Copyright
Note to Readers
‘I have one last, but very important, quest for you, Chase...’
Chase drew Brutus to a halt at the foot of Huxley’s Folly.
The last time he’d seen his cousin, he’d stood precisely there in the arched doorway of the stone tower, his wispy grey hair weaving in the breeze like an underwater plant.
The last time he’d seen him and the first and last time Huxley had ever expressed any sentiment regarding Chase’s chosen occupation.
‘I do hope what you do for Oswald doesn’t place you in too much peril, Chase. Tessa would be very upset if you joined her too soon.’
Huxley always referred to Chase’s mother as if her death was merely a temporary absence. It was one of the reasons Chase found visiting Huxley a strain, but that was no excuse for neglecting him these past couple of years, no matter how busy Oswald kept him.
‘It’s my fault, Brutus.’ He stroked the horse’s thick black neck. ‘I should have visited more often. Too late now.’
Brutus huffed, twin bursts of steam foaming into the chilly air.
Chase sighed and swung out of the saddle. Coming to Huxley Manor always stretched his patience, but without Huxley himself his stay would be purgatorial. Nothing wrong with postponing it a little longer with a visit to the ramshackle Folly tower. Every time he came it looked a little more stunted, but as children he and Lucas and Sam fantasised that it was populated with ogres, magical beasts and escaped princesses.
He approached the wall where Huxley kept a key behind a loose brick, when he noticed the door was slightly open. He frowned and slipped inside, a decade of working as emissary for his uncle at the Foreign Office coming into play even though he knew there was probably no need. Being sent to smooth out some of the less mentionable kinks in relations with Britain’s allies meant one collected as many enemies as friends. Wariness had the advantage of increasing longevity, but it also flared up at inappropriate moments, and this was probably just such a case.
No doubt whoever was in the tower was merely his cousin, Henry, the new Baron Huxley, or Huxley’s trusted secretary, Mallory, Chase told himself as he climbed the stairs silently.
It was neither.
For a moment as he stood in the doorway of the first floor of the tower he wondered if he’d conjured one of their old tales into being—the Princess locked away and pining for her Prince.
His mouth quirked in amusement at his descent into fancy as he took in the details of her attire. Definitely not a princess.
She was seated at Huxley’s desk, which was positioned to provide a view from the arched window, so she was facing away and all he could see was the curve of her cheek and tawny-brown hair gathered into a tightly coiled bun exposing the fragile line of her nape and a very drab-coloured pelisse with no visible ornamentation.
She was leaning over some papers on the desk with evident concentration and the opening words in Huxley’s cryptic letter forced their way back into his mind.
