Chapter 8
Out of the looming shadows came a massive, overwhelming shape, the size of which I could only truly grasp by the number of illuminated windows lining the dark stone walls.
A columned portico towered above the front door and steps, and the walls extended so far on either side that they disappeared beyond my view.
It was four stories tall, made of solid gray stone, and seemed to await our arrival with domineering superiority.
“That is your house?” I squeaked.
“Aye,” he said, the word clipped.
I whipped my head around to stare at Mr. Rawlings, who looked defensive, as if prepared to actually start that war we’d discussed earlier.
I was tempted to fire the first shot. Why had he kept this from me?
“That,” I said as we approached the front steps, “is not a house.”
“And what should I have called it?” he challenged.
“Oh, a great many words come to mind.” My voice snapped more than I’d intended. “An estate? A manor? A palace?”
“It might not be a cottage,” he said, eyes flashing, “but it is certainly not a palace.”
“That remains to be seen,” I replied shortly. “Was your grandfather a duke, by any chance? Am I addressing a lord?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “My grandfather made his money in trade. We’ve no illustrious family line or esteemed connections, I assure you.”
“We?” I repeated.
He grimaced, but before I could press him further, the coach came to a stop at the front door. Neither of us moved for a long moment, then he reached up behind his neck and pulled the sling over his head.
“What are you doing?” I asked, irritated. “The doctor said—”
“The doctor is not here.” He gathered the sling and tucked it in his pocket. “And I’ll thank you not to tell anyone of my injury.”
Without another word, he opened the door and stepped down, turning to offer me his hand.
I looked at him, then up at the imposing house. I was not at all prepared for this. But I had little choice. I clenched my teeth and took his hand. He helped me down, dropping my hand as soon as my feet touched the gravel. How flattering.
He started up the wide stone steps, and I followed, smothering the flare of panic inside me.
Why couldn’t it have been a cottage? I’d prepared myself for rustic and isolated, not grand and formidable, and I found I far preferred my imagined version of Mr. Rawlings’s country home.
It stayed neatly within the structure of what I knew about him, what I’d assumed about him.
This, however . . . This changed everything.
The front door opened as we reached the top step, and a man appeared in the doorway—the butler, I presumed. He was tall and thin, with a balding head. He frowned as if he might scold us for interrupting his evening. Then he pulled back, staring at Mr. Rawlings.
“Sir!” he said in surprise.
Mr. Rawlings strode directly past the man, sweeping off his hat. “See that the horses and carriage are cared for, Stroud,” he ordered.
Any doubts as to his claim over this house vanished. No man would enter a home not his own in such a presumptuous manner.
I skirted around the butler, nodding a greeting. He only blinked at me as if I were some sort of curious mirage following in his master’s wake.
The entryway was just as regal as the outside.
An enormous staircase wrapped around one side of the lofty space, ascending to the next story in effortless grace.
The floor was white marble with gold flecks sparkling in the candlelight, and an endless array of artwork, gilded mirrors, and tapestries covered the walls.
I gaped upward at the opulent chandelier floating directly overhead.
It wasn’t even lit, and it still drew my awe.
Stroud followed us inside, signaling a footman, who immediately went out the front door to see to the carriage.
“Sir.” Stroud addressed Mr. Rawlings again, regaining his composure as he clasped his hands behind his back. “We did not expect you.”
“I should hope not.” Mr. Rawlings tossed his hat and gloves onto the polished table beside the door. “That would have defeated our purpose entirely.”
“Yes, sir,” Stroud said, shooting a glance my way.
Mr. Rawlings did not notice his butler’s unspoken curiosity. “Where is my mother?”
“In the drawing room, I believe,” Stroud replied.
It took my mind a few seconds to connect their words. But then . . .
Fear spiked inside me, just as hot and bold as when the murderer had fixed his aim on me at Vauxhall.
His mother.
A wide, heavy door opened across the entryway, and a small woman stepped out onto the marble floor. She wore a deep-blue gown, well-tailored and expensive, and her russet-brown hair—tinged with gray—was pulled into a severe chignon.
She paused, her sharp, dark eyes sweeping across the entry in an instant. They stopped on Mr. Rawlings. “Alexander?”
Alexander?
Mr. Rawlings stepped toward her, and his face softened by the slightest measure. “Mother.”
I almost laughed from the sheer madness of it all. I had traveled halfway across the country with this man—had shared a room with him, had bound his wounds—and I was just realizing I hadn’t known his given name. Alexander.
