Part One
(Seven years later)
Sir Peter Northwick strolled across the newly cleared drive into snow-covered Blackfield Hall with no expectations whatsoever. He wasn’t even sure why he’d agreed to attend this soirée-cum-ball, the invitation to which had popped up in his morning post the week before.
“Good Lord.” He’d glanced at his butler, still holding the tray upon which his day’s letters and notes rested. “Arthur Haverstock. Remember him?”
Lucas nodded. “I believe he was more closely associated with your brother, wasn’t he, sir?”
Peter shrugged. “Stephen was associated with more than a few odd chaps,” he replied. “However, an invitation from Haverstock to an evening event is unexpected, to say the least.” He pondered the notion for a moment or two, then sighed. “Stephen probably owed him money.”
“Given that assumption, sir, I doubt you’d wish to attend...”
Peter leaned back in his chair, the remnants of his breakfast in front of him on the table. Idly, he picked up the toast he’d almost finished and munched for a moment or two while he considered the matter.
“You know, Lucas, I have nothing else on my calendar for that date. And I am looking forward to a quiet Christmas with a great degree of pleasure, as you know.” He read the invitation again. “But...I am inclined to accept this.”
“Really, sir? You surprise me.”
“I surprise myself sometimes, too.” He grinned at his butler who was staring at him with a quizzical look on his face.
“Yes. I shall attend. If it’s a dead bore, which would not surprise me in the least, I’ll find an excuse to leave.
If it’s full of mothers seeking eligible sons-in-law, I shall not only leave but actually run away as fast as I can.
However, there might be someone present worth talking to. ”
“That is indeed true, sir.” Lucas’s reply was somewhat dry. “However, if the Haverstocks are acquaintances of your late brother, it behooves me to point out that there might well be debts involved...”
Peter nodded. “That’s one of the reasons I think I should attend.
We’ve almost completely settled the last of that business.
If there’s anything left, I’d prefer to know now and take care of the matter.
” He sighed. “It’s time to put it all behind us, I think.
And it is Christmas, after all. Perhaps a change of scenery will push me into a more festive state of mind. ”
“Indeed, sir.” The butler bowed. “I’ll alert Oliver to have your evening wear available on the day.” He turned to leave.
“A gem, Lucas. That’s what you are. An absolute gem.”
“If you say so, sir.”
Christmas. Peter turned it over in his mind as his carriage neared Blackfield Hall. Seven years had done little to dull the memory of that Christmas Eve – or the taste of a kiss he’d never quite forgotten.
Those ruminations had terminated as the carriage pulled up to the front door and lights spilled from the house over the stone stairs and balustrade, an inviting prospect given the cold dark night.
Perhaps he was a fool, he told himself. Trying to stop chasing ghosts under the guise of social duties.
This time of year had a way of stirring up memories best left buried.
A footman hurried out to open the door, pulling down the carriage steps in a most efficient manner. “Welcome to Blackfield Hall, sir. If you go through the main door, a maid will take your coat. And if you have brought your invitation, Mr Fenworthy will be happy to receive it.”
“My thanks,” answered Peter, stepping carefully out onto the cold stone of the steps. Pleased to see it wasn’t icy, he did as he was bid and found himself relieved of both his coat and his invitation with tasteful simplicity.
All in all, a good welcome, which indicated a pleasant night ahead. He could only hope.
The interior reflected the excellent architectural skills of whoever had designed the house.
The hall was spacious, tastefully decorated, and obviously well-cared for.
The carpets were as clean as one might expect given the weather, and the staff easily managed the outer garments of the visitors as they arrived.
Of course, his eye was drawn to the massive split staircase, smooth curves of marble leading upward from both the right and left sides of the hall.
In the centre, to Peter’s amusement, was a whimsically magnificent statue, also in marble, of what looked to be a cross between a Shakespearean fairy and one of the three graces.
Elegant, sensual, the figure barely stopped short of lascivious, but Peter knew it had to be from the hand of a master. Or at least someone who had studied beneath one. A student of Canova’s perhaps?
His artistic knowledge only took him so far; thus he gave a last lingering glance to the beautiful work of art and walked up the stairs to what must be the ballroom.
In fact it was the passageway that led to the ballroom, and from the end emanated the brilliant light of many chandeliers, the sound of musicians playing something Peter didn’t recognise, and of course the inevitable subtle babble of voices.
On either side of the passageway were smaller corridors, with maids hurrying in and out, escorting guests and straightening gowns where necessary. The chatter was an accompaniment to the music, and it brought back memories of the ballrooms in London he’d visited a few years ago.
Some things changed, while others remained the same.
“Ouch. Careful, you wretched girl. Prick my leg with that pin and I’ll have you thrown out on your ear.”
The harsh words emanated from his left, and Peter couldn’t help pausing glancing at the source.
A young woman was frowning down at the floor where a maid, in sober black and white apron, was attempting to repair a flounce at the hem of her mistress’s gown.
Looking up, the owner of the gown caught his eye. “Oh goodness,” she said, her voice immediately sweet and breathless. “I didn’t see you there, sir. Are you just arrived?”
He nodded. “I am indeed. Peter Northwick at your service.” He bowed as he introduced himself.
