slender shape and quick short steps. A chambermaid off to meet her beau in the village? He frowned. If he remembered correctly, the village lay in the other direction. There was something familiar about the hurrying figure. One of the guests?
A smile pulled at his lips. Intrigue was rife in this house, but why would one of the guests need to leave the comfort of a well-appointed bed in pursuit of bliss? Tantalised, he followed and caught another glimpse of the quick-paced shadow disappearing into the woodland to the east of the house, then a whiff of jasmine.
Mrs Travenor? Rose. Her height should have given her away, but she was the last female he would have expected to see scurrying off to an assignation. Was he, then, so naïve? Hardly.
She might have purity in her face, but beneath her still surface, she was as wicked as any woman. A pang of disappointment stilled him. No, he wasn’t disappointed. He was glad. It meant his instincts about her were right. He would only be disappointed if she’d proved to be virtuous.
Arriving at the entrance to the woods a few moments later, Garth saw no sign of the woman. Paths led in three directions and, with no sound to guide him, he halted.
He inhaled. Was it imagination, or did a trace of her perfume linger on the rich damp air? Where was she going? It was not a good night to meet a man out of doors unless there was some handily placed folly somewhere in the grounds. A vision of the exotic Mrs Travenor in the arms of one of the burly gardeners filled his mind. Or might she prefer the cheeky butler? Neither image fit. Unease rolled through him.
A suspicion rose that the quiet widow might be up to something nefarious. If she was meeting a servant, or even one of the guests, she would not be heading into the woods. There were too many other convenient places, dry places, within doors or nearby. No, the lady had some other less straightforward purpose.
His jaw clenched. He lifted his face as rain pelted down. He felt the sting of it on his cheeks and eyelids and mentally shrugged. It was none of his business what Lady Keswick’s temptress-nun-come-companion did with her nights, no matter how much she aroused his curiosity.
Hell, she aroused more than that, he realized, as his blood thickened and an image rampaged through his mind of her dressed as a nun pressed up against a marble column with him filling her body. No wonder he was hard within the tight confines of his pantaloons.
Moonlight speared through a gap in the clouds, revealing nothing but trees and lawn.
A wry chuckle escaped his throat. Another lying little baggage keeping secrets. It would behove him, for the sake of his hostess, to find out what they were.
She’d gone out by the side door, and he did not doubt she would come back the same way.
Rosa stopped to listen. Had she heard footsteps on the flagstones behind her? A shiver ran down her back at the thought of one of Lady Keswick’s dissolute guests finding her out here alone in the dark. Whoever or whatever she’d heard, there was no sound of them now. Aside from the wind in the trees, the whole world seemed remarkably quiet. Any creature with any sense was huddled somewhere out of the wind and rain. She pulled her cloak tighter around her and continued on.
Since she arrived two weeks ago, she’d several times walked this way in daylight, familiarising herself with the paths meandering through the park, ostensibly exercising Lady Keswick’s pug, Digger. The fat little thing hated to walk and in the end he’d sat down and refused to budge beyond the edge of the lawn. Now she was resorting to night-time expeditions.
On one of her earlier rambles, she’d found the shortcut leading to the woods belonging to Gorham Place, the square red-bricked mansion where she’d lived out her childhood. She trudged on.
Deep in the forest, at the edge of Lady Keswick’s estate, the sharp sound of fast-flowing water cut through the muffling effect of her hood. A fence blocked her path. In one of the brief moments of moonlight, she found the stile, an ancient right of way, leading to the bridge across the stream meandering between the two estates.
While the bridge was in a poor state of repair, she’d crossed back and forth several times during one of her daytime forays and knew it would safely hold her weight. Darkness slowed her steps to a crawl. She looked up at the sky, waiting for the moon to reappear and light her way. Rain slapped her in the face and she turned away, holding the hood close while the wind tugged at her skirts. As the cloud drifted on, she could see where the muddy footpath changed to the slippery wooden slats of the bridge.
Carefully holding the rough wooden railing, she crossed the shaky structure, testing her weight on each rotting plank before stepping forwards. At this rate it would take her all night to reach the house. Perhaps she should turn back and try on another evening, one with better weather.
Gritting her teeth, she pressed on. She couldn’t bear the thought of going back without at least looking upon the house where she had spent the happiest years of her life. In those days, she’d been secure in the knowledge of her parents’ affections. Now, as she crossed six feet of rotting wood, the doubts crowded in. She forced them to the back of her mind and hurried on, emerging from the trees and crossing the expanse of ill-kept lawn until she reached the drive. Stray moonbeams bounced off darkened windows revealing the house. Gorham Place.
Dear old house. So full of happy memories. Idle enquiry in the village had revealed no one lived here. The house had been let for a while after her father remarried, but now it lay empty and abandoned, with only a gardener employed to see to its maintenance. A man who would know her. But would he let her inside to search?
Her wet hem clinging to her ankles, she strode quickly to the walled courtyard around the back. A light flickered in an upper window of a cottage adjoining the stables.
Taking courage from a swift deep breath, she lifted the cottage’s iron knocker and let it fall with a loud bang. The sound echoed through the night.
Chapter Two
Heavy steps coming downstairs emanated from within. And then the echo of a chest-rattling cough. ‘Who is it?’ a voice wheezed.
‘Mr Inchbold,’ Rosa said. ‘It is Rosa Cavendish. Do you remember me?’ She held her breath, fearful and excited all at once. When she’d heard in the village of the guardian left here to mind the place, the familiar name had given her hope.
A bolt rasped in its hasp and the heavy oak door swung creaking back. ‘Lady Rosabella?’ the white-haired and bent old man said querulously. ‘Is it really you?’
Relief rushed through her in a warm flood of memories. ‘Yes. It is me. It was more than I dared hope to find our dear old Inchbold still here after all this time.’
Dim muddy eyes peered at her. The wrinkled face cracked a smile. ‘Welcome home, my lady. Welcome.’
It seemed so odd to be called my lady after weeks of being plain Mrs Travenor. ‘Thank you. I’m so happy you are here. Are you well?’
The gnarled hand holding the lantern on high trembled weakly. Not surprisingly. Inchbold had been ancient the last time she saw him, eight years before. ‘Well enough, my lady. Am I to open the gate? If you’ve a carriage, there are no grooms, no servants. Best if ye go to the inn in the village. Come back in the morning. Is your grandfather with you?’
She swallowed. ‘No carriage. Only me. I wondered if you might let me in the house?’
A
