Despite its lofty name, the golden salon was hardly palatial. And the Brinton Manor gardens were thoroughly overgrown and in desperate need of a head gardener, who had apparently been sacked on account of his expense some time ago. But none of that was what troubled Hudson the most.
He hadn’t the slightest inkling what he was meant to do with guests. His grandfather’s lineage may have been aristocratic and born in the purple, but Hudson had cut his teeth in the ugly heart of London, and he had spent his time as an investigator in the seamiest parts of the East End, rising through the ranks.
“What shall I do with them, Mrs. Grey?” he asked the housekeeper.
“What shall you do with what, Your Grace?” she asked, looking as perplexed as she sounded.
Not anotherYour Grace.
He allowed himself the luxury of grinding his molars for a moment before responding. “Theguests, Mrs. Grey. I confess I am not accustomed to hosting a countess and her daughters.”
Hell, he was not accustomed to hostinganyone. He preferred solitude. His bachelor residence in London had not been large enough in size to host a damned mouse, even if he had wished it. Which he most certainly had not, and hardly because he fervently loathed rodents. Rather, quiet and peace and order soothed him. People did not.
“You will take tea with them of course, Your Grace,” said his housekeeper now.
“Of course,” he agreed solemnly.
And then what?
Perhaps his confusion showed in his countenance, for Mrs. Grey added, “And then perhaps a turn about the gardens.”
“The gardens resemble nothing so much as an overgrown thicket,” he pointed out.
“There is yet a gravel path, Your Grace,” his housekeeper countered.
So he supposed there was. He inclined his head. “Thank you, Mrs. Grey.”
He was meant to thank her, was he not? Curse it, he had no notion of how he was supposed to conduct himself. He was in Hades. It was certain.
He turned on his heel and began striding toward the golden salon.
“The salon is in the opposite direction, Your Grace,” Mrs. Grey called helpfully after him.
He stopped, taking a moment to look around.
“So it is.” He spun on his heel. “Thank you, madam.”
Even neglected and in severe disrepair, Brinton Manor was damned massive. He still had yet to grow accustomed to the location of its nearly one hundred chambers. Nettled, Hudson stalked to the golden salon. He was so lost in his thoughts that he simply bolted over the threshold unannounced and stood there, watching the countess and her two daughters engaged in low, heated conversation. The countess was a handsome brunette dressed in lavender silk while one of her daughters possessed midnight hair and the other a lighter shade of brown.
He swore he detected something that sounded remarkably likehe cannot be as bad as rumor suggestsbefore he cleared his throat, bringing attention to his presence in his own fashion.
All three faces turned toward his, and he found himself falling into a pair of warm brown eyes. Striking eyes. Eyes which met and held his gaze.
“Your Grace!” exclaimed the elder woman, drawing his stare back to her as she dipped into a flustered curtsy.
The ladies flanking her followed suit.
He held still for a moment, then bowed. A ducal bow? He thought not. Rather, his was the abbreviated bow of a man who was busy and possessed precious spare time for trifling matters such as social calls. However, he had to remember he was no longer Chief Inspector Stone.
The reminder felt like a death itself.
His death. Or at least, the death of the man he had been.
“My lady,” he said. “Lady Elysande, Lady Isolde.”
Lady Elysande, he presumed, was the one dressed in gray half mourning to honor her betrothed. Six months. Long enough, one supposed. If true, the intriguing gaze belonged to her. The other sister was dressed in pink, her gown bedecked with at least a dozen silk roses. Beside the subdued dress of her sister, Lady Isolde appeared frivolous.
“We are very pleased to make your acquaintance at last,” the countess said, smiling.
