No wall, no hedging, no garden. The avenue led directly up to the house. With every turn of the gig’s wheels Phoebe could see Blackloch Hall loom closer.
It was a large foreboding manor house made to look like a castle by virtue of its turrets and spires. As they drew nearer Phoebe saw the rugged black stonework transform to a bleak grey. All the windows were in darkness; not the flicker of a single candle showed. All was dark and still. All was quiet. It looked as if the house had been deserted. The great iron-studded mahogany front door, beneath its pointed stone arch of strange carved symbols, remained firmly closed. As the gig passed, she saw the door’s cast-iron knocker shaped like a great, snarling wolf’s head and she felt the trip of her heart. The gig drove on, round the side of the house and through a tall arched gateway, taking her round into a stable yard at the back of the house.
The young footman jumped down from the gig’s seat and came round to assist her before fetching her bag from the gig’s shelf.
‘Thank you.’ Phoebe’s eyes flicked over the dismal dark walls of Blackloch Hall and shivered. It was like something out of one of Mrs Hunter’s romance novels, all gothic and dark and menacing. Little wonder the lady had chosen to make her home in Glasgow.
The boy shot a glance at her as if he was expecting her to say something.
‘What a very striking building,’ she managed.
The boy, Jamie he said his name was, gave a nod and then, carrying her bag, led on.
Taking a deep breath, Phoebe followed Jamie towards the back door of the house. He no longer spoke and all around was silence, broken only by the crunch of their shoes against the gravel.
From high on the roof the caw of a solitary crow sounded, and from the corner of her eye she saw the flutter of dark wings … and she thought of the man against whom her father had warned her—Sebastian Hunter. A shiver rippled down her spine as she stepped across the threshold into Blackloch Hall.
Phoebe did not see Mrs Hunter until late the next morning in the drawing room, which to Phoebe’s eye looked less like a drawing room and more like the medieval hall of an ancient castle.
Suspended from the centre of the ceiling was a huge circular black-iron chandelier. She could smell the sweetness of the honey-coloured beeswax candles that studded its circumference. The rough-hewn walls were covered with faded dull tapestries depicting hunting scenes and the floor of grey stone flags was devoid of a single carpet rug. A massive medieval-style fireplace was positioned in the centre of the wall to her left, complete with worn embroidered lum seats. A fire had been laid upon the hearth, but had not been lit so that, even though it was the height of summer, the room had a distinct chill to it. The three large lead-latticed windows that spanned the wall opposite the fireplace showed a fine view over the moor outside.
The furniture seemed a hodgepodge of styles: a pair of Italian-styled giltwood stools, a plainly fashioned but practical rotating square bookcase, a huge gilded eagle perched upon the floor beside the door, its great wings supporting a table top of grey-and-white marble, a small card table with the austere neoclassical lines of Sheraton, and on its surface a chessboard with its intricately carved pieces of ebony and ivory. Farther along the room was a long dark-green sofa and on either side of the sofa was a matching armchair and, behind them, in the corner, a suit of armour.
Mrs Hunter was ensconced on the sofa, supervising the making of the pot of tea. She watched while Phoebe added milk and a lump of sugar to the two fine bone-china cups and poured.
‘How was your father, Phoebe? Does he fare any better?’
‘A little,’ said Phoebe, feeling the hand of guilt heavy upon her shoulder.
‘That at least is something.’ The lady smiled and took the cup and saucer that Phoebe offered. ‘And you attended to all of my matters before your visit to the hospital?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Everything is in order. Mrs Montgomery will send your invitation to Blackloch Hall rather than Charlotte Street. I delivered the sample books back to Messrs Hudson and Collier and to Mrs Murtrie. As you suspected Mr Lyle did not have your shoes ready, but he says they will be done by the end of the week.’
‘Very well.’
Phoebe continued. ‘I collected your powders from Dr Watt and have informed all of the names on your list that you will be visiting Blackloch Hall for the next month and may be contacted here. And the letters and parcel I left with the receiving office.’
‘Good.’ Mrs Hunter gave a nod. ‘And how was the journey down?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ she lied and focused her attention to stirring the sugar into her tea most vigorously so that she would not have to look at her employer.
‘The coach was not too crowded?’
‘Not at all. I was most fortunate.’ A vision of the highwaymen and of a dark and handsome man with eyes the colour of emerald ice chips swam into her head. The teaspoon overbalanced from her saucer and dropped to the flagstones below where it bounced and disappeared out of sight beneath her chair. Phoebe set her cup and saucer down on the table and knelt to retrieve the spoon.
‘I would have sent John with the coach, but I do not wish to be at Blackloch without my own carriage at my dispos—’ Mrs Hunter broke off as the drawing-room door opened and the movement of footsteps sounded. ‘Sebastian, my, but you honour me.’ To Phoebe’s surprise the lady’s tone was acidic.
Phoebe felt a ripple of foreboding down her spine. She reached quickly for the teaspoon.
‘Mother, forgive my absence yesterday. I was delayed by matters in Glasgow.’ The man’s voice was deep and cool as spring water … and disturbingly familiar.
Phoebe stilled, her fingers gripping the spoon’s handle for dear life. Her heart was thudding too fast.
It could not be.
It was not possible.
Slowly she got to her feet and turned to face the wicked Mr Hunter. And there, standing only a few feet away across the room, was her dark handsome rescuer from the moor road.
Hunter stared at the young auburn-haired woman he had left standing alone at the Kingswell Inn. Her cheeks had paled. Her lips had parted. Her warm tawny eyes stared wide. She looked every inch as shocked as he felt.
He moved to his mother and touched his lips to her cool cheek. She suffered it as if he were a leper, shuddering slightly with distaste. So, nothing had changed after all. He wondered why the hell she was here at Blackloch.
‘Sebastian.’ His mother’s voice was cold, if polite for the sake of the woman’s presence. ‘This is my companion, Miss Allardyce. She came down on the late coach last night.’ Then to the woman, ‘Miss Allardyce, my son, Mr Hunter.’ He could hear the effort it took her to force the admission of their kinship.
‘Mr Hunter,’ the woman said in that same clear calm voice he would have recognised anywhere, and made her curtsy, yet he saw the small flare of concern in her eyes before she hid it.
‘Miss Allardyce.’ He inclined his head ever so slightly in the woman’s direction, and understood her worry given that it was now obvious she had palmed the money his mother had given her for her coach fare.
She was wearing the same blue dress, although every speck of dust looked to have been brushed from it. The colour highlighted the red burnish to her hair, now scraped and tightly pinned in a neat coil at the nape of her neck. His gaze lingered briefly on her face, on the small straight nose and those dewy dusky pink lips that made him want to wet his own. And he remembered the soft feel of her pressed against him on the saddle, and the clean rose-touched scent of her, and the shock of a desire he had thought quelled for good. She was temptation personified. And she was everything proper and correct that a lady’s companion should be as she resumed her seat and calmly waited for Hunter to spill her secret.
Not that Hunter had any intention of doing so. After her experience with the highwaymen he doubted she would make the same mistake again.