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She pulled a face. What on earth was that doing here with chipped red paint, what looked to be the original tires, and a side mirror that was hanging onto the rest of the car for dear life?

Maybe this area wasn’t just for the Wintours, then. The staff were probably allowed to park there, as well. Actually, now that she thought about it, that was probably Matthew’s car. The knight would drive something like that.

She chortled aloud at her joke.

Finally pulling forward, she gave herself a wide berth from the car, parking a good distance away to prevent any accidental nick from the clunker—or its driver.

Once situated, she put the car in park and turned it off, reaching for her small suitcase and bag and exiting the vehicle before trudging across the pea gravel toward the door. Rain pelted her brow in her haste, but finally, she reached the porch just in time for the door to swing open.

Light poured across the front entrance and lit the raindrops in the air, causing them to shine like falling crystals in the darkness.

A middle-aged man appeared in the doorway. “Miss Knox,” he greeted, opening the door wider. His accent was fine, each word polished like silver. “My apologies for not greeting you outside earlier. I am Mr. Fernsby, the Wintours’ butler.” He stepped out into the rain, reaching at once for her suitcase and bag and relieving her of both. “Allow me to assist you.”

Winnie nodded, her arms feeling instant relief. She wiped the rain from her brow and smoothed down her hair as she stepped over the threshold, feeling a bit like she’d fallen into a Downton Abbey episode.

“I’m sorry to be so late,” she said, drying her feet on the rug in the entryway.

“No apology needed, ma’am.”

The butler then launched into an explanation of where she would be staying—“The private section of Foxwood dedicated solely to workers of the estate”—and that the housekeeper would see to her belongings that evening.

Winnie did her best to listen, but she found herself too distracted by the gorgeous entryway to hear much of anything.

The entire space was clean, stately, and stunning, from the ornate blue and green rugs stretched across the floor to the dark wooden banisters of the staircase that curved along the wall to the upper rooms.

The walls boasted a soft, light blue shade, portraits of dogs, horses, and cats neatly hanging on each, while a gold chandelier dazzled from the center of the room.

Unlike the fake plants scattered around Winnie’s small apartment in New York, the floras decorating each corner of Foxwood’s entryway were large, green, and very real.

She should probably look into getting a butler for herself. Maybe then her plants would have a higher chance of survival.

“This way, ma’am, if you please.”

Winnie followed Mr. Fernsby then, who led her up the stairs. With his back turned toward her, she took the opportunity to freshen up, smoothing down her hair and wiping away any rogue mascara that had pooled beneath her eyes, all the while observing the rooms they passed by.

Each corridor was warmly lit, each room decorated to the nines. More gilded portraits of horses, hunters, and Greek goddesses lined every passage, and time and time again, she was struck with the opulence.

Had Winnie not spoken with Mr. Wintour twice before agreeing to work for him, she would have thought he was trying to pull the wool over her eyes. Clearly, the estate was not struggling.

In her research before coming to the house, however, she’d read that many British estates were now suffering due to staff payment increases and taxes skyrocketing. She knew most upper-class families did little else but inherit their estates, but she still couldn’t help but feel sad that so many grand homes were being lost to families who had owned them for literal centuries.

Mr. Wintour himself had spoken with her at length of the problems they faced—most of them similar issues. Lack of cash flow, taxes siphoning their funds, no ideas on how to generate an income to fit their family. He wished for Winnie to help prevent any chance of their estate dilapidating. Such a task was going to be monumental, but she couldn’t wait to get started.

After walking through the maze-of-a-house, Winnie stood outside of a large, closed door, waiting as Mr. Fernsby knocked twice on the dark wood.

“Miss Knox, sir,” the butler said at once.

“Ah, excellent! Come in, come in,” replied the male voice within.

Mr. Fernsby opened the door, entered the room, then stood as a sentinel, allowing her entrance.

It was all very formal. A bit much for her taste. But as she entered the room next, she could understand why there was such pomp and circumstance.

If she thought the rest of the house was unbelievable, this room took the cake. A big ole chocolate cake.

The study was gorgeous. Dark bluish-gray walls. White, elaborate carvings trimming the top and bottom of the room. Warm brown shelves stuffed to the max with red, tan, and blue leatherbound books.

The rugs were a salmon and cerulean color, and a small, half-circle alcove was built into the side of the room, surrounded by more books and housing a cozy lamp, two chairs, and a table with a half-completed game of chess atop.