by Cathie Dunn
Minnie shuddered at Walker’s gaze, which appeared more threatening in the hazy light coming through the half closed curtains. As if the dead man was watching her. Not a man to be crossed. Beside her, Mr. Drake stared at the portrait, deep in thought.
“Let’s move on,” she whispered. “I’m not going to stay in here.”
Mr. Drake nodded. “Yes, you should leave this room until later.”
“I agree.” Minnie shrugged off the sense of unease that had suddenly attacked her. What did she expect? Her great uncle had shot himself after being accused of having murdered his wife. She moved away from his room, vowing to clear it out altogether.
The next four doors led to what must have been guest bedrooms. Tidy rooms, curtains half drawn, the beds made up neatly beneath a layer of dust, and lacking any personal items. Cobwebs covered lampshades and corners. They’d be easy to clean. She could always choose one of those rooms as hers.
She stopped outside the last door in the corridor. What hid behind this one? With a whoosh, she opened it and stared into a darkened room, only a thin sliver of afternoon light shining between the heavy, closed curtains. The outlines of several precious pieces of furniture seemed to indicate family use.
“Allow me.” Mr. Drake–clearly entertaining the same thought–stepped past her, rounded the large four-poster bed and pushed the curtains to the side, revealing high, narrow windows. He coughed when a cloud of dust billowed through the air.
Minnie smiled nervously, her hand covering her mouth as her gaze wandered through the room. It was delightful, despite its faded appearance. “Perhaps you could let in some air?”
He obliged by throwing open two tall windows, the hinges creaking. A gust of wind led the dust clouds a merry dance. Mr. Drake waved a hand in front of him and looked around. “The gale does the work for you, it would seem.” He grinned.
Minnie walked to a chaise longue to her left, opposite the bed. Being in the same room as a man, a room with a large, luxurious looking bed, suddenly warmed her face. She patted her hand on the soft red velvet of the chaise longue and sat, ignoring the fluffy puffs of dust. Surprisingly comfortable.
This would become her bedroom. The pale pink wallpaper, once with elaborately ornate but now faded gold thread, the crochet bedcover and the delicate drawers and table indicated a lady’s room.
How befitting. A sense of homecoming took hold of her.
***
Gideon averted his gaze and instead stared out of the window. Stunned, he beckoned Miss Goodridge over.
“You should see this. I can now fully understand why the original proprietors built the manor right here.” He leaned out to enjoy the view over the cliffs toward the sea, letting the wind clear his mind whirling from the unexpected developments. Miss Goodridge appeared beside him, and he stepped back, savoring the alluring scent of lavender on her skin as she stood beside him.
Since when did he like lavender?
“Beautiful,” she whispered, a hand still on her lips, admiring the scenery.
Looking over her shoulder, he could only agree. A broad stretch of lawn–what used to be lawn–stretched out from the house toward the precipice; the wild sea beyond rose and sank, crashing into the bottom of the cliff in a loud roar.
His gaze returned to her, her shapely neck exposed, breasts rising and falling as she breathed in deeply the salty sea air.
Step back!
“Yes,” he said, uncertain whether he spoke of the landscape or her. He shook his head slightly. What was wrong with him? In helping the girl, he’d have regular access to the manor. That was what counted. Not her enticing beauty or courage.
He was in Trekellis to explore his grandfather’s past, not become involved with a woman. It was fortunate the lady didn’t know his real background.
Miss Minerva–God, the name suited her well–Goodridge was brave. And perhaps a tad desperate, given the urge with which she forced her way to Trekellis Manor. She intrigued him.
Turning, she bumped into him. Her hands landed briefly on his chest. Again. A beguiling blush graced her cheeks. He could get used to this.
Gideon stepped back.
Miss Goodridge gestured into the room. “This is going to be my room. I guess I have some tidying up to do before nightfall.”
“Aye, and you’ll need help. Do you have any dust cloths?”
