Griff examined them through the dusty glass. “They must be, although there should be three of them. Perhaps the third is sick or tending their father.”
Daniel scowled as the coach rattled to a halt. “Blast it, Griff, those beauties probably spend their days fighting off the gents. They’ll see me for an impostor at once!”
“They’re merely country cousins. You’ll do fine.” Griff watched as the taller woman limped toward them, relying heavily on a stout cane. “For the love of God, the dark-haired one is lame. She’ll be glad of a man to pay her some attention.”
“Are you blind as well as daft?” Daniel hissed. “Lame or no, she carries herself like a bloody duchess. She’ll think me a clod ten times beneath her.”
The women had nearly reached the carriage. Griff opened the door, then dropped his voice. “Just remember the hundred and fifty pounds.”
Shooting a baleful glance over his shoulder, Daniel climbed down. Griff followed, wishing he’d instructed Daniel more thoroughly on how to act rich and powerful. The man usually had plenty of confidence, but these women seemed to drain his pride. Griff trod on his friend’s heel deliberately, and Daniel straightened his spine and clenched his jaw. That was more like it.
Stepping forward, Daniel made a presentable bow to the taller woman. “Mr. Knighton at your service, madam.”
“Welcome to Swan Park.” Her voice was cool and
cultured. “I’m your cousin, Helena.” Bracing herself on her cane with one hand, she offered Daniel the other.
Daniel held the woman’s hand too long, provoking her to jerk it free with a flustered look. Griff groaned.
Gesturing to the girl at her side, Lady Helena added in a haughtier tone, “This is Juliet, my youngest sister.”
The slip of woman gazed up at Daniel wide-eyed. “How do you do?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” Daniel said, his accent credibly genteel if a bit coarse.
An awkward silence ensued. Then Lady Helena glanced back to where Griff stood. “And who is your friend?”
Daniel started. “Begging your pardon—this is Mr.…er…Daniel Brennan.”
Griff bowed. “It’s a very great pleasure to meet you.”
When the women looked to the real Daniel for an explanation, Griff ground his teeth. Playing the subordinate was damned inconvenient, especially when Daniel stood there like a witless bull. Griff prodded him in the foot with his walking stick.
Daniel blurted out, “Mr. Brennan is my man of affairs. I hope my bringing him doesn’t give you any trouble, but with so many business matters to discuss…”
“It’s no trouble at all,” Lady Helena put in evenly.
As she ushered them to the house, Daniel asked, “Don’t you have another sister?”
Inexplicably, the younger woman turned scarlet. “Yes, our middle sister. I-I don’t know where Rosalind’s gone, but she’ll be at dinner, I’m sure.”
Lady Helena cast her sister a quizzical glance, and Lady Juliet ducked her head.
Very strange
, Griff
thought. Why was the third sister hiding? Did she know of her father’s plans to blackmail him into marriage? Did they all know?
At least they weren’t shrews, which should appease Daniel. Lady Helena was formal and cold, and Lady Juliet was a milk-and-water miss, but neither seemed disposed to cause trouble, thank God.
At the doors, Lady Helena halted to point out the estate’s boundaries for Daniel. Griff found it disconcerting to play Daniel’s lackey. As a charity student at Eton, Griff had disliked being the target of condescension, and it was downright hateful to him now.
Then they entered the house, and the awful sight that greeted Griff knocked the wind from him. Father had described a vision of old nobility—veined marble arches and ancient tapestries hung on elegant walls. This was a nightmare of hell at its busiest hour.
Fiery red was the color of choice. The red-papered walls were punctuated by dark moldings and curtains in gold gauze with red-painted designs. Beside the staircase, a miniature pagoda sat atop a black-lacquer table. Indeed, Chinoiserie decorated the entire hall. Not to mention that a brilliant scarlet-and-blue Oriental carpet spanned the majestic room, covering up what his father had said was a floor of expensive Italian marble.
Apparently catching his stunned look, Lady Juliet ventured, “Rosalind recently had our hall redone. It’s in the new Chinese style.”
“I thought it was the old brothel style,” Griff bit out unthinkingly. In the weighty silence that followed, it dawned on him what he’d said, to whom he’d said it, and most importantly, that he’d said it with a boldness unthinkable for an employee.
Daniel eyed him with something akin to glee.
“Please forgive my man of affairs. He has a bad habit of speaking his mind.”
