Rules of Attraction (2 page)

"Come on, man, you don't want to keep your master waiting," she said.

Her encouragement produced no detectable increase in his speed. She had time to adjust her skirt and perch herself carefully on the far edge of the seat before he hoisted himself up beside her, bringing with him a fresh wave of ale-smell and body odor. He filled more than his half of the seat, not with any corpulence but with deceptively wide shoulders. She noted his broad hands as he lifted the reins to slap the horse— a horse who projected as much discouraged weariness as her driver. The nag leaned into the bridle and pulled the cart forward, then started the slow
clip-clop
of the hooves.

Then, and only then, did Alfred say, "He's not me master."

"Excuse me?" Hannah realized he was responding to her earlier remark. "Do you not work for the earl of Raeburn?"

"I work at Raeburn Castle. Have me whole life. But th' master we have now is nawt th' master we started out wi', nor th' master we'll have in th' end."

She worked through his surly comment before replying, "I suppose on a hereditary estate that is always true."

"Fourth lord we've had in as many years."

"Good heavens." As they reached the top of the hill, a minuscule breeze touched her cheek, and for a second she could see the dark shapes of the trees leaning toward her. "What ill fortune has brought about so many changes?"

"Cursed."

The trees disappeared as the fog closed in again. "Who cursed?"

Alfred threw her a disgusted glance. "The family's cursed."

"Ah." She couldn't restrain a grin as she realized he must be one of those peculiar men who got pleasure from recounting silly yarns. "I'm familiar with such tales. The young ladies I used to teach were fond of telling them. So the family is cursed. By a gypsy? A witch? For what reason? Love thwarted? Revenge?"

"Ye're making fun, lady, but that doesn't change th' fact we lost two heirs t' th' estate ten years ago in a shipwreck off th' Scottish coast, then th' old lord died four years ago, then his cousin last year went off a cliff int' the ocean, then
his
brother from a fall down th' stairs, an' now we've got this blackguard who's no more than a distant relative an' who ain't even from Lancashire."

Hannah's amusement faded. She knew better than to believe any tale this ignominious servant reeled off, but if it were true, the tragedy could not be discounted. "You can't blame the current lord for the place of his upbringing," she said. "Rather judge him on his good works and care for the estate."

Alfred snorted. "Been here less than a year an' got things running shipshape—"

"There, you see?" she said encouragingly.

"— But what's that worth when he's a murderer of his own flesh an' kind?"

The wooden wheels hit the ruts so hard Hannah's teeth jammed together. Her rump hurt from the wooden bench. Wisps of fog moistened her cheeks. Worst of all, she couldn't find her common sense. But she kept her voice steady and disapproving as she said, "You should know better than to indulge in slanderous gossip about the man who carries the title of your hereditary lord."

"Not me gossip, miss. 'Twere th' gossip from his own personal servants, it 'twere." Alfred hunched his shoulders yet further and stared ahead sullenly as if seeing a road made invisible by the mist. "Years ago, it was, he married a young lady, pretty as ye please, who was always laughin' an' teasin' him t' distraction, an' when they weren't lovin', they were fightin'. Fightin', fightin', fightin'. Then they'd love an' then they'd fight some more. His lordship's coachman says after one really big row, she up an' disappeared."

"That doesn't mean his lordship killed his wife."

"A female body was found weeks later, savaged by beasts."

Still Hannah valiantly struggled to be the voice of logic. "But that was not proof."

"He went an' looked at th'body, said it weren't hers, but th' young wife's maid accused him t' his face o' killing her. He didn't deny it, just stared, grim as death, until she ran from him. He's nawt been th' same since. Never smiles, nawt a kind word t' anyone, an' he can't sleep. Rides th' estate at night, an' that's no gossip, miss. Saw him meself one night, his eyes burnin' an' fevered."

She supposed the nag was finding its way up the steep slope on its own, for the reins were slack in Alfred's hands. She sat, clutching her reticule in one hand and the seat with the other, fighting the temptation to look over her shoulder.

In premonitory tones, Alfred warned, "If I were ye, miss, I'd get out while I could. A man who'll kill once'll kill again."

How had Alfred recognized her as a prime candidate for this kind of spooking? Probably he was laughing to himself while she surreptitiously tried to ease the chill of goose bumps from her skin.

