Chapter Four
The taxi that finally delivered them to the Sullivan estate smelled of stale cigarettes and regret, which seemed fitting given that they were arriving at nearly half past eleven after what Sasha was now thinking of as The Great Train Disaster.
The heat had barely lessened with the evening, hanging in the air like a wet blanket, and she could feel her carefully chosen "meet the posh family" outfit clinging to her uncomfortably.
"Right," Ambrose said, staring up at the imposing facade of what was less a house and more a small castle complete with actual turrets.
Golden light spilled from dozens of windows, suggesting the family was still very much awake and probably wondering where the hell they were.
"This is fine. Everything's fine. We're only four hours late for dinner with my entire family, including my terrifying grandmother who probably thinks I'm dead in a ditch somewhere. "
"Breathing, Ambrose. Remember breathing.
" Sasha craned her neck back to take in the full scope of what she was walking into.
The building seemed to go on forever, all honey-colored stone and ivy-covered walls and the sort of architectural confidence that came from centuries of never having to worry about mortgage payments.
"I'm breathing. I'm also panicking, but I'm doing it quietly and with good posture, which is what matters." He straightened his shoulders as if preparing for battle.
The front door opened before they'd even made it up the stone steps, and a man who Sasha assumed was some kind butler appeared. Not that she’d ever seen one before.
"Master Ambrose," he said with the sort of diplomatic neutrality that probably required years of training. "And this must be Miss Fox. I'm Davies. Welcome home."
"Thank you," Sasha managed, trying not to gawk at the marble entrance hall that was roughly the size of her entire flat.
There were actual portraits on the walls, the kind with eyes that followed you, and a chandelier that looked like it belonged in a palace hung overhead, casting rainbow prisms across the polished floor.
Everything smelled of lavender and faintly of damp.
"The family have finished dinner," Davies continued, leading them deeper into the house, "but Lady Charlotte has asked me to show you to your rooms and see if you require anything to eat."
"That would be lovely," Ambrose said, shooting Sasha a look that clearly said be charming but not too charming and also please don't break anything.
They were intercepted before they made it to the staircase by a woman who could only be Ambrose's mother, all flowing scarves and warm smiles and the sort of effortless elegance that probably came with good breeding. She moved like someone who had never doubted her place in the world. She was also, Sasha couldn’t help but notice, exceedingly good looking.
"Darlings!" Lady Charlotte descended upon them, her voice carrying just the faintest hint of relief.
"You poor things, what an awful journey you must have had.
Davies, do see about some sandwiches, won't you?
" She turned to Sasha with the kind of smile that suggested she knew exactly what was going on but was far too well-bred to mention it.
"And you must be Sasha. How lovely to finally meet you. "
"Thank you so much for having me," Sasha said, accepting the offered embrace and trying not to feel like a complete fraud. Lady Charlotte smelled of expensive perfume and fresh flowers. "I'm sorry we're so late."
"Trains," Lady Charlotte said with a dismissive wave. "Dreadful in this heat. I do hope you won't find it too warm here. The house does retain the heat something awful in July. Victoria's already complained twice about her room being stifling."
The rest of the family went by in a blur of names and faces. Sir Archibald emerged from somewhere called "the morning room" looking like he'd rather be anywhere else, all gruff politeness and weathered handsomeness. He shook hands with efficient politeness and immediately disappeared again.
"Don't take it personally," Ambrose whispered. "He's allergic to social interaction."
Then there was Archie, all golden hair and easy charm and natural confidence. "Sasha! Finally, a face to put to the name." He gestured to the woman beside him. "This is Tiffany."
Tiffany looked like she'd stepped out of a magazine, with perfect makeup and strategic poses. She was also filming everything on her phone.
"Oh my God, this lighting is amazing," she said, panning her camera across the entrance hall.
"The aesthetic here is just so authentically British aristocracy, you know?
" She turned the camera on Sasha with predatory enthusiasm.
"And you must be Ambrose's girlfriend! How did you two meet? What's your Instagram handle?"
"I…" Sasha glanced desperately at Ambrose, who looked like he was rapidly regretting his life choices. "We met at a party."
"How romantic! I'm definitely going to feature this in my 'Country Estate Life' series." Tiffany studied Sasha critically. "You should really consider getting some highlights, though. The camera washes you out a bit."
"Right," Sasha said weakly.
Sophie, the youngest Sullivan, appeared at the bottom of the staircase looking like she'd rather be reading a book than meeting new people. She had dark hair and serious eyes and a sharply intelligent look that made Sasha feel like she was being quietly assessed.
"You're the girlfriend," Sophie said without preamble.
"That's… yes." Sasha glanced at Ambrose, who had gone slightly pale. "I'm the girlfriend."
