She jumped as a drumroll of frantic knocks landed on her door. The door opened before she’d even had a chance to answer, and two identical female faces peered around it. “May we come in?” they chimed, in unison. A redundant request, since both girls stumbled into the room a moment later and closed the door behind them.
“No.” Louisa scowled at her twin sisters. “It’s polite to wait for a response.”
“Too late,” Clara said, grinning. “Gracious, Lou! You look absolutely splendid. Certain to make an impression.”
“On whom?” Louisa asked, feigning ignorance.
“Are you telling me you haven’t seen him yet?” Evie glanced at the door as if expecting someone to be listening behind it. “Our mysterious guest who happens to be staying overnight.”
“He’s a bit standoffish,” Clara said, “but visually quite delicious.”
Louisa regarded her younger siblings. With their own chestnut curls, wide brown eyes, and dainty appearance, the twins looked younger than their sixteen years. Their physical daintiness, however, utterly belied their tenacious personalities. As was often the case, their gowns were identically styled, but of differing colors. Today, Clara wore cerulean blue and Evie a pale green. “You both look rather splendid as well,” Louisa replied. “And if you mean Mr. Harlow, then yes, I met him briefly when I returned from my ride. He was in the stables with Papa. And he didn’t seem standoffish to me.”
“Actually, that would be Mr.MaxwellHarlow of Harlow Industries, with business interests in Glasgow, South Shields, and Sheffield.” Evie curtseyed and fluttered her eyelids. “Delighted to make your acquaintance, sir. Please excuse me while I sink gracefully into an adoring faint.”
Maxwell.
Louisa absorbed the snippet of information and gave her sister a smile. “What sort of business is he in?” she asked, endeavoring to keep her tone casual.
“According to Julian, it has something to do with cutlery and trains. Quite an odd combination. He’s well-educated too, apparently. Studied at Edinburgh University.” Clara stepped over to the mirror, twirling around as she regarded her reflection. “In any case, though it appears he’s rather well-shod, he is most decidedly—”
“Middle-class,” Evie concluded, wrinkling her nose. “An industrialist.”
“Half-Scottish,” Clara continued. “Or half-English, whichever way you choose to look at it. He has aweebit of a Scottish accent, though, which is rather charming.”
“Yes, I noticed,” Louisa said, trying to decide how she felt about the man’s societal status. She’d always told herself such things were of no consequence. “I wonder why he’s here. Did Julian say?”
“Apparently, he has purchased one of Papa’s mares,” Clara replied. “The dapple gray, I believe.”
“He came to Highfield just to buy a horse?” Louisa frowned. Her father’s interest in horse-breeding was more of a hobby than a serious venture. “Seems a little out of the way.”
“I’m certain there’s more to it than that.” Evie tapped a finger against her lip, cocked her head, and gave Louisa a thoughtful look. “Maybe he’s shopping for an aristocratic bride. You know, to elevate his social-standing? Being wed to the niece of an earl would be a fine feather to tuck into his tradesman’s cap.”
“Shopping for a bride in the wilds of Yorkshire? Surely not.” A touch of warmth arose in Louisa’s cheeks, and she silently thanked Dawkins for the powder. “That’s even less likely than shopping for a horse.”
“I have a suggestion.” Clara leaned into the mirror to fix a loose strand of her hair. “How about we—”
“Go downstairs and find out precisely why he’s here.” Evie finished. “Are you ready, Lou?”
Louisa gave her reflection a final glance and shrugged off a vague sense of nervousness. “Yes,” she replied, “I’m ready.”
Chapter Two
Louisa had aspecial fondness for Highfield Hall’s main parlor, which had been aptly described by her mother asregally shabby. Timeworn Turkish rugs softened mellowed oak floors. Antique cherry-wood furniture gleamed like vintage port. Ornate, gold-framed oil paintings of varying personages hung on creamy damask walls. A couple of leather armchairs and two large, well-stuffed settees provided a comfortable gathering place. The massive Jacobean fireplace anchored the room to its regal past in a majestic fashion, especially during the colder months when the hearth blazed with a welcoming fire.
As it did now.
Clara and Evie sat on one of the settees with Arthur, who, at fifteen, was the youngest of Louisa’s siblings. Louisa settled herself on another of the settees between her eldest brother, Julian, and their mother, Grace.
All eyes were fixed upon the master of the household.
Dressed in black, tailored jacket and trousers, maroon waistcoat, and a white shirt and cravat, Aldous Northcott stood by the hearth nursing a glass in his right hand. Louisa felt a familiar swell of pride as she regarded her father, the man she adored above all others. A veteran of the Napoleonic war, and specifically the Battle of Waterloo, he had forever been a hero in her eyes. A tolerant man and a loving parent, he rarely raised his voice in anger, though it was not wise to test him.
His chin lifted slightly as he cleared his throat. “Although you have all met our guest casually, I believe a proper introduction is, nonetheless, merited.”
Louisa shifted her attention to said guest, who met her gaze briefly, his mellow expression unchanged. Maxwell Harlow sat at apparent ease in one of the comfortable armchairs, right leg crossed over left, glass of what looked like whisky in one hand. Louisa guessed him to be not much older than Julian. In the latter end of his twenties. Perhaps a bit older. In any case, quite young to be so successful.
Although Clara’s earlier observation had some merit, Louisa had decided that the man wasn’t standoffish, he was merely serious in nature. If he did possess a frivolous side, he kept it in check. If anything, his quiet restraint only added to the enigma of him and continued to have an unsettling effect on Louisa’s heart and stomach.
