As McArdle heaved himself up, Richard reached out and caught Catriona's hand. She turned and raised a brow.
"Don't forget," he murmured, his eyes on hers, his thumb brushing over the back of her hand.
For one instant, she stared at him-and he could see she couldn't decide what he was reminding her of-her agreement to tell him her whereabouts, or his invitation to midday snacks. Then she blinked. And looked at him again. "I'll be in the office for most of the day."
And it was his turn to be uncertain-unsure-just what she meant. She gently tugged and he eased his grip and let her fingers slide from his. She inclined her head, then turned away.
As he watched her glide to the door, he still wasn't sure which she meant.
He'd decided on the library as his own domain-according to Catriona, only she, and Algaria occasionally, used it. There was a huge, old desk, lovingly polished, and a well-padded chair that accommodated his large frame surprisingly well.
Through the combined efforts of Mrs. Broom and Henderson, a large morose man who filled the position of general factotum, he was supplied with paper, pen and ink. Worboys, looking in on him, departed and returned bearing his seal and a stub of wax. After dispatching a maid to fetch a candle, Worboys cast a haughty,
barely approving glance over the leatherbound tomes, then sniffed.
"It you need me, sir, I'll be in your room. Henderson-a nice enough chap it one can cope with his brogue-is organizing to have a second wardrobe moved in. I'll be tending your coats."
Lovingly, Richard had not a doubt. "Very well-I doubt I'll need you much in the coming days." He looked up at Worboys. "We won't be entertaining."
Worboys only just avoided a snort. "It does seem unlikely, sir." With that comment on his new home, Worboys took himself off.
Raising his brows, secretly surprised not to have been presented with Worboys' resignation, Richard turned back to his letters.
He considered, then settled to write a fuller account of his marriage to Devil-the easiest task facing him. He filled in the details he'd omitted in his earlier brief note, but saw no reason to elaborate on his feelings, on the reasons he'd taken the plunge. He was quite sure Devil, having already succumbed, and having lived with the outcome for a year, could fill in the blanks for himself.
And heaven knew Honoria, Devil's duchess, and Helena, Richard's stepmother, certainly would.
Sealing Devil's letter, Richard grimaced and set another blank sheet before him.
He stared at it for half an hour. In the end, he wrote a very careful, exquisitely guarded account, rather shorter on actual facts than the first note he'd sent Devil, but filled instead with the sort of information he knew his stepmother would want to know. That yes, he'd found his mother's grave. A description of the necklace his mother had left him. The fact Catriona had long red hair and green eyes. That it had snowed on the day they had married.
Those sort of things.
He penned them carefully and hoped, without much hope, that she'd be satisfied with that. At least for a while.
With a sigh, he signed his name. He'd told Devil they wouldn't be attending the Christmas celebrations at Somersham this year. He knew without asking that Catriona would prefer to remain here, and even after only one night under this root, he agreed. Maybe, in years to come, when their life here was more established, they would journey south for those few, family filled days-he, she and their children.
The thought held him for long moments, then he stirred, sealed his missive to Helena, and turned to his last letter-to Heathcote Montague, man of business, on permanent retainer to all the Cynsters.
That letter was more to his liking-making decisions, dealing with his varied interests, giving directions to enable him to manage them all from the vale-these were positive actions reinforcing his new position, his new role.
He signed that letter with a flourish. Impressing his seal on the melted wax, he waved the letter to cool it, then gathered up all three packets and rose. And set out to discover who collected the mail.
There was no butler as such. Old McArdle retained the title of steward, but from all he'd heard, Richard strongly suspected that Catriona did the bulk of the work herself. Henderson, as factotum, was the most likely to oversee the delivery of letters and parcels. Richard wandered through the corridors toward the back of the house, looking in on small workrooms, finding the butler's pantry-but no Henderson.
Deciding to place the matter-along with his letters-in Worboys's ever efficient hands and only then remembering Henderson's appointment with his henchman in the main bedchamber Richard headed back tow aid the stairs.
Somewhere in the depths of the house, a bell clanged.
He was in the corridor heading for the front hall when he heard footsteps cross the tiles, then a heavy creak as the front doors were opened.
"Good morning, Henderson! And where is your mistress? Pray tell her I wish to see her right away. A matter of some seriousness, I fear."
The hearty, emphatically genial tones carried clearly; slowing, Richard halted in the shadows of the archway giving onto the front hall. From there, he could see the large, heavily built gentleman handing his hat to Henderson-and the reluctance with which Henderson accepted it.
"I'll see if the mistress is free, sir."
Piggy eyes in a round, reddened face narrowed slightly. "Now you just tell her it's me, and she'll be free, I'll warrant. Now get a move on, sirrah-don't keep me standing-"