What else could she do? “I suppose so,” she agreed reluctantly.
“How is it you came to Skerry House?”
“I inherited it. Leander Skerry was my grandfather.”
“Interesting. I don’t think Alistar knew that.”
“What difference would it make?”
“None, I suppose. Did you know much about him? Leander?”
“No. I never met him.” She did not want to talk about this. “Tell me about your family.” Anything to change to the subject.
“My parents are the Viscount and Viscountess… Beck.”
It took a moment for that to sink in. “Beck. As in S. C. Beck?”
“My mother’s sister.”
Twelve
S
ir.”
“What, Pelz? Can’t you see I’m dead. Or worse, insane?”
“Apologies, my lord. Your chest was moving. I must have been mistaken.”
“Have the men with the white coats stormed the keep? It’s rude to keep a mad earl waiting.”
“Not that I’m aware, sir.”
Alistar let out a gusty sigh. “What time is it?”
“Nine, sir.”
“Nine? Why am I coherent?” An electric current charged Alistar’s blood. Perhaps Peyton had been on to something. He pinned his staid butler with his fiercest glare. “What time was I born, Pelz?”
“Late afternoon, in my recollection, sir.”
He rose quickly. “Breakfast, Pelz. Something fast. Coffee. Tell Reinold I want out of this house within fifteen minutes. Never mind. I don’t have time to eat.” Pelz disappeared.
Alistar glanced around. The only thing in the room besides the mussed bed was the journal and his drawing book and pencil on the bedside table. Nothing else was left to indicate how he and Peyton had whiled away the afternoon and evening before. Making love. Falling in love.
He ran for his chambers and dressed quickly. There was still time to find another journal if one existed. Perhaps write a short will to include her. None of his works were entailed to his title, and there was no one with whom to leave them.
Alistar was out of the house under a cloud-laden sky within thirteen minutes. He took the Alfa Romeo—it was his fastest motor—and sped like a demon to Skerry House. The yellow Corsa was still in the drive.Thank God.He jumped out of the Alfa and glanced in the window of the other car. In the front passenger side was Peyton’s knapsack and purse. He wasn’t too late.
He ran up to the door, knocked once, and turned the knob. Unlocked. He made a mental note to lecture her on locking one’s doors. This might not be London or New York City, but it was still the twenty-first century and people were not respectful of others’ persons or property no matter where one lived.
He stepped over the threshold into a jarringly solemn house. “Peyton!” His voice rang through the foyer. The sound echoed back, mocking him. He walked through the downstairs, to the kitchen. It was pristine but for one cup next to the sink. He moved through the small dining parlor where he and Peyton had shared breakfast. A bowl of fresh flowers resided in the center but nothing else. It was obvious the housekeeper had been in the day before.
The front parlor was lovely where he suspected the morning sun would do it justice. The clouds out the window only muted the effect. A settee built into large bay windows was sprinkled with pillows representing spring. The ebony luster finish of a baby grand piano gleamed as if freshly polished. Another bowl of flowers was centered on a table before the settee and flanked by two bergère chairs of soft, tattered tangerine. A random touch of color that struck the perfect note.
He moved to the library. The throw from the back of the sofa was a rumpled heap at the far end. There was a glass of unfinished wine on the round marble table. Frowning, Alistar circled back to the foyer. A light shown from beneath the stairs, reminding him of the hidden office Peyton had mentioned. He went over and leaned in. A bottom drawer was open, and a binder was spread wide on the desk’s top. Curiosity tugged at him, but he ignored it and retreated, citing intrusion and respecting one’s privacy. He took the stairs two at a time to the upper level.
The master suite door stood ajar. “Peyton?” Again, he glanced in and was stunned at the room’s elegance. The bed was made, but there was an impression on the spread, and the spread sagged in one spot, indicating someone or something had sat there. An old-fashioned chaise poised at the foot of the king-sized bed was covered in champagne velvet. The chair portion was designed like a wingback with framing that even the king would appreciate. There were two small pillows, one of the same champagne shade, the other a pink that reminded him of Peyton’s luxurious undergarments he’d stripped her of the night before. The paneled walls were painted a soft ivory, no papered walls.
