Jane’s eyes darkened, and her lips pressed into a straight firm line. I chuckled to myself, looking forward to the showdown. The manuscripts she kept in her writing desk were her darling children. Woe betide him if something should happen to them. His head would be on the chopping block.
‘Mr Hart!’ she said sharply.
‘Yes, Miss Austen? How can I be of service?’ he said cheerfully, coming over to us.
‘I understandour luggage is not to be delivered until tomorrow?’ she said icily.
‘That is correct,’ he said. ‘But do not fret. I took the liberty of ensuring your writing desk is held under lock and key with the innkeeper. And he has been given strict instructions to shoot anyone who tries to make off with it.’
Jane’s eyebrows shot up into her curls. ‘Goodness,’ she said, sounding impressed. ‘Thank you, Mr Hart.’
He bowed low. ‘My pleasure, Miss Austen. Consider it a favour from one writer to another. Meanwhile, if you should wish to jot anything down, I have an ample supply of quills and paper to satisfy any creative urges.’ Mr Hart winked at her, and she giggled. I rolled my eyes in disbelief that he had escaped reprimand once again. He seemed to have an answer for everything.
Maurice said supper was to be served in half an hour in the parlour, and we could freshen up in our rooms meanwhile. He handed each of us a new candle in a holder, and we left him in the kitchen to attend to whatever was in the pot on the stove.
Mr Hart had lit his own candle with a taper and now led us through another stone hallway to the main foyer of the castle. This was bone-chillingly cold, but very grand and hung with tapestries—it showed no signs of the disrepair of the exterior. Above us was a wooden ceiling inset with panels, and therewere a multitude of candle sconces, which highlighted a wide flight of ornately carved wooden stairs. These led up to a dark landing.
‘Your rooms are on the first floor. Just choose any one you like,’ Mr Hart said, his voice echoing slightly in the cavernous space. ‘They are all much of a muchness. But I thought you might like the pink one, Miss Fitzroy, as it matches your pretty colouring.’
Of course, Lucinda simpered at the compliment, and I fought the urge to roll my eyes again.
‘Oh, will you not show us the way, Mr Hart? It looks so dark up there,’ pleaded Lucinda.
‘I would like to, but sadly, I cannot,’ said Mr Hart, shaking his head. ‘It would not be proper, and I fear your chaperone would scold me if I escorted you to your bedroom.’ He shot me an amused glance, and I stared stonily back. ‘But you will be quite safe. There is nothing up there more alarming than a few cobwebs.’
Gazing around at us, he said in a stately voice, ‘I will see you all presently in the parlour. It is the room there to the left of the stairs. We can have a bite to eat, a glass of wine and relax after our long journey.’
Jane breathed a sigh of relief at his words. ‘That sounds wonderful,’ she said, peering at the woodland scenes on the tapestries and obviously thrilled at the prospect ofsleeping in a real-life castle.
Lucinda was still reluctant to leave Mr Hart’s side, but he smiled kindly when lighting her candle and murmured further words of encouragement to put her at ease. He did have a knack for saying the right thing, I had to admit, and was playing the role of host perfectly.
After he’d lit Jane’s candle, she took Lucinda’s arm, and they started up the stairs. Mr Hart came over to me, and I held up my candle to be lit from his, but my hand was shaking a little—whether from nerves, the cold, or being so near to him, I could not say. He didn’t pass comment but covered my hand with his own to hold the candle steady while he lit it. His fingers were warm, and his touch made my stomach dance along with the guttering flame that appeared between us.
‘Everything to your liking, Mrs Fitzroy?’ he asked, his dark eyes boring into mine, soft candlelight flickering over the planes of his handsome face. I nodded, not knowing what to say, and I gently extricated my hand from his. It felt very much like Mr Hart was asking ifhewas to my liking.
However much I mistrusted him and even though I was happily married, I could not deny his presence affected me. And the castle seemed to magnify it even more. The sooner this visit was over and we were back in Bath, the better!
As Lucinda and Jane had gone up the stairs before me, they had first pick of the rooms. Lucinda chose the one farthest away from mine with rose damask curtains and a four-poster bed. As Mr Hart had intimated, it did suit her colouring, being all pink and cream decor.
Jane had chosen the one next door to me, which had light-blue-painted walls and white furniture. That left me with a comfortable, but sombre room with dark-green velvet curtains, a heavy oak bedstead, and several disconcerting portraits. Were the unsmiling figures in the paintings of Hart lineage? I did not know, but one young gentleman posing with a sword and a hound looked a lot like Mr Hart. In fact, the resemblance was quite striking. He had the same dark-brown eyes, aristocratic cheekbones, and sensual lips. But if he had dark hair, I could not tell as it was hidden under a white powdered wig.
The painting was hung in the middle of the room, the effect being that wherever I stood, that gentleman’s eyes landed upon my person. I had resolved to have a short nap before dinner but could not close my eyes under his arrogant stare. Perhaps Jane would swap rooms? The only painting she had in hers was a poodle with a blue ribbon tied around its neck. But as blue was her favourite colour, I did not like my chances.
A jug of lukewarm water, plus a bar of oatmeal soap andflannel, had been placed in a bowl on top of a dresser and were rudimentary toiletries indeed, but better than nothing. Indeed, after a cursory wash and repinning my hair, I felt somewhat restored. The last thing I wanted to do was go back downstairs and make polite conversation with Mr Hart, but my stomach was rumbling. So back down the stairwell I went, gripping the stair banister tightly.
Pushing open a similar studded door to the one we had entered the castle, I stepped into a cosy, well-furnished parlour to find a party of four in residence. An unfamiliar sandy-haired gentleman with whiskers was standing by the crackling fire speaking with Jane while Mr Hart and Lucinda were seated on a leather sofa conversing.
For a moment, I stood in the doorway, too surprised to say anything. Then Jane beckoned me over. ‘Flissy, come and meet Mr Smith-Withers. He’s Mr Hart’s good friend from Eton and the family’s lawyer.’
Mr Smith-Withers!I knew he was Mr Hart’s friend, but I had never met him as I had not been invited to ‘bun day’, and he had never accompanied us on any other outing. Now here he was—and without a mention by our dear Mr Hart, who had had ample opportunity to do so throughout the course of the day!
But I held my suspicions in check, pasted on a pleasant smile, and went to greet him.
‘Mr Smith-Withers, this is my dear friend Felicity Fitzroy, who I told you was staying with us in Bath.’
‘Mrs Fitzroy, we meet at last,’ said Mr Smith-Withers, bowing. ‘I was sorry not to make your acquaintance at Sally Lunn’s.’
‘And I yours,’ I said smoothly. I was not sorry in the slightest, but it was the polite thing to say.
