Thomas said Lord Huntingly had taken up residence at his ancestral seat in Somerset since his return. Yet, despite the determination of a towering cherry tree to shower everything with its pale blossom, there was a distinct absence of care or life wherever she looked.
Josephine tried to shrug off the chill creeping through her limbs. She was used to being thoughtthe ailing one,the bookish one,the failure when it came to ordinary,practical things one, but on this she refused to capitulate. She was determined to protect Matilda and, even if it did feel as though she was walking intoone of the haunted houses of her gothic novels, it would take more than a glaring cherub to make her run now.
Ignoring the thump of her heart, she grasped the bell pull, only to stare in dismay as it came away in her hand. Swiftly, she let it drop amid the leaves and debris at her feet, before reaching for the knocker instead, which was precisely the moment the heavy oak door began to inch open.
Josephine watched the widening crack of musty darkness, feeling as though she would never underestimate the heroine of a sinister tale again. A wave of dread rose from the pit of her stomach, chased by the certainty that if a stitched, muscular arm reached through the gloom towards her, she would absolutely not be the courageous leading lady she’d always imagined herself to be. Indeed, such was her expectation, that when a thin, balding face with pale blue eyes emerged instead, she was almost disappointed.
‘Yes?’ came his querulous enquiry.
‘Oh… good morning… Please excuse the hour and unannounced visit,’ Josephine stumbled, ‘I was wondering if I might have an audience with Lord Huntingly?’
For a moment, the elderly retainer stared as though she was speaking in a forgotten tongue, before appearing to collect himself and slowly open the door.
‘Of course, miss,’ he replied in a bemused tone. ‘His Lordship is just finishing his breakfast, but… if you care to wait in the library, I’ll let him know you’re here.’
‘Thank you, that is most kind,’ Josephine murmured, stepping over the threshold into a flagstone hallway that smelled distinctly of rotten potatoes and dust. She glanced around at the dirty windows, unswept floor and dimly lit passages, and forced a smile.
‘Actually, I’d be grateful if you could take me straight to the breakfast room, if that’s not too much trouble?’ she asked, aware that no wilful heroine in her books ever waited in the library. ‘I have risen early myself and would be glad of some coffee.’
At this, the elderly retainer stared as though she’d asked for oyster soup and a fork, before shuffling towards a long murky corridor.
‘As you wish, miss, of course, though His Lordship did not sleep well, and was not expecting visitors, so perhaps you could excuse his… informal attire…?’
Josephine murmured something resembling a polite reply, but her mind was already awhirl with the villain she was likely to confront in the breakfast room. She’d expected a gentleman actively shunning society, one reluctant to meet with an unaccompanied young lady perhaps, not a recluse who didn’t even bother to dress.
And yet, she’d come this far.
Resolutely, she followed the manservant along the dimly lit hallway, and through a formal hall with a minstrel’s gallery, until he reached a closed door. Then he lifted his hand and knocked awkwardly, as though unused to the formality.
‘That you, Henry?’ a gruff voice answered. ‘What foolery are you playing at at this hour? You’d better have brought that Chateau Margaux I sent for or you can walk Brutus too, and we both know how much you’ll enjoy that!’
Josephine glanced up at the elderly retainer, who appeared somewhat frozen, and swallowed to quell a spiral of her own fear.
‘Thank you, Henry,’ she whispered, wondering if she too ought to be concerned about Brutus. ‘I can take it from here.’
Then she turned the door handle and stepped inside, to be greeted by utter disarray. A long breakfast table dominated the centre, with little space for any guest to sit for it was littered with used crockery and glasses, as though several meals had been eaten at once. Silently, Josephine glanced at an astonished gentleman seated at the top of the table, before stepping around the clutter to a small fireplace, where a large hound eyed her with suspicion. She regarded the creature carefully before drawing to a halt, when it lowered its head and resumed snoring.
‘Thunder and turf! Didn’t I tell you not to bring the applicants directly, Henry?’ the astonished gentleman bellowed. ‘Take the girl to the library where I can interview her properly!’
‘No… thank you, Henry,’ Josephine countered in a tone that quite belied her terror, ‘it’s all right.’
Then she settled her gaze on the scowling gentlemen to whom she was to propose the most daring agreement of her life.
Lord Alistair Huntingly of Huntingly Manor looked most unlike any gentleman she’d ever seen before. He was sprawled, rather than seated, across a chair at the head of the table, and wearing buckskin breeches, muddied boots and a creased day shirt, unbuttoned at the neck. He was also surprisingly tall, even when seated, with long athletic limbs and a glinting scar that ran down his left cheek to his throat. The rest of his face was heavily bearded, while his hair– which was much the same moorland colour as her own– reached as far as his wayward collar, giving the impression of the survivor of a shipwreck, rather than the lord of a manor. Yet, despite the swarthiness of his appearance, all Josephine’s regard was for his eyes. They were the colour of horse chestnuts, accentuated by bruises of tiredness, and heavily lidded.
For a moment, her racing thoughts conjured the faded newspaper report of six years ago, when two gentlemen with bloodlust faced one another in the early morning mist. Then she recalled that this was the gentleman to whom Matilda was betrothed, and a wave of urgency reached through her.
‘Pray excuse the intrusion,’ she began stiffly. ‘It was not Henry’s decision that I should come to the breakfast room, so please spare him any retribution. Neither am I in search of a position,’ she added before he could respond, ‘for my name is Fairfax.’
She paused to push her chin into the air so that he might better observe the profile for which the Fairfaxes were famous, and yet his blank stare only served to confirm her suspicion that she really was the exception to the rule.
‘Miss Fairfax,’ she repeated with a brief glare. ‘I think you may be acquainted with my brother Sir Thomas Fairfax?’
At this, the bemused lord’s thick eyebrows forked skywards.
‘Fairfax?’ he repeated in a brusque tone. ‘So, you’re not a prospective housekeeper? Should I be expecting you?’
Josephine’s glare intensified. ‘No, I am not a prospective housekeeper, though the Lord knows you’re in need of one!’ she flashed, with a purse of her lips. ‘And you, sir, are drunk, which is not at all whatIwas expecting at such an early hour of the morning.’