"Right." Sophie studied her with scientific intensity. "You know he's gay, don't you?"
The words hung in the air like an unexploded bomb. Sasha felt her cheeks burning.
"Sophie," Lady Charlotte said mildly.
"What? Everyone knows. Well, except Grandmother."
Sasha felt like she was drowning in social quicksand. "I… yes. We're… it's complicated."
"It always is," Sophie said with a worldly wisdom that seemed unusual in a fifteen-year-old. "Well, I like you better than Archie's Instagram person already."
"She's an influencer," Archie protested, looking down the corridor to where Tiffany was arranging a vase under a lamp.
"Same thing," Sophie said dismissively, then began heading upstairs. She paused halfway up. "Also, your room's the third door on the left from the main staircase. In case you get lost later. This place is a maze if you haven’t grown up in it."
By the time Sasha was finally shown to her guest room, her head was spinning with names and relationships and the growing certainty that she was completely out of her depth. She was also slightly hungover, which wasn’t helping.
The room was lovely and she was slightly afraid to touch anything. It all looked like it belonged in a museum: the antique four-poster bed, the writing desk that probably predated electricity, the Persian rug that was probably worth more than she'd made in a year.
It was also approximately the size of a middle class house, with ceilings so high they seemed to disappear into shadow. Even with the windows thrown open, the place was boiling.
"This is mental," she said to her reflection in the ornate mirror.
"Completely mental." Free holidays indeed, she thought to herself.
It was more like she was playing dress-up in someone else's life.
Her small suitcase looked ridiculous on the luggage rack that Davies had positioned at the foot of the bed.
Outside, she could hear the sounds of the house settling: distant voices, doors closing, soft footsteps in the corridors.
She'd unpacked, changed into her most respectable pajamas, and was lying in the ridiculously comfortable bed staring at the ceiling when she realized she desperately needed the loo.
The problem was that in her nervousness, she'd completely failed to pay attention to any explanation of where anything was located.
She sighed and got up, having to jump down from the bed it was so high.
The hallway outside her room was dark and confusing, lit only by dim lighting that made everything look like a gothic novel. The corridor stretched in both directions, lined with identical doors, and no helpful signs indicating which way led to bathroom facilities.
Sasha muttered something about maps until her bladder protested and she chose a direction at random.
Floorboards creaked under her bare feet, and she found herself walking on tiptoe, trying not to wake anyone.
She tried the first door and found what appeared to be a linen closet.
The second opened onto what might have been a sitting room.
The third revealed another bedroom, though she backed away quickly when she heard gentle snoring from within.
By the time she finally found a bathroom, she was beginning to suspect that the Sullivans had designed their house specifically to confuse intruders. Or possibly to get rid of guests who drank too much.
With great relief she did what she needed to do, washed her face and her hands, and then decided that she could probably sleep now.
However, the journey back to her room proved even more challenging.
What had seemed straightforward now appeared to have multiplied into several possible corridors, each lined with identical doors and antique furniture.
In the dim lighting, everything looked the same: dark wood, faded wallpaper, and occasional portraits with the creepy eye-following mode firmly switched on.
She was fairly certain she'd taken a wrong turn somewhere around what might have been the main staircase, but could equally have been a completely different staircase. How many staircases was a house allowed to have?
After what felt like an eternity, she thought she was on the right track at last.
The door she was looking for seemed right, though it was difficult to be certain in the darkness. Third door from the main staircase, Sophie had said, though Sasha was no longer entirely certain which staircase counted as "main." So she opened it.
The room was darker than she'd left it, which was odd, but maybe the moon had gone behind clouds. She felt her way carefully toward what she thought was her bed, trying not to knock over any priceless antiques in the darkness.
The bed was softer than she remembered. And warmer. Much warmer.
It took her sleep-addled brain several crucial seconds to process the fact that beds were not supposed to be warm on their own, and by the time she realized her mistake, she was already sliding under covers that smelled of something expensive and floral and definitely not like the lavender-scented sheets she'd climbed out of twenty minutes earlier.
The something warm and soft beside her shifted slightly, and Sasha's heart stopped entirely.
She was in the wrong bed.
And so was someone else.
Or perhaps the someone else was in the right bed, how was she to know?
But then, what were the chances of two people wandering around lost in the middle of the night?
No, she was almost certainly in someone else’s bed. And someone else was certainly there too.
Christ.
The smart thing would have been to slip out quietly and pretend this had never happened.
But smart wasn’t always Sasha’s strategy.
Particularly when panic set in and made her clumsy.
She tried to silently slide her way out of the occupied bed, only to have her elbow connect solidly with what felt like a bedside table.
The crash of breaking glass was deafening in the quiet house.
"What the hell…" said a voice beside her, and Sasha's mortification was complete as she realized exactly whose voice it was.