‘Oh, no! Please do not say such things! I, for one, am very glad that he found you!’ came her incredulous rejoinder.
Intrigued at her somewhat vehement response, he swivelled his eyes in her direction and was startled to register the very animated expression that had suddenly appeared on her face. What was even more curious, however, was that her eyes, which he had previously thought to be an indeterminate shade of grey, now appeared to be a much more vibrant colour and streaked with the most amazing flashes of silver. For a moment he stared down at her lovely features in a fascinated confusion then, hurriedly collecting himself, he blinked and shook his head.
‘Well, now that I am here, I will certainly endeavour to do what I can to sort out the mess Sir Matthew left you in,’ he heard himself saying and then cursed himself for uttering such an insensitive remark.
Imogen, however, seemed to have taken no offence at either his protracted stare or his lack of tact. ‘Yes, I was perfectly certain that you would,’ she acknowledged. ‘As soon as I set eyes on you I could see that you were not a man to be trifled with and I must tell you that I’ve been having such problems! Wentworth has been proving most uncooperative and the books are in such a state. It will be a relief to be able to go through them properly at last!’
Beresford frowned. ‘I think you may leave all that sort of thing safely in my hands from now on,’ he said. ‘Is that what you and Wentworth were arguing about back there?’
She hesitated. ‘Well—no—not exactly. It was quite another matter—it will keep—anyway, here we are at the house at last!’
She sounded relieved and Beresford found himself wondering if his first supposition about her and Wentworth had been correct after all and was startled to find that the thought of such a liaison was quite distasteful to him.
The wooded pathway had taken them down to the gravelled driveway at the front of the house and, as he got his first glimpse of the building, Beresford felt bound to concede that Thornfield was certainly a fine-looking mansion house, its graceful neoclassical architecture highly reminiscent of the Senior Resident’s house back home in Calcutta. Standing three storeys high, with more than twenty elegantly pedimented windows visible on its east-facing cream-stuccoed Palladian façade alone, it boasted a columned porte-cochère, which not only covered the impressive-looking flight of steps that led up to the front door, but a goodly portion of the front drive as well.
Motioning him in the direction of the steps, Imogen made for the archway that led to the north wing of the house. ‘I need to get these strawberries to Cook.’ She smiled. ‘Otherwise we shall have no dessert with our dinner!’ And with that, she whisked away through the archway.
Looking slightly bemused, Beresford watched her until she vanished from his sight then, suddenly conscious of the fact that the two carriages were already standing within the porte-cochère and that his friend Seymour seemed to be having some difficulty directing the disparate group of rather hapless-looking servants in the business of unloading the baggage, he groaned and hurried forward to take control of the situation. Having been used to the well-run, orderly life of a hill-station for so long, it seemed to him that the entire household looked to be in a total shambles.
When all of the trunks and boxes had finally been carried into the rather dust-ridden but magnificently appointed great hall, he looked about him, expecting to see some sort of welcoming (or otherwise) committee, but, apart from one elderly manservant who was shuffling uncomfortably at his elbow, there was no one else in sight.
‘Remarkably shy lot, it seems, your new family,’ grinned Seymour, unbuttoning his topcoat and handing it, along with his hat and gloves, to the servant.
Beresford frowned at him and looked down at the man.
‘Where might I find Lady Beresford?’ he enquired. ‘She will be expecting me, I imagine. Kindly take me to her at once.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Her ladyship will be indisposed, sir—that is to say, she never rises before noon and it is more than my life’s worth to have Mamselle disturb her before then.’
Beresford’s brows knitted together in exasperation and he bit back an angry retort, cautioning himself that it would not do to lose his temper at this stage. Taking a deep breath, he walked towards one of the rooms that led out of the hall, which, judging from the shelves of books that he had glimpsed through its open doorway, appeared to be either the library or an office of some sort.
‘Very well, my man,’ he said curtly. ‘You may bring me a decanter of brandy. Mr Seymour and I will take a little refreshment while we wait upon her ladyship’s convenience.’
‘Yes, sir. I will see what I can do, sir.’ The man bowed and scurried away.
The room was, in fact, a large and very well-stocked library, but, to Beresford’s dismay, it was dominated by a huge portrait of the late Sir Matthew that hung above the fireplace. Wearing the most forbidding expression, his late father seemed to be glowering down at them with arrant disapproval. Taking one horrified look at it, Beresford shuddered and swung one of the leather armchairs round to face away from the fireplace before taking his seat.
‘What an extraordinary welcome!’ commented Seymour, following his friend’s example. ‘It certainly looks as though you are going to have your work cut out here, Matt—not a friendly face in the place, as far as I can see.’
For no apparent reason, the image of a pair of laughing grey eyes shot into Beresford’s mind. He shrugged it off, saying, ‘We could certainly do with old Jimi and his houseboys here, David. A more slapdash set of servants I have yet to come across. It is clear that they need to be taken in hand—and so few of them—did you notice? One would have thought, in such a large establishment—’
His comments were interrupted by the arrival of the elderly manservant, who entered the room bearing a silver tray upon which rested a half-empty decanter and a pair of glasses.
‘Best I could do, sir,’ panted the man, laying down his burden on the drum table at Beresford’s elbow. ‘Mr Wentworth keeps the keys to the cellar, sir, and I cannot seem to locate him just at the moment.’
‘Who do you suppose this Mr Wentworth is?’ Seymour asked curiously, after the man had departed and closed the door behind him.
‘Oh, I have already had the dubious pleasure of making that fellow’s acquaintance,’ returned Beresford. ‘Met him up in the copse—apparently my father’s estate manager—a pretty shady sort of cove, if you want my opinion. Doubt if I will keep him on, but I suppose I shall have to make use of him to begin with. Or, at least until I get the feel of the place. Difficult to see why he should have the keys to the cellar, though. More the butler’s province, I should have thought.’
The two men drank their brandy in companionable silence, each mulling over the strange events of the morning.
All at once, the door to the library burst open and a very young woman rushed headlong into the room, her eyes alight with excitement.
‘It is really true!’ she exclaimed, clapping her hands. ‘You have arrived, at last!’
Beresford and Seymour scrambled hastily to their feet in some confusion, their discomposure due partly to her sudden arrival but, more probably, because she was without doubt the loveliest creature that either of them had ever set eyes on. Ash-blonde hair, falling in entrancing ringlets to her shoulders, huge emerald green eyes, framed by long, sooty lashes and soft, rose-petal lips that were smiling the most captivating smile a man could ever wish to see. And, if that were not enough, beneath her simple white muslin gown, the girl clearly had the figure of an angel.
Both men held their breath as the vision looked from one to the other with a perplexed frown.
‘But one of you has to