Kicking the maid sharply with her foot, the girl turned her back on her and curtsied to Peter. “How pleasant, Mr Northwick. And do you leave nearby?”
Was it worth correcting her? Probably not. Peter had known his fair share of her type and wasn’t anxious to expand on that list.
“No,” he answered. “My home is not too near at all.”
“Oh,” she answered, her eyes widening and her hands clasping dramatically in front of her bosom. “Then I must insist you allow me to introduce you to everyone.” She blinked and giggled. “I’m Imelda Haverstock and I know them all, you see.”
“Ah.” Peter sighed. “Most kind.”
He shot a brief glance at the poor maid who was trying to collect the pins her mistress had kicked aside and rub her arm where she’d been kicked at the same time. As if she felt his gaze, she glanced up at him.
Her eyes were blue-green ice, sparkling in the bright candlelight of the passage, and sending chills down his spine.
Indescribably beautiful would be underestimating it.
Dark hair peeped from beneath a white cap with a large frill, and she wore the appropriate attire befitting her position.
But there was nothing subservient about her as she rose from the floor, pincushion in hand.
He noticed her fingers, long and elegant as they wrapped around the little lump of felt with pins sticking out of it. She gazed at him, and it seemed as if he lost himself for a second or two, drowning in them, feeling an unusual excitement threading through his veins.
I know you.
Then – a voice brought him out of his little trance.
“I must return to the ballroom, sir. Perhaps you would care to accompany me?”
He could not refuse, of course, but dragged his gaze from the woman slowly walking backward away from him and held out his arm to Imelda. “Miss Haverstock,” he offered, correctly.
She gave him a bright smile as she rested her hand on his sleeve, and together they walked away from the maid and into the ballroom.
A couple of hours later, when the musicians paused for a rest, and the guests flowed from the ballroom into the dining room, where tasteful platters of food awaited the hungry, Peter finally managed to detach himself from Miss Haverstock.
The woman had the tenacity of a limpet and clung to his arm even between their dances. She neatly manoeuvred him into being her partner by virtue of her eager delight in his company. Or what was supposed to look like eager delight.
Peter, who had been schooled years ago in such matters by a canny and cautious mother, viewed Imelda’s behaviour as typical of an unwed young lady who was approaching the age where the word “young” might need qualifying.
She had obviously set out to charm him, which meant she must have recognised his name when they introduced themselves.
It was possible that Arthur had mentioned him at some point, but most probably in a less than positive manner, since the only thing he could think of worth discussing would involve Stephen.
And Stephen’s debts had been the cause of more than a few conversations, none of them positive.
He sighed as he finally found himself without his clinging vine for a few moments. She’d told him to stay right where he was while she refreshed herself, but he’d been to his fair share of these things, and knew he had every right to wander at this point in time.
So wander he did.
Finding a wide corridor that led away from the festivities, he strolled down it, noting the portraits of august faces, which – according to the nameplates – belonged to various generations of Haverstocks.
It was more of a gallery than a corridor, and it was intriguing to see the variety of faces, expressions, and fashions of the Haverstock familial line.
The voices of the guests faded into distant murmurs as he walked, until he ended up in a quite lovely and silent library. A small fire popped and crackled in the hearth, and several candles were lit, but nobody was settled in the large leather chairs with a book on their laps.
Peter sighed. This was a room he could appreciate, and one which, if he lived here, he would most definitely enjoy.
The quiet was appealing, the room alluring, the scent of the books a familiar perfume. And the spell was cast.
He walked to the furthest shadowed corner of the room and sat in one of the high-backed chairs, making sure it faced away from the door.
For the first time that evening, he breathed freely, relishing the silence, the exceedingly pleasant surroundings, and the fact that he didn’t have to respond to the frivolous chatter of a woman on the prowl for a husband.
No doubt Imelda would seek him out, but for now, he was content. And alone.
That lasted all of five minutes.
The footsteps were light, but distinct enough that he heard them as someone hurried into the room. Sighing, he was about to rise, when he also heard rapid breathing, as if whoever had entered the library had run there and was panting.
Staying silent, he let his ears paint a picture for him.
She, and it had to be a she, since those steps were much too light for a man, was out of breath.
Definitely panting, so he deduced that she’d hurried into the library or run in for some reason.
A couple of voices engaged in conversation drew Peter’s attention, but they continued past the doorway without stopping.
Guests perhaps, or servants...he didn’t know.
Silence fell, broken only by the crackle of the fire in the hearth.
But the out-of-breath visitor was still there, he was certain of it.
Something at the back of his neck was tingling, which usually meant he needed to pay attention to what was happening around him.
That tingle had got him out of more than a few tight corners in the past, so he respected it, and moved cautiously, sliding off the chair and letting his feet settle on the carpet firmly before rising.
Without making a sound, he rose and turned a little, hoping the lack of candles in his corner of the room would conceal his presence. Apparently, it did, since his breathless visitor was standing just inside the room and staring out, while twisting her hands together.
It was a maid.
A very astute maid too, since as Peter took one step in her direction, she turned and gasped aloud.
His vision blurred. That face... he could swear he’d seen it before.