowning, Lord Matthias stepped forward and skimmed a finger along the footboard of the bed, a streak of color touching his cheekbones. No doubt her directness had offended his aristocratic sensibilities.
Unfortunately, the pressure of the silence forced more words from her mouth.
“I must apologize for the clutter of the bed frame in here, my lord.”
“Pardon?” He canted his head toward her.
“Colonel Gordon informed the staff that the new tenant would be an elderly invalid. Therefore, we had been preparing for a more physically challenged gentleman who would require a bedchamber on the main floor.”
Lord Matthias visibly flinched—a sharp recoil, hand retracting—like the bed were a monster, and he had just been nipped by sharp teeth.
Cecily couldn’t help extending a palm, as if she wished to soothe the cutting edge of her words . . . or, at the very least, offer reassurance. Fortunately, she pulled back before she actually touched him.
And still her tongue ran on. “The bed was merely a precautionary measure, my lord. I presumed this room would be more accessible for a gentleman who struggled to climb stairs or . . .” Her blush turned scalding.
“Obviously, ye are clearly not incapacitated in any way. Ye are a capable, and dare I say, heroic soldier who has recovered from a devastating injury. I am rather appalled that Colonel Gordon described yourself in such unkind terms. You are anything but an invalid.”
If Cecily thought her words would defuse the situation, she was sadly mistaken.
His lordship pivoted and took a step to the window.
The rigid set of his chin and militant precision of his posture indicated that she had overset him.
Cecily feared for her heart, bashing itself against her ribcage.
He would sack her most certainly now—this young chatterbox of a housekeeper who couldn’t keep her opinions to herself.