Hall. It was almost six o’clock and dinner would be served shortly. She paced her room in agitation. It must be safer than France, she kept telling herself. And safer than London, where someone had searched her room—she’d been sure of it. But here, she’d found danger of an entirely different kind.
Lord Franklin’s formidable mother she felt she could deal with. But now, despite the heat of the room, she shivered afresh as she remembered the man on the road—the dark-haired man in the long coat, with the black-gloved hand—holding her father’s compass so casually. Lord Franklin is said to be a great collector of foreign objets d’art. And what could be more fitting than for him to return from the Continent with a pretty French girl in his care?
Ellie gazed at herself in the mirror, seeing her face, with her wide green eyes and dark curls and even darker lashes. Was she pretty? She’d never troubled to think about it. She’d spent months hiding from men who might be hunting her, months concealing her feminine figure with drab clothing, keeping, always, in the shadows.
But now, she remembered the way that man by the roadside had looked at her. She’d been travel-weary and full of foreboding about her future, and the sudden and silent arrival of someone she realised instantly posed as strong a threat as any she’d yet faced should have set fierce alarm bells jangling in her brain. She’d behaved stupidly, by not running straight away, back to the coach—surely he wouldn’t have dared to pursue her?
And yet, the very moment she saw him—yes, with his old, patched coat, his overlong black hair, his dagger-sharp cheekbones and his black-gloved hand—her heart had stopped and her breathing had quickened. Try as she might, she could not banish the memory of the way his blue eyes—his utterly dangerous blue eyes—had scoured her and seen through her, until her whole being had been infused with a sense that here was a kind of man she had never met before. The kind of man she had perhaps dreamed one day of meeting...
Fool. You fool. Even now, she shivered with something that had nothing to do with the coldness of the night and far more to do with the memory of his lean, powerful body and his husky voice. Drawing a deep breath, she looked around her suite of rooms. All quiet. All undisturbed. But what next? Whom could she trust? Could she even trust herself?
The dinner bell clanged loudly in the hall downstairs, and then Miss Pringle arrived to escort her to the dining room. To ensure that Ellie remembered to go down to the dining room, more like—and poor Miss Pringle, she appeared even more nervous than Ellie was. ‘Such an honour,’ she exclaimed, ‘to be invited to dine with her ladyship. But...’ She was eyeing Ellie’s faded gown with obvious trepidation.
‘Yes?’ Ellie asked politely.
‘I think—I think Lady Charlotte might expect you to wear something a little more appropriate for dinner...’
‘I am perfectly comfortable in this dress,’ Ellie said quietly but firmly.
‘Yes, of course.’ Miss Pringle nodded, wringing her hands a little. Then she led the way, along the corridor and down the stairs.
* * *
Dinner lasted over two hours. And at the end of the final course, Lady Charlotte expressed herself to be profoundly disappointed with Ellie’s company.
‘I thought the French were renowned for their wit and gaiety,’ she said. ‘I was going to invite you, Elise, to join me in my parlour; but I think it better if you retire to your room and count it your very good fortune that my son has taken you into his care.’
Thankful for her escape, Ellie went upstairs and closed her door. But she knew that sleep wouldn’t come easily.
Had Lord Franklin really found her by chance? Why had her room in London been searched? And the man. The man on the road. He’d probably forgotten her
already—but she already feared she would find it impossible to forget him.
During the next few days, as the rain fell relentlessly outside and darkness closed in by four, Ellie grew quietly more and more desperate. Mealtimes with Miss Pringle and Lady Charlotte came round each day with monotonous regularity. Every evening at six, Ellie went down to the vast dining room whose panelled walls were hung with daunting portraits of Grayfield ancestors.
Lady Charlotte was invariably there before her—her ladyship was wheeled in by her footmen from her ground-floor suite at five minutes to six precisely. Once she was settled at the head of the table, she would watch with eagle eyes as the courses were brought in and served on fine china plates adorned with Lord Franklin’s family crest.
Soon Ellie knew by heart the ancestral portraits that hung on the walls and the sculptures that adorned every alcove, every niche of the great house. A nightmare for the servants, thought Ellie. They must require constant dusting—something else for Lady Charlotte to complain about. And complaining was her ladyship’s chief occupation, it seemed, especially at mealtimes.
Lady Charlotte criticised every course as it was served, pointing out to the unfortunate butler Mr Huffley that the soup was too hot, or the veal lacked salt. She never complained about the wine, though; she was partial to Madeira or sherry and liked her glass to be constantly replenished.
Miss Pringle didn’t drink wine and she ate her food in hungry nibbles, at the same time endeavouring to listen intently to Lady Charlotte’s every word. Lady Charlotte’s main topic of conversation, once the food had been criticised, was her son—she loved to talk of his travels and his many illustrious acquaintances amongst the ton. But she never, ever spoke of his dead wife, or of his son—who Ellie gathered held some colonial post out in India.
Once, Miss Pringle timidly mentioned after dinner that Ellie had told her she could play the piano.
‘The piano? Is this true?’ Lady Charlotte asked.
‘Only a little, my lady,’ Ellie replied. ‘My mother taught me to play in Paris and I—’
‘I cannot bear the sound,’ Lady Charlotte interrupted, ‘unless it is played by a true musician. I know what I shall do to entertain you this evening, Elise. You may come to my private parlour to look at some miniatures that a London artist painted of Lord Franklin when he was twenty-one. They are very fine. Come in an hour—I will have taken my rest by then.’
Ellie didn’t think she was early, but she must have been, because after knocking and walking into Lady Charlotte’s ground-floor suite, she saw Lady Charlotte in there alone. And she was standing—standing—by the sideboard, pouring herself a large glass of sherry.
Lady Charlotte heard her and spun round. With a face like stone, her ladyship returned to her nearby bath chair—walking with no obvious difficulty—and sat down. She said, icily, ‘Some days, I find that I can move a little better than others. Mostly, of course, I am a complete invalid. Why are you here?’
It took a minute for Ellie to find her voice. ‘You wished to show me some miniatures, my lady.’
‘Ah. The miniatures. Pringle got them out for me—they’re here, somewhere...’
Ellie looked around almost wildly for a servant or footman—for anyone else who might have witnessed the scene. Did anyone else know Lady Charlotte could walk?
Whether they did or not, Ellie knew she had to keep silent about this strange episode. You’re in enough trouble already. Quite enough.
* * *
Lady Charlotte appeared to forget the incident altogether and continued to goad Ellie at every opportunity. ‘I hear,’ she announced one evening at dinner, ‘that London has changed out of all recognition in the last few years.’
Miss Pringle looked up nervously, her eyes darting to Ellie; Ellie remained silent, aware now of Lady Charlotte glaring ominously at her.
‘I