Well, she wouldn't give him the satisfaction of knowing he had succeeded. In as tart a tone as she could manage, she retorted, "Even if His Lordship were the bloody-minded killer you say, I doubt that I'm important enough to attract his notice."

"Can't stay out o' the way o' a confirmed killer."

"If I don't stay at Raeburn Castle, it won't be because I'm deterred by absurd rumors of murder, but because of the shabby treatment which I've received thus far."

Alfred shrugged. "It's yer funeral, miss."

Such a cheerful fellow!
"How much longer until we're there?"

"We're at th' top o' th' tor." He pointed ahead as if she could actually see the landmark he showed her. "There's th' gatehouse. Th' moat's been filled in these two hundred years. We're in th' courtyard now."

The lights of the castle loomed out of the mist in shocking suddenness. The wooden wheels rattled as they rolled across paving stones and stopped in the middle of the drive. Tilting her head back, Hannah looked up as far as she could, stunned by the massive pile of granite that rose so abruptly out of the ground. Somehow she'd been transported back in time and even now drove up to a castle that looked no different than it had in medieval times, when the windows had been nothing more than slits and every feature had been designed with defense in mind.

"Almost seven hundred years old, parts o' it. Many a child born here, many a life snuffed." Alfred turned and looked at Hannah, and his rheumy eyes shone moist and morose. "Good fortune t' ye, miss."

A door opened and a large square of light shone out, and against it she saw silhouetted several shapes, four male, one female.

A woman's voice blending a faint Lancashire burr with gentility, called, "Did ye get her, Alfred?"

"Aye."

"About time. The master's been fretting this last hour."

The female and three of the males, two with lanterns, hurried toward the cart, the female burbling with speech. "Miss Setterington? I'm Mrs. Judith Trenchard, and I beg yer pardon for the mode of yer transport. There was a… misunderstanding."

A misunderstanding? How interesting.

"I hope ye haven't been inconvenienced," Mrs. Trenchard said.

"Not at all." A footman placed a step for Hannah and helped her from her seat and onto the ground. "But I would beg for a maid to brush out my clothing."

As the footmen lifted their lanterns, dismay showed on Mrs. Trenchard's plump, lined face. She carried perhaps sixty-five years, and she exuded an air of competence and energy that contrasted with her apologies and confession of error. "I'll certainly assign you a maid. Come in before the damp settles into your bones."

Too late, it appeared. As Hannah stepped across the threshold into a dim cavern, she shivered, then found she couldn't stop.

Mrs. Trenchard clucked. "Billie, bring Miss Setterington a blanket. Aye, miss, 'tis an evil night to be out. I don't know what those new-fashioned railroads are thinking, to deliver at such an hour. Mark my words, they'll never catch on in Lancashire if they continue with such wrong-headed behavior. Thank you, Billie." Wrapping Hannah in the warm, clean wool spread, she hurried her toward the stone stairs that wound upward. "The master's waiting for ye."

Mrs. Trenchard was taller than Hannah, an unusually great height for a woman, and heavy-boned and broad-beamed. She clattered as she walked, the iron ring at her belt full of the keys that were the badge of her station. In her clasp Hannah felt like a leaf swept along in a great and powerful wind. "I'd like to freshen up first," Hannah said.

"Ah, no. We don't keep the master waiting here." Mrs. Trenchard sounded quite stern. "He's not as dread as they say, but severe and likes his way. I don't cross him and ye're already past the time he expected ye."

Hannah wanted to point out that that wasn't her fault.

But Mrs. Trenchard talked on as she pushed Hannah up the stairs. "The master wants to change the entrance so that guests enter a foyer on the second level. The kitchen's no way for visitors to first see Raeburn, and this stairway is so old and worn 'tis easy to take a tumble. In fact, the previous lord… but no matter." Stopping in the middle of the stairway, she leaned against the wall and, grimacing, held her side.

Looking down the spiral of stone steps, Hannah was alarmed. Taking Mrs. Trenchard's arm, she asked, "Are you ill?"

"Nonsense." Mrs. Trenchard shook her off and pushed her along once more. "Never been ill a day in my life. Hardy stock, that's me. My mother passed on just five years ago at the great age of eighty-nine." She pointed toward the glow of light from above. "Now, once ye're out of the kitchens, it's a beautiful house."

