She hesitated briefly before stepping over the threshold of the mansion.
“This is a very grand home, Mr. Wells,” she said, keeping her voice low so the girls would not overhear. “I assume it belongs to you?”
“As a matter of fact, it does not.”
She stopped quite suddenly. “What on earth do you mean?”
“It is the property of a man named John Stoner.”
She frowned. “Is he here?”
“No,” Ambrose said. “As it happens, he is not in residence at the moment.”
It seemed to her that he spoke a little too casually about the absence of the mysterious Mr. Stoner.
“Are you quite certain that he will not mind having us as houseguests?” she asked.
“Unless he returns unexpectedly, he will not even be aware that he is playing host to you,” Ambrose assured her.
She did not like the sound of that. “I don’t understand. Where is Mr. Stoner?”
“I believe that he is on the Continent at the moment. Difficult to say, really. Stoner is unpredictable in his habits.”
“I see. May I ask what your connection is to this Mr. Stoner?”
He thought that over for a few seconds. “You could say that we are old acquaintances.”
“No offense, sir, but that sounds rather vague.”
“Do not be alarmed, Miss Glade,” Ambrose said very softly. “You have my word that you and your charges will be safe here.”
A frisson of acute awareness fluttered across her nerves. Her intuition told her that the girls would come to no harm from Ambrose Wells. She was not nearly so certain about the safety of her own heart.
C
oncordia awoke to the soft
plink, plink, plink
of rain dripping steadily outside the window. It was a peaceful, comforting sound. She lay quietly for a moment, savoring the sensation. This was the first time in several weeks that she had not experienced a rush of anxiety and tension immediately after awakening—the first morning when she had not had to think about the escape plan.
True, things had not gone according to her original scheme, but the girls were safely away from Aldwick Castle. That was all that mattered this morning. Soon she would have to fashion a new plan for the future, but that could wait until after breakfast.
She pushed back the covers, found her eyeglasses and pulled on the wrapper that Mrs. Oates had managed to conjure last night. She gathered the few personal toiletries she had brought with her from the castle and opened the door.
The hall outside her bedroom was empty. Mrs. Oates had mentioned
that the only other room in use on this floor belonged to Ambrose. The girls had been given rooms on the floor above.
Satisfied that she had the corridor to herself, she hurried toward the bath with a sense of cheerful anticipation.
She had discovered the wonders of the grand room the night before and was looking forward to repeating the experience. John Stoner might be mysterious in his ways, but he was evidently a firm believer in modern bathing amenities.
The bath was a marvelously decadent little palace graced with vast stretches of sparkling white tiles. All of the fixtures were of the latest sanitary design. Water taps set into the walls supplied hot as well as cold water brought up through pipes affixed to the side of the house. The basin gleamed. There was even a shower fixture over the tub.
The water closet, located in an equally impressive room next to the bath, was a magnificent blend of art and modern engineering. A spectacular field of yellow sunflowers had been painted on both the outside and the inside of the commode. One did not encounter that sort of refinement and elegance very often.
She could get used to this sort of luxury, she thought.
The door of the bath opened just as she reached out to grasp the knob. Startled, she halted and glanced back over her shoulder at the entrance to her bedroom, gauging the distance.
But there was no time to escape.
Ambrose emerged from the white-tiled bath. He was dressed in an exotically embroidered black satin dressing gown. His hair was damp and tousled.
“Mr. Wells.”
She clutched the front of her wrapper with one hand and her little bag of toiletries in the other. She was aghast at the knowledge that she must look as though she had just gotten out of bed. It was the simple truth, of course, but somehow that only made matters worse. She was violently aware of the fact that Ambrose was likely quite nude under the robe. And she had on only a nightgown under the wrapper.
He gave her a slow smile that scattered her senses to the four winds.
“I see you are an early riser, Miss Glade.”
“Yes, well, I assumed the household was still asleep.” She cleared her throat. “I did not realize that you were up and about.”
