who she was.
But the alternatives were to give herself up to imprisonment, trial and probable hanging or to flee into the unknown with no way of her aunt contacting her and only a few guineas to live on. Set against those choices a troubled conscience seemed a small price to pay for tenuous safety.
Quinn studied the young woman’s averted face with a stirring of interest. What was his great-uncle doing housing this little nun? Her hair was scraped back into a tight knot at her nape and her body was shrouded in dull black from throat to toes. Old Simon was not known for his acts of charity; he had a well-earned reputation for scandal and he had kept a string of expensive birds of paradise well into his seventies. Was this girl his daughter, the product of his last fling before he returned to scholarly isolation in the country?
Surely not. No Ashley had anything but the arrogant nose that he saw in the glass whenever he bothered to look in one. No child of Simon’s would have a straight little nose like this young woman’s. The firm chin might be his, but not the blue eyes and blonde hair. This was not Simon’s natural daughter. ‘I look forward to dinner, Miss Haddon,’ he said.
In answer she dropped a bob of a curtsy, her eyes fixed firmly on his collarbone. It was a perfectly ordinary collarbone as far as he was concerned, certainly not one to attract such careful study. ‘At what hour would you care to dine, my lord?’
‘Seven, if that is convenient, Miss Haddon.’ Something rustled seductively as she moved and he frowned. He had just spent a year in the Near East, a region where silk was a commodity that all understood. That had been the whisper of expensive fine fabric and, now that he looked at the drab black gown with its dove-grey collar and cuffs, he saw the unmistakable gleam of pure silk. The modest gown was cut with elegance and made out of cloth more suited to a ballroom than a country-house hallway.
Quinn sharpened his focus on the smooth sweep of hair the colour of honey in the sun, the long lashes veiling the startling blue eyes. She moved again and a complex hint of spice and oranges flirted with his senses, subtle yet insistent. No nun, this, and no conventional housekeeper either. She was nervous of him, fearful almost. He could read her wariness as easily as he could that of a half-broken filly. It was puzzling—and arousing.
‘My lord?’ Trimble stood waiting for him. Quinn turned on his heel and strode across the polished marble to the staircase. At the foot of the stairs he turned and looked back. Miss Haddon was walking through an open doorway and he realised that the gown was not the dull garment he had thought it, not when its wearer was in motion. She swayed as she walked, her movements as subtle as her scent, and the silken skirts clung for a tantalising moment to the curve of her hip, the dip of her waist. This enforced return to England was going to be more interesting than he had expected, Quinn decided as he took the stairs two at a time in the wake of the butler.
Chapter Two
‘That heathen servant has been in here, sniffing around.’ Mrs Bishop, the cook, pounced on Lina the moment she appeared in the kitchen at half past six to make sure everything was going smoothly.
‘I am sure he is not a heathen,’ Lina soothed. ‘Gregor sounds like an Eastern European name to me. Perhaps he is of the Orthodox faith, but a Christian nevertheless.’
Mrs Bishop had perforce been acting as housekeeper for eighteen months, ever since the last one had been driven out by the late Lord Dreycott’s robust language, and she had welcomed Lina with open arms. Now she settled down to unload her worries.
‘I can hardly understand a word he says,’ she complained, not at all mollified. ‘Accent that thick you could cut it with a knife.’ As she had a north Norfolk accent that had taken Lina a week to comprehend, some mutual misunderstanding with the newcomer was only to be expected.
‘Perhaps he just wanted some supper,’ Lina suggested. ‘Where has Trimble lodged him? I do not think he is a servant, precisely. Lord Dreycott called him a travelling companion.’
‘Well, Mr Trimble’s given him a room in the attic, but he looked at it a bit sideways, so Michael says.’ Cook’s nephew was first footman and an unfailing source of backstairs information on everything.
‘It is the best he’s going to get at the moment if he does not want to live in a lumber room,’ Lina said. ‘It is uncluttered, which is more than can be said for the family and guest chambers in this house. Was hot water sent up?’
‘Hot water!’ Cook went red in the face and banged down her ladle. ‘Don’t talk to me about hot water, Miss Lina. They’ve drained the copper! His lordship saw that sarco-whatsit in my late lord’s chamber and said it would do as a bath and had the whole thing filled up with hot water, would you believe? And they both got in it, so Michael says—after they’d stripped off, mother naked, and got under the pump in the stable yard!’
‘That is outside of enough!’ Lina stared at the other woman. ‘What if one of the maids had seen them? Or you or I?’ The thought of Lord Dreycott, stripped naked and dripping with water, was outrageous. Yes, that was the word. She was…shocked.
‘All the footmen were up and down stairs with water cans for an age. They told Trimble to keep the female staff out of the way and then traipsed through the house dripping and got into the sarco-whatsit.’
‘Sarcophagus,’ Lina murmured. Trust his late lordship to keep a vast marble coffin in his bedchamber. It was a miracle he had not insisted on being buried in it. ‘Both of them together?’ It was certainly big enough to bathe two large men in.
‘Yes. Funny way to go on if you ask me,’ Cook said darkly. ‘You don’t think he’s one of them, you know—mollies—do you?’
‘No,’ Lina said, the memory of those green eyes running over her all too clear for comfort. ‘Whatever else the new Lord Dreycott might be, I do not think he is attracted to men.’ Cook still looked disapproving. Lina had been startled herself when the girls had explained that particular variation in sexual preference to her, but on reflection it seemed no stranger than many of the things that the customers at The Blue Door asked of the girls.
‘They travel together all the time, no doubt they are simply used to sharing bathing facilities,’ she suggested. ‘And I think they have been in the East, so perhaps bathing is different there.’
‘Fine behaviour for Lord Dreycott, I must say. Foreign.’ Cook returned to garnishing a dish of whitebait with a sniff that dismissed everything from beyond her home parish as outlandish and uncivilised.
‘I am sure he will become a conventional member of the aristocracy soon enough,’ Lina said. And after all, if the staff could learn to adapt to the old baron’s eccentricities, this one could hardly be worse. Although, dripping through the house stark naked…No, she was not even going to think about it.
Those long, muscled legs, those shoulders…No. It was surprising to discover that however dreadful the experience with Sir Humphrey had been, and however alarming it still was when a man stared at her, her response when confronted by a young, handsome and intelligent man was attraction and curiosity. There had not been many men like that in her life, which no doubt explained it.
‘He wants to know if we’ve got an ice house.’ Michael appeared in the kitchen, clutching an armful of bottles wrapped in straw. ‘I told him, of course we’ve got an ice house. Wants this putting in it and leaving.’ He held up one bottle. ‘And this one is for before dinner. They both look like water to me.’
‘I am certain we will soon adapt to his lordship’s little ways,’ Lina said. Men in her, albeit limited, experience, were demanding creatures, but most of them were at least predictable once one had sorted out their preferences.
The sound of the dinner gong reverberated through the house and set Lina’s heart rate accelerating with it. ‘I had better go up.’
The clock struck seven. Lina gave Cook a reassuring smile—although which of them actually needed the reassurance was moot—and hurried up the backstairs. Trimble held the dining room door open for her. ‘His