TEN
The long black car made its way south through the beautiful English countryside. In the backseat Nicholas looked across at Dougless. She was sitting stiffly upright. Her lovely, thick auburn hair was pulled tightly back to the nape of her neck and put in what she told him was called a bun. Since this morning she had not smiled or laughed or made any comment except, “Yes, sir,” or “No, sir.”
“Dougless,” he said. “I—”
She cut him off. “I believe, Lord Stafford, we have already discussed this. I am Miss Montgomery—not Mistress Montgomery—your secretary, no more, no less. If you will remember that, sir, it will prevent people from thinking that I am more to you than I am.”
Turning away, he sighed. He could think of nothing to say to her, and actually, he knew this attitude was the better way, but already, he missed her.
Moments later his attention was caught by the tower of Thornwyck Castle, and he found his heart beginning to beat a little faster. He had designed this place. He had taken what he knew and loved of every house he’d ever seen, improved on every idea, and created this beautiful house. It had taken four years to cut the stone and to ship the marble from Italy. Among his many ideas, in the inner courtyard he had built towers with curved glass in them.
Thornwyck Castle had been only half finished when he was arrested, but the half that was completed had been as beautiful as any building in the land.
Nicholas frowned as the driver turned into the drive. Now, his house looked so o
ld. Just a month ago he had been here, and then it had been new and perfect. Now the chimney pots were crumbling, there were broken places along the roof, and some of his windows had been bricked in.
“It’s beautiful,” Dougless whispered, then straightened, “sir.”
“It is crumbling,” Nicholas said in anger. “And were the western towers never completed? I drew the plans. Did no one see them?”
When the car stopped, Nicholas got out and looked around. To his mind, it was a sad place, the unfinished half in ruins, the other half looking hundreds of years old—which it was, he thought with dismay.
When he turned back, Dougless had already entered the hotel lobby, two boys behind her carrying their luggage. “Lord Stafford will want early tea at eight A.M.,” she was telling the desk clerk. “And he takes luncheon promptly at noon, but I must be given a menu beforehand.” She turned to him. “Would you like to sign the register, my lord, or should I?”
Nicholas gave her a quelling look, warning her with his eyes to stop her pompous behavior. He’d seen enough of the modern world to know that she was acting strangely. But Dougless turned away, acting as though she hadn’t seen his look. Nicholas quickly signed the guest book in an unreadable scrawl; then the clerk led them to their suite.
The room was beautiful, with dark rose-colored wallpaper and a four-poster bed hung with rose and yellow chintz. A little couch in yellow and pale green sat at the foot of the bed on a rose-colored carpet. Through an arched-top doorway was a small sitting room decorated in shades of rose and pale green.
“I will need a cot put in here,” Dougless said, indicating the sitting room.
“A cot?” the clerk asked.
“Of course. For me to sleep on. You did not think that I would sleep in his lordship’s chamber, did you?”
Nicholas rolled his eyes. Even in his own time this behavior would be strange.
“Yes, miss,” the clerk said. “I will have a cot sent up.” He left them alone.
“Dougless,” Nicholas began.
“Miss Montgomery,” she said in a cold voice.
“Miss Montgomery,” he said just as coolly, “see that my capcases are sent up. I plan to look at my house.”
“Shall I accompany you?”
“Nay, I want no hellkite with me,” he said angrily, then left the room.
Dougless saw that the suitcases were brought up, then asked the clerk where the local library was. Feeling very efficient, she set off through the little village, notebook and pens in hand, but as she neared the library, her steps slowed.
Don’t think about your life, she told herself. Being dropped by one man and immediately finding another one—a good one—was all a dream, an impossible, unreachable dream. Cold, she thought, I have to remain cold. Think of Antarctica. Siberia. Do your job and remain cool to him. He belongs to another woman and to another time.
It was easy finding what the librarian called the “Stafford Collection.” “Many of the visitors to our village ask after the Staffords, especially the guests staying at Thornwyck Castle,” the librarian said.
“I’m especially interested in the last earl, Nicholas Stafford.”
“Oh, yes, poor man, condemned to be beheaded, then dying before the execution. It’s believed he was poisoned.”