Her eyes widened. “You don’t mean to…”
He grinned. “Certainly, Miss Goodridge. It’s too late in the day to find someone in the village to help get this room fit for habitation tonight, and I’ve no other plans for the afternoon. Some of these cupboards must hold old linens that aren’t entirely moth-eaten.” Of course, he knew where to find them from his illicit visit the previous day, but he couldn’t possibly tell her. “Once we’ve managed to make this room, erm, respectable for a young lady, we can explore downstairs.”
Miss Goodridge’s face closed, a suspicious gleam in her amber gaze. “We? Why would you wish to explore my house?” Her chin thrust forward, she crossed her arms.
He ignored her change in demeanor, but it took all Gideon’s willpower not to look at her breasts pushed up by her action, the pale complexion tantalizing. “Because you’re a young lady all by yourself and you need a protector.”
A delicate eyebrow rose. “And you presume I’d take the first male who doesn’t run away when he discovers where I’m heading to fill that role? By the way, why aren’t you worried like those villagers?”
Gideon laughed. “Because I’m not local, and I’ve always loved a riddle.” ’Twas too early to reveal his personal interest. She’d chase him out before he could say grandfather. “This house is one big enigma.”
The suspicious look slowly softened and her stance relaxed. “If you mean what you say, perhaps you can search for the linens and dusting cloths while I begin to remove the old, dusty covers. They’ll be as new after a proper laundering.”
“Of course. I’ll have a look.” He turned toward the door. Over his shoulder, he said, “Those villagers might yet be right, and the place is haunted.”
She wouldn’t be fooled by him.
He chuckled as he ventured down the stairs to the servants’ quarters, taking his time. Miss Goodridge couldn’t suspect he’d been inside the house before. Passing the still open front doors, he noticed her portmanteau outside. He carried the case into the hall and turned to close the doors when he froze. At the far end of the drive, a large man leaned against the left entrance tower.
Watching him.
Intrigued, Gideon stepped over the threshold. “What the–” The heavy doors banged shut behind him. He jumped, staring back, the hairs at his neck raised. “Bloody hell!”
Shrugging off the unwelcome sensation in the pit of his stomach, he turned back to the drive. The man was gone. “Who on earth was that?” He scanned the grassy slope, the track, the towers, the grimy windows. A shiver ran down his spine.
“A curious local, no doubt,” he muttered–more to reassure himself than he felt certain–and pushed himself through one of the oak doors.
But was it? Given their reservations, none of the villagers would come near the manor. Perhaps he shouldn’t have been joking about a ghost.
Gideon strode to the kitchen, teeth gritted, fighting the urge to glance over his shoulder.
Chapter Three
Mr. Drake’s words reverberated through Minnie’s mind as she pulled off the crochet cover, shook it gently out of the window and folded it carefully. Was the manor really haunted? Placing the cover on the chaise longue, she grabbed the first of four pillows–once plumped up, now flat.
A sudden bang made her jump. “My God!” Her hands trembled, her heart drumming in her ears, before common sense took hold, and she gripped the pillow firmly.
Mr. Drake was somewhere in the house and it was blowing a gale, a natural explanation for slamming doors. Still, goosebumps rose on her arms. She rubbed them vigorously, ridding herself of any superstitious thoughts. A house was ma
de of solid walls, floors and windows. It couldn’t be haunted. Humans died. They were buried. That was the end of it.
They didn’t linger.
Her gaze fell onto the portrait opposite the bed, now illuminated by the afternoon sun, and Minnie pondered, the pillow forgotten. She cocked her head, taking in the delicate beauty of the young blonde woman, her carefree expression, her expensive gown with its laced hem and soft layers. A hint of sadness in those deep blue eyes evoked her sympathy. Was this Henrietta Walker? The lady who had vanished; supposedly pushed over the cliffs by her husband? Minnie stepped closer but found no inscription. No name, not even of the artist. Yet, this vibrant canvas was of a high quality. How unusual.
Shaking her head, she shrugged off her suspicions. If this was indeed Henrietta, she’d later say a prayer and light a candle for her soul. But first, Minnie had to make this room habitable. Once the whole house was sparkling and as new, she could unravel the past.
