“I would like a tour about the house.”
He swept her with a glance. “We do not give tours to strangers.” The butler made a motion to close the door in her face.
“Let her in,” a voice said behind him.
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Arabella looked curiously behind the butler, but since she stood in the sun and it was dark inside, she could only see a shadowy figure hovering in the back.
The door closed behind her, and it felt like the shadows swallowed her.
She shivered. She found herself in a vast marble hall. At the bottom of the stairs, next to a tremendous urn, stood a spindly-looking man, clutching a cane.
“I am the Duke of Morley,” he said in a strong, rusty voice. “And you, I gather, are the Merivale’s governess. Welcome to my home.”
Arabella gasped when she recognised him.
He was the man in the coach.
Morley. It was the name Philip had uttered that day of the storm. He’d wanted to know whether Morley had sent her.
He wouldn’t be pleased at all to know she was here.
“Maybe I should go,” she mumbled and took a step back.
“Ring for Mrs Stanyon,” the duke told the butler. “If you would like to see the house, you will do so.” He waved about a bony hand to indicate the marbled splendour that surrounded them. It was like a tomb. “Miss — Forgive me, but I did not catch your name.”
“Arabella Astley.” She nearly bit her tongue the moment she uttered her real name. “Weston,” she tagged on hastily. “Arabella Astley Weston.” That wasn’t well done. But the duke merely looked at her politely, giving no indication that he’d recognised the name Astley.
“Miss Weston.”
Arabella nodded hard. “I really think I ought to go.”
“Mrs Stanyon is my housekeeper, and she will give you a tour. I would like to give you the tour myself, but”—he knocked his stick against his legs—“these no longer cooperate as they ought to.” He shook his head. “All these stairs.”
Arabella didn’t know what to think. He seemed a feeble old man, but there was a crafty look in his eyes that she did not like very much.
“Did you really intend to kidnap the Merivale children?” she blurted out. Then she clasped a hand over her mouth. She couldn’t believe she’d just said that.
He cackled a laugh that did not sound amused. A woman appeared as if grown out of the ground.
“Ah, Mrs Stanyon. This lady here would like a tour. Take her to the gallery. We will meet for tea in an hour.”
Alarm shot through her. She did not want to have tea with him later. But here was a chance to discover what was really going on. Arabella hesitated.
Mrs Stanyon held a set of keys in her hand that chinked together. “Very well, Your Grace.” She threw a sharp look at Arabella. “If you would follow me, Miss.”
Confused, Arabella followed the woman, who promptly began to rattle off a series of names and dates. “You must know that the name of Morley reaches back all the way to the Middle Ages and is traced back to William the Conqueror…”
After an hour of walking, Arabella’s feet hurt. Most of the mansion, except for the duke’s personal rooms, which they did not visit, was in disuse. The furniture was draped by holland covers. The curtains were drawn, and an eerie gloom had settled over the entire place. It smelled of dust and mildew. On the wall hung collections of paintings that rivalled Ashmore Hall’s. The Morley family line was at least as old as her own. Yet, until she came to Cornwall, she’d never heard of the name.
“Finally, the gallery. If you would follow me, Miss.” Mrs Stanyon strode ahead, while Arabella trailed after her.
The gallery was the only bright room in the entire house. Long and narrow, it was like a corridor, with a row of windows on one side, while the portraits hung on the other.
“This is Morley, the first duke who came over with William. He was known for his prowess in battle…”
Arabella’s eyes glazed over. She couldn’t care less about all those dour-looking men with pointy beards and ugly wigs. There were only men hanging on the wall, not a single woman. She wrinkled her forehead.