Hannah nodded. Perhaps Mrs. Trenchard had just had a bad day. Certainly she seemed strong enough.

"After the old lord died, the next two masters started fixing up the place and the last master, rest his soul, even put in stoves that heat twice as well as a fireplace. This lord was busy when he got the title, but now he's restoring the tapestries and cleaning the woodwork and replacing all the old parts. It's grand. Ye'll see."

"I'm sure I will." Hannah didn't know if Mrs. Trenchard always spoke so freely or if she were nervous, but as they reached the top of the stairs she realized the housekeeper told the truth. The cruder part of the castle had been lacquered over with a combination of modern furnishings and beeswax. The arched corridor widened, then opened onto a large, beautiful, well-furnished room that blended the ancient with the modern. The ceiling soared so high the illumination of the flickering candles could not reach into its heights. Dark wood paneled the walls, and polished shields alternated with old-fashioned gold-and-scarlet tapestries. Yet the furnishings were both comfortable and new, and for the first time since she'd come to Lancashire, Hannah saw a bit of the current mode that ruled London.

"The great hall," Mrs. Trenchard announced with great pride.

"So handsome!" Hannah replied. Her teeth still chattered.

She hated that. At this, her first meeting with the staff, the master and the elderly aunt, she wanted to appear strong.

Mrs. Trenchard turned down a dim gallery. Paintings lined the walls, doors opened off its length and at its end, Hannah could see a broad stairway that disappeared in the gloom. Yet everything was luminous and well-cared-for, and one of the doors stood, not opened, but propped against the wall.

As they passed, Mrs. Trenchard gestured inside. "The master is having the library refitted with all new oak bookshelves painted a pale yellow. He says it'll lighten the room, and I say it's fine."

"It sounds lovely."

"Then there's some that say we should leave well enough alone. The old ways are the best, they say."

She sounded interested in Hannah's opinion, although Hannah thought herself too new here to venture one. So she tried to straddle the issue. "Of course it's necessary to preserve some of the old things, but I'm sure it's easier for you if the castle is new and shining."

Mrs. Trenchard rounded on Hannah. "Why?"

"Because you're the housekeeper and the older possessions are fragile and harder to clean?" Hannah ventured.

Mrs. Trenchard studied at her with a hint of suspicion. Her eyes were a light color, although Hannah couldn't see them clearly in this light, and although she wasn't as old as she'd first appeared, the perpetual lines of worry aged her.

"Ye might be right. I don't know yet." Still unmoving, Mrs. Trenchard said, "If ye don't mind me saying— I've worked in this castle my whole life, and I'm right fond of his lordship's aunt. All of us who work here are."

"I'm pleased to hear it." Pleased to hear her charge was congenial. Even pleased that the servants liked her enough to interrogate Hannah.

"If ye don't mind me asking— the lord says ye have experience minding elderly ladies."

"I spent six years caring for Lady Temperly."

"She liked ye?"

"There was a mutual respect between us, and she was very kind. She left me her house. In that house I was able to start the Distinguished Academy of Governesses. I will always remember Lady Temperly affectionately."

Mrs. Trenchard studied her for another minute, then nodded. "The master's picked a good one, then. There'll be no turning back now." She led the way to a dark, ornately carved wooden door. "Here ye go. The master's inside the drawing chamber. He frightens some, but he's ne'er been aught but polite to me. Ye'll get used to his abrupt manner soon enough. Chin up, now, and stop yer trembling. It'll be warm inside." Mrs. Trenchard whisked the blanket out of Hannah's grip and looked her over. Apparently she found little of which to approve, for she muttered, "No time to do more." Opening the door, she stepped inside.

Hannah followed her in and with a brief glance took in the small, comfortable surroundings. A fire burned on the hearth. Fresh flowers nodded in vases. A few books were scattered on a table beside a large, green brocade armchair. Paintings in the newest soft and delicate style warmed the plaster walls— and a gentleman stood with his back to the room, gazing out of the shiny, glass-paned window where beyond only black night and endless fog were visible. He was tall, broad-shouldered, long-legged, wore stark black and white and clasped his hands behind his back. His black hair hung over his collar, and for all the notice he took of Mrs. Trenchard and Hannah, he might not have heard their entrance.