And now I was to meet his mother.
“What are you doing here?” she asked, her words precisely enunciated. “We’ve had no notice from you.”
How odd. She did not seem to have the same Scottish accent as her son. Where would he have gotten it?
“Our departure was rather unexpected, unfortunately.” Mr. Rawlings bent to kiss his mother’s cheek, and she grasped his elbows, staring wide-eyed up at him in shocked pleasure.
Heavens, and I thought he towered over me. Mrs. Rawlings was diminutive beside him.
“What has happened to your face?” She touched the dark bruises around his left eye, her words somehow both concerned and scolding.
“A scuffle is all, nothing to worry about.” He sent me a knowing glance, a reminder not to speak of his injury.
Only then did Mrs. Rawlings seem to realize I was there. Her mouth tightened as she took me in. “What is this?” she asked.
What? Not who? It was clear from whom Mr. Rawlings had inherited his charming personality.
“There was a complication in the case I was working,” Mr. Rawlings said. “I will tell you everything, but some food and tea would do us both some good, I think.”
Mrs. Rawlings pursed her lips, no doubt biting back a protest. “Go into the drawing room,” she ordered. “I shall speak with Cook and join you shortly.”
Stroud led us into the drawing room, then turned to face me. “May I take your things, Miss . . . ?”
“Oh,” I said. “Yes, thank you.” I did not offer my false name; I did not think I was capable of that lie just yet.
I tugged off my gloves, then allowed Stroud to help me out of my pelisse. When I faced him again, he was blinking rapidly, his mouth parted.
What on earth? I glanced at Mr. Rawlings, but he was moving to stand beside the massive stone fireplace, oblivious to this strange reaction from his butler.
“Stroud, will you see that the blue room is prepared for Miss Albright?” Mr. Rawlings directed as he warmed his hands over the fire.
Stroud stepped back from me and offered a curt bow. He hurried from the room, shutting the door behind him with an ominous thud.
“That was odd.” I frowned at the door. Why had he stared at me so?
“Stroud?” Mr. Rawlings said. “Yes, he can be a bit off-putting.”
“No, not that,” I said. “He looked at me like . . .” Then it hit me. I gasped. “My buttons!”
I reached over my shoulder and felt the undone buttons at the nape of my neck. My stomach lurched, and I felt the blood leeching from my face.
Mr. Rawlings looked positively baffled. “Your buttons?”
I swallowed hard, dropping my hand. “I—I could not reach all the buttons on my dress this morning. I put on my pelisse thinking I could simply change when we arrived, but . . .”
“But you did not anticipate a butler helping with your wraps,” he finished for me. And then—miracle of miracles—he gave a short laugh, his lips sporting a ghost of a smile.
“It is not amusing,” I insisted. “What must he think of me, a strange woman arriving unannounced with his master after a long carriage ride, and her dress unbuttoned?”
“Who cares what the man thinks?” He leaned his good forearm on the mantel.
“I do!” I paced across the room, wringing my hands. “What if he tells your mother? Drat it all, what if she sees? I will have ruined my reputation yet again and all within the space of five minutes.”
“Stop blathering and come here,” he ordered. “I’ll set you to rights.”
I turned to face him. “You?”
“Yes, fortunately I understand the complicated workings of a button,” he said dryly.
I did not move. There were only a few buttons left undone, and I doubted he would get a glimpse of anything scandalous. But still. A woman liked her privacy.
“My mother will return any moment,” he pointed out.
“Oh, very well.” I hurried to join him beside the fire and turned my back to him. “Do hurry.”
In my anxiety over Stroud and Mrs. Rawlings, I had not anticipated the proximity of such a task as buttoning a dress.
But when Mr. Rawlings’s fingers brushed over the skin of my upper back, I realized quite belatedly how suddenly intimate this felt.
I fought a shiver, my skin heating, my mind going utterly blank.
I tried to think of something—anything—to say to distract myself.
“Why did you not tell me about this place?” My words came out softer than I’d intended. I was still rather put out with him for keeping such a secret, after all. But it was difficult to summon much anger when he stood so close to me, the warmth of his body mixing with that of the fire.
He did not respond immediately. “That is a difficult question to answer,” he finally said. “And best done at another time.”
I frowned. I wasn’t satisfied by that in the least. “What is it called?”
“Briarstone,” he said. “Briarstone House, naturally.”
I exhaled a laugh, though it was brief. “And your mother? You should have told me she would be here.”