Griff suppressed a groan.
“R-Rosalind said the Chinese style was quite popular in L-London,” the younger woman sputtered. “Is that not true?”
Daniel glanced furtively to Griff, who gave him a slight nod. “The style is still all the crack in many quarters,” Daniel reassured the two ladies. “Mr. Brennan’s tastes are duller than your sister’s, that’s all.”
“You may inform your man of affairs,” Lady Helena retorted in a frosty voice, “that my sister Rosalind manages the estate almost entirely alone under difficult circumstances, so I think she’s entitled to a few eccentricities.”
“I didn’t mean to imply otherwise, my lady,” Griff interjected, determined to placate the woman. And change the subject before her tongue stripped his skin. “Speaking of eccentricities, I noticed that you and your sisters bear the names of Shakespearean heroines. Rosalind. Helena. Juliet. Was that intentional?”
“Are you a lover of Shakespeare?”
He decided the truth wouldn’t hurt. “Actually, I am. The comedies mostly.”
“Thanks to our proximity to Stratford-upon-Avon, Papa is also an enthusiast. That, as you might guess, is why we’re saddled with these names.” She turned to Daniel. “What about you? Are you also fond of Shakespeare?”
“Not at all. Griff’s the only one who’s contracted the Shakespeare pox.”
“Griff?” Lady Helena asked. “I beg your pardon, but who is Griff?”
Damnation, Daniel had already slipped up. Daniel
shot Griff a look of sheer exasperation, but Griff suddenly realized that his cousins probably didn’t know his middle name. This might work to his advantage. “Griff is my nickname,” he quickly put in. “That’s what Knighton and the employees at Knighton Trading call me.”
“Y-Your Christian name is Daniel, isn’t it?” Lady Juliet stammered.
Griff thought fast. “Yes, but I’m called Griff after the griffin.” For Daniel’s benefit, he added, “You know—the mythical creature with the head of an eagle and the body of a lion, who keeps guard over gold and riches.”
“That’s right,” Daniel chimed in, a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. “It’s because he’s so tightfisted. Why, only last week I wanted to pay a man two hundred pounds for a service Griff thinks deserves only one hundred and fifty. Isn’t that right, Griff?”
Griff raised an eyebrow. “Yes. And I haven’t changed my mind. The man still has to prove he can do a decent job.”
“I expect he’ll surprise you.” At Griff’s warning glare, Daniel turned to the ladies. “When will I meet your father—at dinner? I’m eager to talk with him.”
Probably more eager to get it over with
, Griff thought wryly. If Daniel passed that test, they were in for the duration.
“Oh, no, not tonight!” Lady Juliet cried. “I-I mean, Papa is so ill you’d best wait until he’s better. In the morning, perhaps.”
“But Juliet, surely—” her sister began.
“In the morning,” Lady Juliet insisted. “W-Would you gentlemen like some tea?”
Griff’s eyes narrowed as Lady Juliet steered them toward the parlor, chattering anxiously as they went. All was not as it had seemed at first—these
two were hiding something, and their sister, who apparently ran the estate, probably had a part in it.
No matter. Their petty secrets would not deter him from his purpose.
Rosalind had been fretting for an age when she heard a key turn in the lock.
To her surprise, it was Helena. “You really
are
here,” Helena said, her eyes reflecting shock at the sight of Rosalind waiting impatiently on the other side of the door.
Rosalind pushed past her out of the room. “Shh—Papa is asleep, and I don’t want to wake him.” As soon as she was in the hall, she asked, “Did Juliet send you to let me out?”
“Yes—she couldn’t face your lecture. If I’d known you were here, I’d have come sooner. It’s past eleven already.” Helena closed the door. “I can’t believe she did it. Papa doesn’t surprise me, but Juliet—”
“I know. Wait until I get my hands on the foolish child. Where is she, anyway?”
Helena shot her a cautious look. “She’s gone to bed, and you should wait until your temper cools.”
Reluctantly, Rosalind acknowledged the wisdom of that. At the moment she was liable to throttle the girl. “I suppose Mr. Knighton is ensconced in a guest room?”
Her sister limped toward the grand staircase that led up to the first floor and their bedrooms. “He has retired for the night. Everyone has retired but us.”
Rosalind scowled as she followed her sister. “I swear, if I’d been free, I might very well have barred him from the house.”
