“There is, but it is quite wild now. More rustic than a proper garden, although there is a kitchen plot.”
They moved on to the ballroom. Davina gawked and peered and peppered Roberts with questions. A smile animated her expression. Her eyes gleamed with excitement and avid interest. She viewed the appointments as if she owned the place. She did not miss a single vase or chair.
They paced down the gallery that flanked the ballroom along the front of the house. Eric had never bothered to learn if any of the paintings were significant. He doubted it. The barons were no Argyles in wealth or worldliness. Of course, the walls also bore the portraits of barons past. Davina pretended to examine landscapes and myths, but he saw her gaze narrow on the faces above.
Which led his own attention to those heads.
One baroness near the end of the line arrested his attention. He looked hard at the painting, then glanced at Davina, who had moved on. She had not seen what he did. A resemblance, it seemed to him. Subtle, but there in the eyes and nose. Possibly. Maybe not. You couldn’t trust painters anyway. They always changed things to flatter their patrons.
“Would you like to go above to the private chambers, miss?”
“Oh, yes, absolutely. I must see everything, even the kitchens.”
She saw it all, until Roberts left them in the dining room to partake of the cook’s refreshments. As expected, the cook outdid all expectations and requirements.
“This is a lot of food,” Davina whispered when the fifth platter was deposited in front of them. “It is early for such a meal.”
“I would be grateful if you ate some. I think the cook is overcome with delight at cooking for me.”
“I will partake of everything if it is all as delicious as this soup. Why would you make do with the inn’s fare if you could eat like this?”
“Because I choose to stay at the inn.”
Her full spoon paused on its way to her mouth. “Why? Does this house not please you more than an inn? This part of it is lovely.”
He decided to do some eating himself.
“Of course, the other side . . .” She helped herself to the pheasant on one platter. “I suppose nothing is to be saved of it now, after years of rain and weathering. It will have to be rebuilt.” She bit into the fowl and made an expression of appreciation before continuing. “What happened to it?”
And there was the reason he had not wanted her to come here.
“It burned.”
“How?”
“A fire.”
She lowered her eyelids. “Really? A fire made it burn? Who would have guessed?”
“You want the particulars?”
“I do, thank you. None of this delicious pheasant for you until you give them, too.”
“One night, a fire started in the private rooms. As for exactly how the first spark occurred, I do not know.” Lies, but he’d be damned if he gave the details.
“Well, such things happen. I thought perhaps it was lightning. It is a rare building that survives that if it hits directly.”
“There was no storm that night.” He wished he had thought ofthatlie.
“It is very bad of you not to have done something with what is left. You cannot be blamed for the fire, but you can be blamed for that.”
“Do you think it devalues your supposed inheritance?”
“I think—you can have some pheasant now and really should taste it—I think it speaks poorly of you that it is a ruin, left to deteriorate. It has nothing to do with my inheritance.”
“Let us not lie to each other.” Bold, that, considering he just had. “You were not only admiring the house while you toured it. You were taking inventory ofmyproperty and belongings.”
“Partly. Mostly, however, I was wondering, as I have already indicated, why you would stay at the inn when you have this house within a few miles at your disposal.”
