Starling glanced at him. “Yesterday.” She kept smiling.
“You must wish us elsewhere in that case.” Lavender removed her hand from his. She turned her back on him and picked up a porcelain ornament from the nearest side table. “Exquisite,” she said, her lashes covering her expression as she glanced at the bottom. “Your taste seems to have...changed.” Her incredible eyes flickered back to Starling.
“Indeed,” said Paul with a short laugh. “He has hidden depths. No doubt he will tell us later why he couldn’t remain a bachelor for one more day.”
“He knew we would be arriving today,” Mary said in an off-hand tone. “And since he married yesterday, he must have wanted us to celebrate his marriage with him.” She shot Alasdair a dangerous smile.
“Though perhaps not today,” Lavender said, running her fingers delicately across her forehead. “I, for one, am far too tired after our tedious journey. Every night a new hotel and every night a more uncomfortable bed. My sheets were damp in the first.”
“I’m sorry you were given poor service,” Mary said, a crease between her eyebrows. “You should have let us know and we would have insisted on better.”
“Well-trained servants are rare and I should never have said a word. You and Paul have been very gracious to me.”
Alasdair at last found a voice, albeit strained. “As Mary said, I knew guests would be arriving today. I think you will find my servants polite and efficient and my home amply prepared for your stay. Lavender...” He stopped. Until he knew the purpose of her visit, he would not explain his ruse. From her, he had learned not to make assumptions.
She gave him her profile, a straight delicate nose and a perfectly rounded chin. “I’m sure I’ll be looked after while I’m here...tonight.” She directed her glance at Starling. “You would be very pleased with this lovely house, Mrs. Seymour. You must have at least twenty rooms.”
“Rooms?” Starling said, holding her smile as if it was the only expression she had ever known. “I don’t know the number. Until not long ago, I’d seen little more than the bedroom. Not that that was a punishment,” she added after a quick glance at Alasdair. “The bed is wonderful and—”
“Eighteen rooms,” Alasdair relaxed his shoulders. The shopgirl was proving her worth. The implication that he and she had made much of their married life was not lost on Lavender, who straightened, her eyes clouding.
Mary made an impish purse of her mouth. “Perhaps we should go to our rooms and rest before we hear Alasdair’s plans for us this week. I, for one, need a nap. I doubt I slept a wink last night.”
“Nor I.” Paul gave his wife a grin. “I’ll nap with you.” Although always a gentleman, Paul could be mischievous. Perhaps the plan to withhold Lavender’s identity had been his.
Taking Paul with her, Mary left the room, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll see you at dinner tonight, Starling, my dear.” Paul echoed her from the hallway.
Alasdair glanced at Lavender, who’d moved to a large painting of the English countryside. Her figure was as graceful and curved, and her body was as breathtaking as ever. “A Ross Anderson,” she said with a glance at Alasdair. “One would know his style anywhere. The soft leaves, the shafts of color. Do you admire this painting, Mrs. Seymour?”
Starling nodded. “Should we offer you refreshment?”
Lavender shook her head. “Perhaps someone could show me to my bedroom. I’ll need to supervise the unpacking.”
His pulse thundering in his throat, Alasdair said, “If I may? Starling is new to the house.”
Lavender slowly pulled the ribbons of her silk-flowered hat undone. “Call for a maid, Alasdair. I’m sure you would prefer to stay with your new bride.” Her voice and expression conflicted, but in the past, she had constantly confused him.
Now older and wiser, he tugged the call-bell. After giving his orders to Ellen, he went through to the billiard room and paced. He couldn’t let Lavender entangle him again. The shopgirl had been an inspired choice.
Lavender deserved to see how happy he was without her.
* * * *
The drawing room darkened and thunder rumbled in the distance. Starling plumped down on the low, dark-gold velvet sofa, fidgeting, picking at her fingernails. Again, she’d been left alone in a strange room and again she had no idea what was expected of her. Lightning flickered outside. She glanced at the window, wishing she had kept her mouth shut, as ordered.
Although she had not hesitated to try Mr. Seymour’s patience this morning, her tiny payback was for his lack of an explanation regarding the sleeping arrangements. She hadn’t deliberately annoyed him this afternoon. Her words about the bed had been meant well and offered because of his unexplained silence. Though, as a married couple... She lifted her chin. His sister had taken no offence at the accidental implication, and her belief in Mr. Seymour’s story had been bolstered.
At least Starling could now understand why Mr. Seymour wanted to be protected from matchmaking. His old acquaintance, Mrs. Frost, was a cold woman despite her incredible beauty. Not even lilac, a color that made her look like a scented pastille, took attention from her huge blue eyes and her soft, pale hair.
Mrs. Elliot, too, was a beautiful woman, with a hand as smooth and cool as silk and skin the texture of white rose-petals. She knew how to dress to complement her coloring. The red and white patterned gown with the fashionable fullness at the back flattered her dark hair and light eyes.
With reluctance, after examining each painting, smelling each scented rose in each vase, and examining the bottom of each porcelain figurine and finding nothing but minute crossed swords, Starling decided the time had come to investigate the rest of the house. She could idle tomorrow instead. If the beautiful Mrs. Frost asked her about other rooms, she would need to know the answer.
She crossed the marble-tiled hall and opened the opposite set of doors, finding a room the size of a meeting hall arranged with seating around the walls. At the back corner stood a rostrum with a red curtain on either side. She stepped across the parquet floor to adjoining double doors leading to a vast dining room, which displayed at least twenty delicately carved chairs placed around a long gleaming table. The carpet was flat-piled and multi-patterned. The room next to the drawing room was a library.
“Oh, my,” Starling said, walking into the insulated silence. Shelves of books reached to the picture rail. Her nose tickled with the smell of wood polish and ink. Comfortable chairs upholstered in dark blue surrounded another white marble fireplace. A massive table, holding various stacks of papers, stood in the center of the room. Barely two steps inside, she reached reverently for a book named The Silk Routes with a spine embossed in gold.
“Mrs. Seymour!”
Heart leaping, she turned to face her accuser. “I didn’t—”
“Sorry for startling you, ma’am.” Ellen’s face looked flushed and anxious, and she pressed one hand to her breastbone, as if trying to calm herself. “I can’t find Mr. Seymour. Tammy Burdon’s fallen in the well. They need him. They can’t get her out. When Derry tried, the bucket rope broke—”
“Who is Tammy?”
“The daughter of a neighbor.” Ellen’s eyes glistened and her mouth trembled. “She’s only six years old. She’s wedged, jammed, and the men can’t get down to her because the shaft’s too narrow.”
“Where is the well?”
“There.” Ellen pointed to the back of the house, in the direction of the river.
“Mr. Seymour went into the billiard room. He might still be there.”
“I’ll see. Thank you, ma’am,” Ellen spun on her heel. She ran off in a twirl of white petticoats, sprinting across the hallway.
Starling