“Which is why Papa had Juliet lock you in. You’ve lost now. Best to admit it.”
“The man isn’t the least respectable.”
“So you say, but he isn’t that bad. You might even like him.”
“I doubt that.” As they climbed the stairs, Rosalind slowed her steps to match her sister’s awkward progress. “Tell me more. Does he speak like a gentleman or is he as coarse as I feared? Does he favor Papa in looks?”
“Not at all. He’s rather massive and fair, nothing like the miniature Papa showed us of his father. His hair is blond with brown streaks, and he wears it long, like a lion’s mane. His features are appealing, but they—” She broke off with a blush. “You’ll see for yourself in the morning.”
At the top, Rosalind regarded her sister thoughtfully. Helena never spared a glance for any man. “Well, if I don’t show up at breakfast, come release me from the pantry or wherever Papa has told Juliet to stuff me.”
Helena smiled tiredly. “Very well. And now I think I’ll retire. I’m all done in.” Patting Rosalind’s hand, she added, “Do try not to worry.”
“I’ll try.” As Helena entered her bedchamber, Rosalind went into her own across the hall, grateful to be once more amid its familiar, comfortable clutter. But long after the half-asleep maid helped her undress and departed, Rosalind lay awake in her bed.
How could she not worry? They’d welcomed a scoundrel into their home, one Papa didn’t even trust, or he wouldn’t have asked her to—
The strongbox! Curse it, Papa had said to move it to her room tonight!
Rosalind leapt from the bed and donned her wrapper. Since their guest had already retired, she could slip downstairs and fetch the box without anyone knowing. Snatching up the candle beside
her bed, she hurried into the hall and toward the staircase.
She was halfway down the stairs and had rounded the landing when she noticed that a light shone beneath the closed door to Papa’s study. She halted abruptly, her pulse quickening. No one should be about at this hour, not even the servants.
It had to be their guest. Was he lost? Or looking for something? Her lips thinned into a grim line. The strongbox. Papa had been right to worry. How dared Mr. Knighton sneak about looking for Papa’s private papers! She’d set the villain straight, she would!
Racing down the stairs, she headed right for the study. She eased the door open, peeked in, and froze. The single candle lighting her father’s desk also lit a man crouched behind it. He was clearly
not
their blond guest, for his hair was black as a gypsy’s.
A gypsy! She jerked back, her heart thundering. Gypsies had recently plagued Warwickshire, but never Swan Park. Outrage swelled through her as she heard a drawer sliding open and its contents being searched. How dared he paw through Papa’s desk!
She quelled her impulse to rush in. Even
she
wasn’t so impetuous as all that. If only she had a weapon, something to hold him at bay while she sounded the alarm. Otherwise, he’d bolt with whatever he’d stolen—perhaps even Papa’s precious strongbox.
She lifted her candle to scan the hallway. Some paintings, a spindly chair or two, and a bronze statuette too small to make an impact…Wait! What about the shield and sword mounted on the opposite wall? Quickly, she set the candlestick on the table and lifted the objects from their rack. The
sword was heavier than she’d expected, but the stout oak shield with its leather bindings gave her a measure of security.
Without giving herself time to change her mind, she raced back across the hall and kicked the door open so hard it slammed against the wall. Brandishing the sword and hefting the shield, she plunged into the room, and cried boldly, “Stand to, thief!”
When the dark-haired stranger rose from behind the desk, she realized with a sinking heart that she’d grossly misread the situation. This was no gypsy. Gypsies didn’t possess fair skin or eyes an unearthly shade of searing blue; they didn’t wear expensive satin waistcoats or finely tailored silk breeches.
Then, to her mortification, a hint of a smile softened the man’s angular features. “Good evening, madam,” he said as he sketched a bow. “You must be Lady Rosalind.”
He that tries to recommend him [Shakespeare] by select quotations, will succeed like the pedant in Hierocles, who, when he offered his house to sale, carried a brick in his pocket as a specimen
.
Samuel Johnson, patron and critic of the theater, preface
, Plays of William Shakespeare
G
riff stared shamelessly at the Amazon flashing a sword in his face. By God,
this
was the third sister? This astonishing creature armed with weapons as ancient as the house itself? She couldn’t be anyone else—her outrageous orange wrapper of Chinese silk could only belong to the same woman who’d defaced Swan Park’s entrance hall.