either improve, refurbish or extend it—to the detriment of all comfort and pleasure.’
He swung round. And saw a figure, certainly the owner of the voice, partly concealed in the shadows by the carved screen that ran along the north side of the Great Hall. Her clothes were dark; a glimpse of the pale skin of hands and face being the only sign that initially caught his attention. Presuming that it was merely a servant girl, if an unusually outspoken one, engaged in conducting her own household tasks, he would have continued his progress with merely an inclination of the head in her direction and a lift of his brows, but a discreet cough from Foxton behind him drew Mansell’s attention.
‘My lord …’
The lady approached with graceful steps to stand beside Foxton, her eyes never leaving Mansell’s face. As she emerged from the shadows he glimpsed a movement beside her which soon transformed itself into a large hound. It remained close to the lady’s skirts, as if it sensed her need for protection, its pale eyes fixed on Mansell, its lips lifted into the faintest of snarls, exposing long teeth. Mansell assessed its elegant limbs, its rough grey pelt, its broad head tapering to a narrow muzzle and allowed his lips to curl into a slight smile. So here was the wolfhound itself! The dog growled low in its throat, only quietening when a slender hand was placed on its head in warning.
Thus Mansell turned his attention to the lady, but with cursory interest. A relative? A female dependant? Clearly not a servant, not even the housekeeper, as now indicated by the style and quality of her raiment.
She stood quietly before him, waiting for Foxton, or Mansell, to take the initiative. She was dressed completely in black from head to foot with no decoration or redeeming features, no jewellery, no lace, but her gown was of the finest silk and the fashioning spoke of London. Her brown hair was neatly and severely confined at the nape of her neck, without curls or ringlets to soften the impression. An oval face with clear hazel eyes, well-marked brows and an unsmiling mouth. Her skin was pale, with delicate smudges beneath her eyes, the severe colour of her dress robbing her of even a reflected tint that might have been flattering. She looked, he thought, on the verge of total exhaustion. She was young, but yet not a girl. Not a beauty, but with a composed serenity that had its own attraction. Serene, that is, until he noted her hands, which were clasped before her, but not loosely. Her fingers, slender and elegant, were white with tension. And he could see a pulse beating rapidly in her throat above the high neckline of her gown. He returned his gaze to her face, his brows raised in polite enquiry. The lady simply stood and waited. He had the impression—why, he was unsure—that she had been standing in the shadows of the room since his arrival, watching and listening, making her own judgement. A finger of disquiet touched his spine.
Mansell had no idea who she was. And yet, there was perhaps something familiar about her … He cast a glance at Foxton to help him out of this uncomfortable situation. Before the steward could speak, the lady curtsied and spoke. Her voice, as before, was calm and soft, quite confident, confirming that she was no housekeeper.
‘We have been expecting you, Lord Mansell. You must be weary after your journey.’ There was not even the faintest smile of welcome to warm the conventional words. ‘And your travelling companion. I have arranged for food and wine in the solar, if that will please you. It is the warmest room.’
‘Thank you. Foxton has so directed us. Mistress …?’ He saw the quick glance pass between Foxton and the lady.
‘I see that Lord Edward did not see fit to inform you, my lord.’ She met his enquiring gaze without shyness, her composure still intact. It ruffled him that he was the only one to feel in any way compromised by this situation.
‘Inform me? I am not sure …’ Impatience simmered. His brows snapped together in a heavy frown, usually guaranteed to provoke an instant response. Josh saw it and awaited the outcome with interest.
‘My lord.’ Foxton came to his rescue. ‘If I might be permitted to introduce you.’ He bowed towards the still figure at his side, his face enigmatic, but his eyes sharp. ‘I have the honour to introduce to you Honoria, Lady Mansell. The wife—the recent bride—of Lord Edward. This gentleman, my lady, is Sir Francis Brampton, a distant cousin of Lord Edward and, as heir to the title, now Lord Mansell. And Sir Joshua Hopton, who travels with him.’
The lady sank into a deep curtsy as the two gentlemen bowed. Sir Francis took the opportunity to attempt to marshal the jumble of facts and impressions that assailed him. This was not what he expected when he had received the news of Edward’s sudden death. This could probably provide him with an unnecessary complication. He forced his mind to focus on the most startling of the developments.
‘Edward’s wife? I was not aware.’ He fixed the lady with a stark stare as if the fault were hers. And then frowned as he took in her neat hair and clear features. ‘And yet … I believe that we have met before, my lady.’
‘We have, my lord, but I did not expect you to remember. It was more than two years ago—in London, before the outbreak of hostilities.’
‘Of course.’ He failed to hide the surprise in his voice. ‘You are Mistress Ingram, the Laxton heiress, if I am not mistaken. You were at Court in the autumn of 1640. At Whitehall. I was there with Katherine …’
‘Yes. I am—that is to say, I was Honoria Ingram.’
‘Indeed, we were introduced at one of the Queen’s masques. One of Inigo Jones’s extravaganzas.’ There was the merest hint of distaste in his voice.
‘I was there with Sir Robert Denham, my guardian, and his family.’
‘I know Sir Robert, of course. But my cousin’s wife! I had no idea …’
‘How should you, my lord?’ She watched his reactions with some detached interest, but without emotion, without involvement.
‘Lord Edward had always given the impression—to my father—that he had chosen not to marry and never would. We were given to believe that he did not hold women and the state of matrimony in very high regard.’
‘As for that, my lord, I am not in a position to give an opinion.’
The lady before him grew even paler, if that were possible. Lord Francis groaned inwardly at his clumsy choice of words and his thoughtless lack of tact. There was no excuse for it. Sir Joshua’s inelegant attempts to cover a laugh with a fit of coughing irritated him further and elicited a fierce glance in his direction before Mansell turned back to his cousin’s widow in a hopeless attempt to mend a few fences.
‘Forgive me, my lady. That was unwarranted. I did not intend any discourtesy. My manners appear to have gone begging after four days of travel in adverse conditions. Will you accept my apology?’
The lady gave her head a little shake. ‘It is not necessary, my lord. Your assessment of the situation is most percipient and quite correct. I believe that it was certainly not Lord Edward’s intent to marry until very recently. The prospect of a fortune in land and coin, however, can make even the most obstinate or the most jaundiced of men change his mind.’ The pause was barely discernible. ‘And Lord Edward was, without doubt, both.’
‘How long ago—since you were married?’ Mansell could not mistake the bitterness in her tone, however much she might try to conceal it, as she exposed the reason for the marriage with such terrible clarity.
For the first time the lady hesitated a little before she replied, perhaps disinclined to reveal more. There was the ghost of some emotion in her clear gaze, a mere shadow, but it was too fleeting for him to interpret. Her face remained impassive and her