“I also tend to rise early. It appears we have something in common.”
Flustered, she took a step back. “I will come back some other time.”
“No need to retreat. The bath is all yours.”
“Oh. Thank you.” She looked past him into the gleaming interior, aware of the warm, steamy air flowing out of it. “I must say it is a very lovely bath.”
The corner of his mouth twitched. “Do you think so?”
“Oh, yes, indeed.” She was unable to restrain her enthusiasm. “Modern and sanitary in every particular. It even has a hot water shower device.”
He shoved his hands into the pockets of his robe and nodded seriously. “I did notice that when I used it a few minutes ago.”
She was beyond a blush now. Her face was surely bright red. If only there was a convenient trapdoor beneath her feet. She would give anything to be able to drop out of sight.
She sighed. “You must think me a perfect fool. It is just that I have never been employed in such a modern household.”
“You are not working here, Miss Glade.” The faint crinkles at the corners of his eyes tightened, giving the impression that he was irritated. “You are a guest.”
“Yes, well, it is very kind of you to say so, but we both know that the situation is highly irregular, to say the least, what with the master of the house gone—”
“And I am aware that you are no fool,” he concluded, as though she had not spoken. “By the way, if you elect to employ the shower fixture, I advise caution. The damned thing spits hot and cold water out like so many small bullets. In my opinion the entire concept needs a great deal more thought and considerable improvement if the device is ever to replace a proper bath in a tub.”
She cleared her throat. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
He turned and walked away toward his own bedroom. “When you have finished indulging yourself in the pleasures of our very modern, extremely sanitary bath, I would like you to meet me downstairs in the breakfast room. I have some questions for you.”
“What is it you wish to know?” she asked warily.
“Among other things, I would very much like to learn a bit more about you, Miss Glade. You are something of a mystery to me.”
Her heart sank. “What do the details of my personal situation have to do with finding Alexander Larkin?”
“Nothing, perhaps.” He stopped at the door of his room and looked
back at her. “But among my many lamentable failings is that when I have questions, I cannot seem to rest until I get answers.”
She gave him a repressive look of the sort that could quiet a room full of chattering young ladies. “I expect you spend a good many sleepless nights, sir.”
“Yes, but I do not consider that to be a significant problem.” He gave her a slow, devastatingly intimate smile. “I seldom have any difficulty finding other things besides sleep to occupy me at night.”
She did not doubt that for a moment. Aware that she was blushing furiously, she stalked into the glorious bath and closed the door very firmly.
D
ownstairs in the peaceful solitude of the breakfast room he drank tea and read the papers, as was his habit. But he was aware that a part of him was waiting for Concordia with a sense of mingled expectation and irritation.
It was such a small thing, but it annoyed him that she seemed so uneasy with the notion of herself as a guest in the household. It was as if she was determined to maintain as much formal distance between them as possible.
He thought about how she had looked in the hall a short time earlier, dressed in a cozy wrapper, her hair in a chaotic knot on top of her head, face still flushed from sleep. His imagination had run wild with a heated fantasy that involved scooping her up in his arms and carrying her into his bedroom.
It was not hard to imagine how she would have reacted to a suggestion of a passionate interlude in his room, he told himself, wincing. She was already extremely wary of him as it was and he could not blame her.
He did not relish the prospect of pressuring her to give up her secrets when she came downstairs in a few minutes. She would resent his intrusion into her private life and that would make things even more difficult between them. But he had no choice.
The questions that he was grappling with had become more complicated of late. He needed answers. Concordia had spent a considerable amount of time at the castle, associating with Larkin’s employees. Whether or not she realized it, she was an invaluable source of information, Ambrose thought, turning a page of the newspaper.
He had been giving himself the same lecture from the moment he vaulted up onto the horse behind her and led the girls out of the stable. And he knew very well that he was lying to himself.
From that first instant when he realized that Concordia was the reason his plan had failed, he had known that he wanted more than information from her.
