curved up in a smile that was perilously close to a smirk. “My papers are upstairs. Do you trust me to fetch them, or would you and your bear like to accompany me?”
She probably should, just in case he was lying and had friends or a pistol waiting. After all, she had seen a light moving in the house earlier. That’s why she’d come up to investigate with Dolly.
The house had been broken into three times in the past two months. Her father would find a door left swinging or a window wide open on his rounds about the estate. She’d helped him inventory the rooms each time, but they’d never been able to determine that anything had been taken or even disturbed.
Vagrants, Mr. Casperson the constable was sure, although the look he directed toward her father was knowing. He suspected Horace Allbridge of neglecting his duty, either by failing to protect the property he currently served as caretaker or by siphoning off its treasures, selling them himself and blaming mysterious others.
Gwen bristled just thinking about the unfair accusation. Help me, Lord. Help me show them how wrong they are.
“I’d be delighted to wait here,” she said.
He snapped her a bow and strode from the room. Gwen followed him to the door and watched as he started up the stairs, which squeaked at the fall of his high black boots.
It seemed the master of Blackcliff had arrived at last. But would he be the man Gwen had prayed for?
Chapter Two
The moment Sir Trevor turned the corner for the upper floor, Gwen burst into action. She tugged the carpet back into place where their struggle had creased it, then pulled off her cloak and used it to wipe the dust from the side tables and mantel. She shook out the dust in the dining room (time later to clean that) and left the cloak out of sight on the embroidered seat of one of the mahogany chairs.
Returning to the withdrawing room, she picked up the sword he’d left lying on the carpet and was surprised to find that it looked familiar. Had he taken it from the ancient armor upstairs? Wrinkling her nose, she tucked it into a corner to return later.
But the sword wasn’t the only thing that needed returning. She located the shepherd statue rolled against the wall and went to right it. The soft white marble glowed with life; she could feel the shepherd’s vigilance in guarding his sheep, his eyes narrowed into the distance, one hand against his brow, the other gripping his staff.
I am the good shepherd, and know my sheep and am known of mine.
She smiled at the familiar verse, but her smile quickly faded into a frown. Why had Sir Trevor moved it to the center of the withdrawing room, where she’d seen it when she’d arrived earlier? He could hardly be redecorating so soon. And if he was, he wasn’t very practical. Why would he want to trip over a statue every time he crossed the room?
She picked it up and nearly tripped herself. Sir Trevor must be as strong as he looked, for she had trouble carrying it back to the entry hall. Dolly padded alongside her, pink tongue lolling out crookedly from her heavy jowls, her breath coming in huffs of delight to be up and moving.
“We must make a better impression on him,” Gwen told her as she returned to the withdrawing room. She snatched the tinderbox from the mantel and set about lighting the brass lamps that rested here and there among the tables. The light gleamed off the heavy oak paneling that ran through the house and veined the ceilings and stairwells. Blackcliff Hall could be warm and welcoming, solid and safe. She had to show him that.
“This is what Father needs,” she said to Dolly, “to serve a respectable master in a respectable position. That ought to get his mind off his troubles.”
Of course, it wouldn’t hurt if she looked a bit more respectable herself, she realized. She paused to pin back her wayward curls into the bun at the top of her head, straighten her white lace collar and smooth the wrinkles in her green wool gown.
Goodness, were her fingers trembling? She mustn’t show how much Sir Trevor’s arrival meant to her and her father. From this moment forward, she vowed, the new master of Blackcliff would be met with nothing but pleasantries. She was standing by the hearth with a smile on her face, Dolly lying calmly at her feet, when Sir Trevor strode back in a moment later.
He pulled up short and gaped at her. She knew admiration when she saw it, and she couldn’t help the satisfaction that shot through her.
“Pardon me, madam,” he said, quirking a smile, “but there was a miscreant here with a pet bear a few moments ago. Do you know where they went?”
“La, but I’m sure they’re miles away,” Gwen answered, grin forming at his teasing tone. Then she dipped a curtsy. “Miss Gwendolyn Allbridge, sir. My father and I reside in your gatehouse. And this is Dolly.”
The mastiff’s tail thumped twice, and Dolly raised her dark head to gaze at him, jowls widening in a grin.
He bowed. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Dolly, Miss Allbridge. May I ask how you came to be in my house this fine evening?”
His voice was more curious than accusing. “My father has been acting as caretaker while the house went through Probate and was sold,” she explained. “Dolly and I spied your light when we were walking and came to investigate.”
He raised a brow. “Your father must be infirm, then.”
Gwen stiffened. “Not at all! Who told you that?”
“No one.” He crossed to her side and stood towering over her. Her head fit under his arm. She ought to feel menaced, but, with him smiling down at her, she felt as protected as when Dolly pressed close to her side.
“I stopped at the gatehouse when I arrived this evening,” he said. “No one answered the bell. And your father saw fit to send you when there was a stranger in the house. Naturally I assumed he must be ill.”
“My father was…unavailable earlier,” Gwen replied, hoping he wouldn’t ask the reason. It had only been a few cups tonight, far less than the bottles he’d downed shortly after Mother had died. “I was out with Dolly checking the grounds for the night, or I would have answered the bell myself.”
He frowned. “You serve as night watchman, as well?”
Night watchman, nurse, gardener and cook, but she could hardly tell him all that without making her father sound like a laggard. “Only when my father is unavailable, I assure you.”
He glanced around the room. “And who serves as maid?”
Not her, and for that he should be thankful. With the lamps lit, she could see streaks of dust crossing the fine grain of the wood where she’d missed spots in her hurry. “The staff were all let go when Colonel Umbrey, the previous owner, died. His heir chose to sell the estate, and we couldn’t know when someone would purchase it.”
His gaze speared her. His eyes were green, a light shade like the creamy jade Colonel Umbrey had brought back from his travels in India and the Orient. “And you’ve never heard of Holland covers?”
“Certainly we’ve heard of covering the furniture when it’s unused,” Gwen said, trying not to sound defensive. Pleasantries, remember? It wouldn’t do to snap at her father’s new employer.
