Chapter 7
I’ll give her the house, I’ll give her the house, I’ll give her the bloody house, Luke thought, jabbing the key into the lock. She’ll have the house, which clearly she values, and she can rule over this village like the princess who she (also clearly) was born to be, and what I do—minus
the fortnight I’ll need her to help me rescue Linus—will make no difference.
It will all be fair in the end.
Or, fair enough.
“But has it rusted?” Danielle Allard asked from behind him. She’d pressed herself against his back while he wrestled with
the lock, peeking over his shoulder. Like an idiot—nay, like a masochist—he’d introduced her to the torturous delight of nascent
touching. She’d taken to it with agonizing proficiency. What began as gallant, gentlemanly gestures had rapidly devolved into
hands lingering on her waist, fingers entwining, forearms settling over hips. He’d given her a pat here, a nestle there, a
lingering nudge. By the time he handed her down from the wagon, he was subtly playing her body like an instrument. But, instead
of tuning her up, he’d tuned up himself, and now he could not stop playing.
He justified this behavior because marriage was the ultimate goal, and there was no guarantee the house alone would do it.
For better or worse, her parents had not used the evening to inform her of her true origin; so now he faced negotiating this arranged marriage and revealing that she was a French princess.
Flirting with her was hardly an honorable thing to do, but perhaps it would make this startling news easier to take?
Better than hearing from a cold, remote stranger, surely?
Or perhaps he simply wanted to touch her. Again and again. Longer each time. He’d never been one for pastel cotton dresses
or beribboned bonnets, but one look at her when she emerged from the house and his body had snapped to attention. He’d been
attending to her ever since.
In the moments when guilt threatened, he’d repeated his new vow: I’ll give her the house. When the guilt persisted, he distracted himself by touching her, which he was doing now, angling so his back pressed against
her front.
“I don’t think it’s rusted,” he told her, “more like clogged—”
“May I help you?” said a man’s voice. It floated from behind them, low and mournful.
“Who’s—” Luke spun around, catching Danielle by the waist and tucking her between the door and his back.
An old man stood on the step, portly and hunched, clutching a flickering lantern in broad daylight. He wore the drab, threadbare
clothing of a laborer. His expression was dour but not aggressive. Luke had no idea how he’d not heard the man drag himself
up the steps or loom so close.
“Hello,” Luke began. “Forgive me, you’ve taken us by surprise. I am Captain Luke Bannock and this is Miss Danielle Allard.
We’ve come to have a look at the house. I was given the key by the estate agents Rooney and Muldoon in Swanley.”
“How do you do?” intoned the old man. His throat was like an old drainpipe, hollowing his words.
“We are well,” Luke ventured.
The man stared.
Luke added, “How are you?”
Silence.
The man was either squatting on the property or trespassing, because the house was meant to be unoccupied.
“You are the new owner, I presume?” the old man finally asked.
“I am, in fact. And you are . . . ?”
“You may refer to me as Abbott,” the man intoned. “I’ve been the caretaker of this property for these last five years. I was told to expect you.”
“So you were,” said Luke. “The agent failed to mention a caretaker, but he was out of the office when I called. I was given
these keys by a clerk.”
“Very good, sir,” said Abbott.
Confused, Luke pressed on. “I’m happy to hear the property was not entirely devoid of care. And we’ve no intention of disrupting
your work. Our only goal today is to have a look round.”
“You should do,” lectured Abbott. “If you’ll step to the side, I’ll remove the plug from the lock.”
“The lock has a plug,” Luke realized, scooting Miss Allard out of the way. The caretaker didn’t look dangerous so much as
halfway dead. He was hatless, with long, wiry gray hair and matching beard. His boots appeared more mud than leather. Luke
kept Miss Allard tucked safely behind him, an open palm against her hip.
“But do you live inside the house, Abbott?” asked Luke, watching the man slide a dagger from his belt and jam the tip into the lock.
“Nay,” said Abbott. “There is a dower house in the corner of the rear garden.”
“Oh, a dower house,” enthused Miss Allard, peeking around.
“Attached to that dower house is a carriage shed,” said Abbott.
“A shed can be very snug,” she ventured.
“Above that carriage shed is an attic,” said Abbott.
“Oh.”
“And I reside,” said Mr. Abbott, “in that attic.”
