Miss Amelia's Mistletoe Marquess. Jenni Fletcher
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it you found shelter, dear?’ Her mother sat down beside Alexandra.
‘Just a house on the road. Could you pass me the toast, please?’
‘Well, that certainly narrows it down.’ Her mother exchanged a glance with her cousin. ‘It’s mostly woodland between here and the Fentrees, isn’t it?’
‘Nearly the whole way.’
‘Where’s the butter?’
‘There’s only one house I can think of and that’s empty.’
‘I think I’d like marmalade this morning…’
‘Who was it that sheltered you, dear?’
‘Oh, I meant jam. Strawberry preserve if you have any?’
‘Millie?’ Her mother lifted an eyebrow. ‘Forgive me for saying so, but you’re being rather evasive.’
‘Am I?’ She smeared butter on to a piece of toast and then put the knife down, acutely aware of two pairs of eyes watching her like constables across the table. ‘Oh, very well. It was a gatehouse. There was a drive leading somewhere, but I couldn’t see any other buildings close by.’
‘It must have been the one belonging to Falconmore Hall.’ Alexandra looked surprised. ‘The drive’s a good two miles long, but I didn’t think anyone lived in the gatehouse any more.’
‘They don’t.’ George speared his fork into a piece of kipper. ‘Not for the past two years.’
‘Well, there was someone there last night.’
‘Yes, but who?’
‘Who?’ Millie took a deep breath, scooped up some strawberry jam and dolloped it on to her bread. ‘I believe he said he was the estate manager.’
‘A man?’ Alexandra pressed a hand to her mouth with a look of horror.
‘An estate manager?’ George looked thoughtful. ‘Falconmore must have hired somebody new. Seems odd when Linton’s been doing the job perfectly well for fifteen years, but there you go. New man, new ideas, I suppose.’
‘What do you mean?’ Millie paused with the toast halfway to her lips.
‘Oh, the former Marquess died just about a year ago. Tried jumping a fence he shouldn’t have, poor fellow. I suppose the new Lord Falconmore thinks it’s time for some changes.’
‘George!’ Alexandra interrupted her husband sternly. ‘Falconmore’s staffing situation is irrelevant. Millie spent the night alone in a house with a man!’
‘Did she, by Jove?’
‘Yes…’ Millie swallowed a mouthful of toast ‘…but under the circumstances, I was very grateful to see him. I don’t know what I would have done if he hadn’t let me stay.’
‘Well, yes…’ Alexandra leaned forward over the table ‘…but a man? Wasn’t there anyone else in the house?’
‘I’m afraid not.’ She straightened her shoulders defensively. ‘I know it looks bad, but I couldn’t have walked another step and there was a blizzard. I almost collapsed on his doorstep as it was. The situation was regrettable, but unavoidable. Fortunately, only he and I and now the three of you know. Surely that’s safe enough?’
‘Do you think you can trust his discretion?’
‘Yes.’ For some reason, it hadn’t occurred to her to doubt it.
‘And nobody saw you leave?’
‘No, and I saw only one other person this morning, a maid on the road, but I was halfway back to the village by then.’
‘Yes, but the snow stopped during the night.’
‘What difference does that make?’
‘Your footprints.’ Her mother looked anxious. ‘They’ll lead straight back to the gatehouse.’
‘Oh…dear.’ She stared at her toast for a few seconds and then put it down, losing her appetite suddenly. Oh, double dear…
‘Well, that doesn’t mean the maid will have noticed—’ George’s tone was reassuring ‘—and even if she did, how would she know who Millie is?’
‘That’s true.’ She grasped at the idea eagerly. ‘Thank you, George.’
‘Always glad to be of service.’
‘Mmm.’ Alexandra sounded doubtful. ‘We were going to call on a few acquaintances this morning, but under the circumstances it might be best for you to stay here, just in case you were recognised. Your hair colour is quite distinctive, after all. We’d better give it a couple of days to make sure.’
‘In that case, we’ll have coffee and biscuits in the library.’ George winked at her. ‘How do you fancy a few games of backgammon?’
‘That sounds lovely.’ Millie smiled, trying to quell a nagging sense of disquiet. ‘Just lovely.’
Cassius knocked twice on the bedroom door with his knuckles and then twisted the handle. The cup of tea he’d left outside earlier was untouched despite his having knocked then, too, and he couldn’t wait any longer. He’d given it a full hour, but without any sound from upstairs, not so much as the faintest creak of a floorboard, he was becoming somewhat anxious.
‘Miss Fairclough?’
He nudged the door open slowly, though even a brief glance showed that the room was completely empty, albeit tidier than it had been before. The furniture had all been straightened, the bed completely made up and his dressing gown folded neatly across it. He walked in and picked it up, lifting the velvet collar to his face with a curious sense of loss. It smelt like her, of soap and some other floral perfume, like bergamot and orange blossoms. She was gone, though as to when and why she’d left without as much as a goodbye… He grimaced. The answers to both of those questions were obvious. When had been after he’d finally drifted into a deep and surprisingly restful slumber and why was in all likelihood due to his ungentlemanly behaviour. She’d probably been afraid he might pounce on her again.
He hung the dressing gown where it belonged on the back of the door and then crouched down, spotting something shiny on the rug beside the bed, a garnet-and-emerald-studded gold brooch shaped like a butterfly. He held it in his palm, studying it for a few seconds, then tucked it inside his jacket pocket and made his way determinedly down the stairs, stopping only to pull on his greatcoat, boots and top hat at the door. There was nothing else for it. Even if she’d run away in the early hours, then the least he could do was make sure she’d made it back to the village safely.
Fortunately for him, her footprints were still perfectly clear in the snow, leading him all the way back to Rayleigh and her front door. Which answered the question of who her relative was. George, Viscount Malverly, and his wife, Alexandra, were passing acquaintances. If he knocked now, then he could be certain that they’d receive him, at least. The question, however, was not would, but should, he, whether it wouldn’t simply be better for him to turn around and go. Miss Fairclough’s early departure made it abundantly clear that she didn’t want to see him again and, much as he ought to apologise, respecting her wishes was more important.
He turned on his heel, marching back the way that he’d come. And that, he supposed, was that. Footprints in the snow would be the last he would see of her. Which was probably for the best, all things considered. Any attraction he’d felt, that she’d seemed to feel, too, for that matter, had likely just been the result of the tense situation in which they’d found themselves.
Besides, no matter how beguiling or intriguing he found her, he had enough on his hands dealing with Sylvia. He certainly didn’t need another woman in his life, especially