of calculating eyes rested thoughtfully on her window.
She was halfway downstairs the next morning when Hester recalled the broken shutter. ‘Susan, do remind me to ask Jethro to get that shutter in my bedchamber repaired.’
‘You need new curtains too before the weather gets much colder,’ the maid remarked. ‘But fixing the shutter will be quicker. Jethro’s in the drawing room, I think. I’ll go and put the kettle on.’
Susan disappeared towards the kitchen, singing what seemed to Hester to be a new song. She just caught the tail of the chorus: ‘Never say me nay, my lusty lad.’ It hardly seemed a suitable ditty and was doubtless the result of an evening spent in the public bar of the Bird in Hand.
With an indulgent smile Hester looked round the drawing-room door: no Jethro. She crossed the hall and stepped into the dining room. Again it was empty, but on the table lay a dark, spiky bundle of something next to a chamber stick.
Puzzled, Hester approached the table and peered at the bundle. It was a bunch of roses. Dead roses. Cautiously Hester poked them with her finger tip and the bunch fell apart. They were very dead, brown and perfectly crisp. There seemed to be fourteen of them and beside them on the table an ordinary chamber stick with a burnt-out candle in it.
Hester took an involuntary step backwards, recalling the light she had seen the night before in this room. Not moonlight but the light of this candle placed on the table by whoever—whatever—had left the dead roses there.
She stopped her instinctive retreat by calling up all her rational good sense and made herself step forward again. The front door had been locked. So had the back door, for Jethro would certainly have raised the alarm if anything had been out of order when he left to go to his bed above the stables. And, reliable as the church clock, he made his rounds of all the windows before leaving every night.
Something had got in. Or it had already been inside. Hester realised she was scanning the corners of the room as if expecting some spectral presence to be lurking there. That was as terrifying a thought as her first assumption of an intruder.
She ran her tongue over lips that were completely dry. She could not leave that sinister bouquet there; she must move it before the others saw it. Cautiously Hester gathered it up, just as there was a brisk knock at the front door.
‘I will get it!’ It was Susan, running along the hall before Hester could slip out of the dining room door. ‘Oh. Goodness…I mean, good morning, my lord. I’m not sure if Miss Lattimer is receiving yet.’
‘I would not wish to disturb Miss Lattimer, only to return this handkerchief, which, from the initials, I believe must be hers.’
‘Thank you, my lord, yes, it is Miss Lattimer’s, I am sure of it. Will you not step in and I will see if she—oh, there you are, Miss Hester.’
Left with no option but to put a good face on it, Hester stepped out into the hallway. ‘Good morning, my lord, how kind of you to take the trouble.’ Conscious of her unpleasant burden already crumbling into brown flakes in her hands she chatted on determinedly. ‘Such a pleasant dinner last night; I meant to ask you if you had lured your London chef down to the country or whether you have been fortunate in finding local staff.’
It was hopeless. The blue gaze was fixed on the roses as he said lightly, ‘I am glad you enjoyed it, I will tell Maxim; he insists on accompanying me, apparently in the belief that I would starve else. Not that that devotion to duty prevents him from moaning almost continuously about the conditions into which I have dragged him.’
‘That must be very tiresome,’ Hester said.
‘It is not I who has to listen to him,’ Guy responded. ‘You appear to have an admirer with a very strange taste in flowers, Miss Lattimer.’ Was it her imagination or was there an odd note in his voice?
‘They are dead, my lord.’
‘I can see that.’
‘Flowers do die,’ Hester stated briskly.
‘Let us crown ourselves with rosebuds, before they be withered,’ Guy murmured vaguely. ‘I wonder where that comes from? The Bible, possibly. But flowers in water do not die like that; these are uniformly crisp and brown and have been deliberately set to dry, or possibly hung up.’
‘These had been put aside and forgotten,’ Hester retorted, knowing she was becoming flustered. ‘Susan, take them, please, and throw them away.’ She thrust the tattered bunch into her maid’s hands and confronted Guy as Susan made her way down the hall, trying to keep the crumbing stems intact.
‘As I was saying, my lord…’
‘Guy. I thought we had agreed on Christian names when we were alone. Hester, those flowers have been dead a long time, in a house I know you have been turning out very thoroughly indeed—and you are afraid of something. Where did they come from?’
His voice was very gentle and his eyes concerned. Hester found herself being drawn in, taking one step towards him. She was a little frightened, it would be foolish to deny it. To tell him, to be held safely in those strong arms as he had held her in her bedchamber—the thought was powerfully seductive. And, after all, she knew where he had been all the time she had been out of the Moon House. It could not possibly be any doing of Guy Westrope’s.
‘I found them in the dining room just now…’ she began hesitantly. Something sparked in that deep blue gaze and she realised that she did not know where he had been for every minute of yesterday evening; at least one of the men had been strolling in the darkened gardens after the ladies had retired. It would have taken a matter of minutes to cross the road in the glimmer of moonlight and leave the dead bouquet, provided you had access to the house. And someone had, of that she was increasingly convinced; thoughts of ghosts were absurd. Someone could come and go in the Moon House, just as they wished.
And no one else had any reason for wanting to scare her away. Something of her thoughts must have shown on her face, in her unfinished sentence. Guy’s eyes narrowed and he said, almost roughly, ‘If you will not confide in me, then take care, Hester. I do not like the symbolism of those roses.’
She gathered her tumbling wits, her voice cool. ‘And I do not like attempts to scare me away from my home. I told you Guy, I will not be bought out, and I would tell whoever is behind this that I will not be scared away either.’
He caught up her meaning with a directness that astonished her. ‘You think that I would attempt to frighten you away?’ Those expressive blue eyes showed nothing but concern that she could misjudge him.
Flustered to be taken up so directly, Hester returned to the attack. ‘I did not say so. But who else wants this house?’
‘No one who has made their wishes clear, apparently.’ His voice was dispassionate. ‘But that does not mean they do not exist.’ He had moved towards her slightly and Hester stepped back into the dining room. ‘I would remind you that I made my intentions perfectly clear—and made you a generous offer of compensation.’
‘Because you thought I was an elderly lady who might be cozened by a gentleman of your standing into complying with your desires,’ Hester retorted. Her breath was coming very short and for some reason she felt quite uncomfortably hot.
Guy chuckled. ‘I thought perhaps you would be a middle-aged widow,’ he admitted. ‘But as for my desires…’ Hester knew she was blushing.