“So you do,” Luke said. “Very good. I am happy to know it. Thank you for your help with the lock. Have you advice for exploring
the house to its best advantage?”
Luke didn’t necessarily want this man trailing behind them as they walked the property, but he had no wish to offend him.
The closer Abbott remained, the more quickly Luke could determine if he was friend or foe.
“I have no advice,” Abbott said.
“We’ll find our own way, then,” said Luke. “My thanks to you.”
The door was open now, and they were hit with cool, stale air.
The entrance was dim, but he could make out soaring ceilings and an acre of dusty marble.
This house was larger than Fern Vale, the house in which his mother and her family lived; and the Vale was one of the finest estates in Cornwall.
How, Luke marveled, had he acquired a house grander than his mother’s?
And he’d not even known it—yet another failure of research.
He’d not looked up the slightest detail about Eastwell Park.
He’d viewed Prince George’s gift like an unrequested tax burden and nightmare of upkeep.
His only plan had been to contain his new wife inside it before their journey to France.
“You’ll want this,” Abbott was saying, shoving the swinging lantern at Luke. “Any candles left behind will be little more
than nubs.”
“Thank you,” said Luke, accepting the flickering light. The flame had been indistinct in the sunlight, but the glow was more
pronounced in the dim entryway.
The old man turned to plod down the steps, and Luke whispered to Miss Allard, “You reckon he’ll return to sink his knife into
our backs?”
She laughed. “Most families in the vicinity are known to me, but I have never heard of Mr. Abbott. Baron Langston, may God
rest him, was said to have no family and several unpaid debts. I’ve no idea who might be providing the living for a caretaker.”
“Well, he does reside in the attic of a carriage shed,” said Luke. “And he has the look of someone who eats grubs and moss
to stay alive. I can’t say I’ve ever seen a man’s skin quite so . . .”
“Gray?” she provided.
“That’s putting it kindly. If we survive this tour, my first order of business is to pay the man a living wage. My second
is to furnish a clean change of clothes and new boots.” Luke had never bothered with a kit for his crew, but if he intended
to set up Danielle Allard in this massive house, her servants should be clean and well presented.
“It’s happening,” Danielle whispered, stepping around him.
“What?”
“Men will be offered honest work. They’ll earn a reasonable living. It’s happening.”
“Oh, that,” he said. “Right. Mr. Abbott has the look of someone who prefers a more informal existence, but it can’t hurt to offer.”
Miss Allard wasn’t listening, she’d drifted through the door and walked to the center tile of the mosaic on the floor. The
entryway was a wide corridor that stretched twenty yards in both directions. Revolving slowly, she took in every detail, from
the salon at one end, to the closed doors at the other. Draped furniture lined the walls and paintings leaned in uneven stacks.
A large staircase rose behind them, leading into darkness. In place of a chandelier, a stained-glass skylight beamed bright
shafts of color to the tiles below.
Miss Allard positioned herself in the middle of the colorful spill. “But can you believe it?” she whispered, her voice filled
with wonder. “Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?”
Luke had taken in everything with a glance, and now he watched her. She revolved beneath the skylight, the butter yellow of
her skirt stained by the translucent colors from overhead. It was very safe to say he could not believe it. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d considered the beauty of anything. He was hardly a man who spouted affirmations,
but he’d seen the world. He knew mountaintops, and cathedral buttresses, and the perfect curve of a woman’s waist where it
sloped into her hip. But not in a long time—not since his friends had been drowned and the man he loved like a father had
been captured—had he acknowledged loveliness.
What was the point of beauty if not to admire, and to admire was to want. Wanting led to acquiring and why acquire if not
to share? Where was the justice in Luke wanting or sharing while his dearest friends lay dead at the bottom of the sea?
While Linus rotted in a French dungeon? There was no justice in it.
Luke had survived, this could not be changed.
He was hailed as a hero, a phenomenon he’d not been able to stop.
But now to be presented a clever, spirited, beautiful girl and this palatial house?
It made no sense. And Luke didn’t trust it.
He hadn’t earned it and didn’t deserve it.
Since the night of the attack, Luke had justified his survival by living out his own version of dying. His only desire was
to avenge his friends and recover Linus.
Until now. Some mix of this girl’s beauty and youth and spirit had been perfectly calibrated to distract and enchant. He could
not look away. He could pretend—he’d pretended for all of yesterday. But today she’d emerged in the sweet yellow dress, with