At the very least, it would be pleasant if she demonstrated as much enthusiasm for his company as she had for the damned bath.
“Newspapers,” Concordia exclaimed from the doorway. “Excellent. I have not seen any since I left for the post at the castle.”
The warm, bright sound of her voice sent a flash of acute awareness through him, tightening his insides and causing his blood to beat more heavily in his veins.
He looked up and saw her standing in the opening. Her dark hair was now pinned into a neat twist at the back of her head. The lenses of her spectacles sparkled. She had on the same severe, unadorned dress she had worn out of the castle. There was no bustle. When a lady
prepared for a dangerous flight into the night, she had to make fashion choices, he thought.
He made a note to do something about the wardrobe situation. When one entertained a houseful of ladies who had arrived with only the clothes on their backs, one had to think about things such as gowns and gloves.
“I doubt that you have missed anything of great importance.” He put down the paper and got to his feet to pull out a chair. “Just the usual scandals and gossip.”
“I’m sure you’re right.” She sat down and unfolded her napkin. “But when one has been out of touch with current events as long as I have, one comes to miss any sort of news, even that supplied by the sensation press.” She pulled the nearest paper toward her. “Speaking of which, what is the latest sensation?”
“A murder, of course.” He indicated the story he had just finished reading. “Evidently while you and I were busy dashing about the countryside, a gentleman here in town was dispatched by his mistress after he told her that he intended to cast her aside in favor of another woman. They say she fed him poison. Each of the papers printed various versions, all of which are most likely inaccurate, of course.”
“I see.” She adjusted her eyeglasses and scanned the piece briefly. “The murder stories do seem to sell best when they are associated with rumors of an illicit love affair, do they not?”
The serious manner in which she made the observation amused him.
“I have noticed that, myself,” he said dryly. “It is, in fact, quite startling how often love and death go together.”
She lowered the paper and regarded him with a curious frown. “Do you suspect that is the case in the affair that you are investigating, sir?”
He shook his head. “There is nothing to indicate that love or passion is involved in this. From all accounts, Larkin is motivated solely by two things: power and money.”
The door that connected the breakfast room to the kitchen opened. Mrs. Oates appeared, her round, cheerful face reddened from the heat of the stove. She carried a large silver platter of scrambled eggs, crisply cooked fish and toast.
“Good morning, Miss Glade.” Mrs. Oates smiled warmly. “I trust you had a good night’s rest?”
“Yes, thank you,” Concordia said. “The young ladies are still in their beds, though. I think it would be best if they were not disturbed. They were quite exhausted.”
“Of course, poor dears. Never fear, I’ll make certain that they are not bothered.” Mrs. Oates set the platter on the table and poured tea into Concordia’s cup. “So nice to have a house full of guests. We rarely entertain here.” She glanced at Ambrose. “Isn’t that right, sir?”
“Yes,” Ambrose said.
Concordia cleared her throat very delicately. “Mr. Stoner does not care for houseguests?”
“Oh, my, no, that’s not the problem,” Mrs. Oates said. “The problem is that there’s no lady in the house. You know how it is with gentlemen living on their own. They can’t be bothered to plan a dinner party or a ball, let alone invite guests to stay.”
“I see,” Concordia said. “I hope we won’t be too much trouble.”
“Not at all, not at all.” Mrs. Oates went back through the door and vanished into the kitchen.
Concordia took a spoonful of eggs from the platter. “Mr. Wells, I have been contemplating the extremely unusual nature of our association.”
Damnation, he thought. That did not bode well.
“Odd situations necessitate unusual associations,” he assured her.
“I am aware of that.” She picked up her fork. “But it occurs to me that it would be best if you and I were to put our connection on a businesslike footing, as it were.”
“No offense, Miss Glade, but what the deuce are you talking about?”
She looked at him with a level gaze. “You mentioned that you are a private inquiry agent.”
“Yes,” he said, cautious now.
“Very well. I wish to employ you to make inquiries on behalf of my four students.”