The newly polished door knocker caught his attention and he raised a hand to it. It was an unusual design: a bow, pivoted at the top and hung so that it would strike against a quiver of arrows at its base.
A crescent moon and a hunting bow—Diana’s symbols.
The cry from the casement above his head was sudden and short, cut off on a choking gasp. Guy took a rapid step backwards to stare up, but the window was almost closed and there was nothing to be seen. The silence that followed was almost as alarming and he shouldered his way through the door and took the stairs two at a time without conscious thought.
The room above the door was a bedchamber and to his relief Hester was there, alone and on her feet. She was staring through an open door, her clasped hands raised to her mouth as if to push back any further sound.
He reached her side and looked past her into a perfectly normal-seeming dressing room. ‘Miss Lattimer? Hester, what is it? What scared you?’
‘The pearls,’ she said with some difficulty. She unclasped her hands and pointed at the floor, which was strewn with small white globes.
‘You have broken your necklace,’ Guy soothed. Hers seemed a disproportionate reaction, it must be a much loved heirloom. ‘They will easily be restrung, there is no harm done. Let me call your maid to gather them up.’
‘She has gone to the nearest farm for eggs,’ Hester said stiffly. ‘I did not break it. I found it on the floor, broken, the first night we were here. The pearls were picked up and put in that bowl there.’ She pointed at a delicate china bowl on the dressing table. ‘That has not moved. How did they come to be spilt again?’
‘Perhaps your maid knocked them over this morning and neglected to replace them.’ She was shivering with reaction. Concerned, Guy put out a hand and touched her shoulder.
‘No, she came downstairs when I did, then went out without coming back up.’
‘Young Ackland? Your companion?’
‘He would not come into my chamber without asking first, whether or not I was here, and I know Miss Prudhome has not been upstairs since before breakfast.’
Guy looked at the window, closed almost to the top. No breeze stirred the heavy curtains; besides, what flapping curtain could scoop the pearls from a bowl, but leave it untouched?
‘Have you a cat?’
‘No.’ He felt her shoulder move under his palm, almost as though she was bracing herself. ‘I must pick them up.’ She took a step forward, then stopped on the threshold and froze.
To hell with the proprieties. Guy swept her off her feet, heeled the dressing-room door closed and took her to the chaise where he sat down, Hester on his knee, and demanded, ‘What was all that about? You are quite safe now.’
For answer there was a muffled hiccup from the region of his shoulder where she had buried her face. ‘I am not crying, and I am merely very cross with myself for being a ninny.’
‘No, of course you aren’t crying.’ Guy knew better than to agree with remarks about being a ninny. He had a sister.
Then, more clearly, ‘I am such a coward, I was not going to let it prey on my mind and at the first little thing I go to pieces.’
Now what to say? If he agreed that the pearls were a little thing, he was agreeing with her own self-criticism. If he said that, in fact, it was a mystery—and apparently a disturbing one—that would only frighten her more. It might suit his purpose for her to take a dislike to the house, but this was not the way to achieve it. Guy contented himself with gently rubbing her shoulders and murmuring, ‘There, there.’
It was a curiously pleasant occupation. Hester Lattimer fitted very nicely on his lap, her weight a positive thing. She was not heavy, but not frail either. His free arm tightened slightly around a slender, strong frame. She must ride, or walk a lot, he decided. Against his thighs and his chest she was deliciously soft and her hair tickling his nose smelt of rosemary.
With a sudden defiant shake she sat up straight and met his eyes. ‘I am sorry, my lord, you must think me a poor thing indeed, and a foolish one at that, starting at shadows.’
‘You know, Hester, once you have reached the stage of sitting on a gentleman’s knee, I do feel the time for formality is past. Will you not call me Guy?’
She looked startled, producing yet another shade of gold in those fascinating eyes. ‘I could not possibly!’
‘Well, you are sitting on my lap. I think calling me by my given name is a minor informality compared to that.’
‘So I am! My lord…Guy…please let me go.’
‘But of course.’ He opened his arms wide and added wickedly, ‘A pity, I was enjoying it.’
Hester, on the point of scrambling to her feet with more haste than dignity, caught his eye and twinkled back. ‘So was I. What a truly shocking thing to admit, but you know, it was so nice to be looked after again, just for once.’
Guy found himself smiling as she sat down again next to him, arranging her skirts primly around her legs as she did so. She was enchanting. That frankness, the mischievous look in her eye. But she was, he would stake a thousand sovereigns on it, no hoyden or flirt. She was simply honest, impetuous and had sustained an unpleasant shock. Now was not the time to pursue that remark about being looked after, but he stored it away for later thought.
Her hands moved convulsively in her lap before she made an obvious effort to still them and sit calmly. ‘Thank you for running to my rescue twice in one morning, my lord. Guy.’
‘It is my pleasure. Will you not tell me what frightens you so much about that room?’
She hesitated, then said calmly, ‘I had better begin with a little history.’
‘You know the history of the house?’ Guy prided himself on his self-control, but the sharp question was out of his mouth before he could stop it and he cursed inwardly at the surprise on Hester’s face.
‘No, not at all. I was only going to explain that it has been empty, unoccupied for about fifty years. I was surprised, for it has been well kept up in all the essentials—the roof is sound, the windows have been cleaned from time to time and, from the evidence of the hearths, regular fires have been lit to keep the damp at bay. But no one has lived here—which I do not understand.’
‘Were you given no explanation when you bought it?’
‘None.’ She shook her head, a little line of puzzlement between her dark brows. ‘Sir Edward Nugent was ailing when he agreed to sell and my man of business dealt entirely with his agent. We asked, of course, but the reply was that he had chosen not to sell it, yet could not find a suitable tenant.’
‘That did not make you curious?’ It would have made him as suspicious as hell.
‘A little, but by all reports Sir Edward was somewhat reclusive and eccentric, so I assumed that accounted for it. And anyway, I wanted the house too much to be put off, despite the length of time the negotiations took.’
Damn it, he had only just missed buying it. If only he had known sooner what those old papers revealed. ‘Go on,’ Guy prompted, enjoying the concentration on Hester’s face as she recounted her story.
‘We were therefore not at all surprised to find the house in such a state. There was dust everywhere and an odd assortment of old-fashioned furniture.’
‘I suspect I saw most of it yesterday.’
‘Indeed,’ Hester