“The study...”
“Pardon?” Minnie turned sharply, but the room was empty. “Mr. Drake?” Her whisper went unanswered. Silence but for the wind whooshing through the open windows. A shiver ran down her spine. She shrugged it off. Most likely, her mind was overwrought, tired from the long journey and the excitement.
With renewed effort, Minnie stripped the bed and, plumping the pillows one by one, laid them onto one window ledge for airing. The blanket went across the other. The fresh breeze would soon take away the smells.
She dumped the pile of threadbare linens in a corner. Later, once Mr. Drake was gone, she’d drag the lot downstairs. Certainly, a village such as this had laundry women?
“Talking of Mr. Drake, where is the man?” Voicing her thoughts out loud soothed her nerves. She went to the stairs. The house was quiet. At the bottom, she spotted her portmanteau. “Ahh, wonderful.” Picking up her skirts, she hurried downstairs. In her eagerness to open her trunk, she had to fiddle with the straps, but she finally managed to shove the lid off with a thump.
“Oh, there you are.”
Minnie shrieked, and turned quickly. She hadn’t heard him coming in. “You gave me a right fright, Mr. Drake. Oh…” Her gaze met the pile of linens he carried. “You found some. Wonderful.”
He nodded. “Aye, there are linen cupboards. The blankets at the top are useless, but wrapped beneath them I discovered bed linens, table covers, throws.” He grinned. “Someone was keen to preserve this stuff.”
Minnie clapped her hands in delight and took several off him. Her hands slid over the soft fabric. “These are wonderful. I hope they fit.”
“One way to find out.” He winked and strode up the stairs.
Minnie darted after him, her skirts hitched up. “Wait!” Her breath came in short bursts as she rushed after him.
But he’d already disappeared into the corridor. Oh, how unseemly. He couldn’t possibly help her make a bed.
A bed!
“Mr. Drake, you can’t…” She caught up with him in her bedroom where he’d dumped the linens on the mattress. “I mean, I’ll take over from here, thank you.” Unable to look at the bed, she concentrated on shaking out the pillows.
“As you wish, Miss Goodridge. It is likely a wise idea.”
Minnie blushed at his knowing smile. “Thank you,” she said, “although of course I’m most grateful for what you’ve done.”
“My pleasure.” He raised an eyebrow. “Can you ride?”
“I’m sorry?” The heat in her cheeks deepened. With great care, she placed the pillow on the chaise longue and linked her hands, lest she betray their shaking.
Mr. Drake’s grin widened. “A horse.”
“Ahh,” she said, relieved, her voice not entirely steady. “Yes, I learnt to ride. Why?”
“Well, how would you like to travel about the countryside? Walk?”
Oh dear. She’d never given this a thought. How indeed would she make her way to Trekellis? “Erm, no. By horse. Would you know where I could purchase one?”
“Aye.” He nodded, his lips still quirking. “Why don’t I make some arrangements over night and return with a horse for you in the morning?”
Relief flooded through her. “That would be very kind, but I don’t want to trouble you too much.”
“’Tis no trouble at all. I’ll also make some enquiries about help for the house. It’s not wise to live here on your own, and you need help.”
Minnie nodded. It made perfect sense. “But did you not say earlier you aren’t local either? How would you–?”
“I’ve met folk during my stay in Trekellis.” His tone was determined, final. “Are you sure you have everything you need for tonight?” His gaze held hers, the hidden meaning behind his words clear.
“Yes, thank you, Mr. Drake. I have some provisions in my trunk. They should see me through for a few days.”
“Then I’m taking my leave.” He bowed. “I shall see you tomorrow.”
“That would be lovely. And,” she smiled and held out her hand, “thank you for all your help.”
Stepping forward, he dropped a lingering kiss on her hand, his eyes not leaving hers. “It’s a pleasure.”
***
Gideon reclined into the comfortable leather armchair in front of a hissing fire, a glass of whisky in hand, his feet resting on a footstool. This small parlor in the country manor of his dear friend Charles, Viscount Eaton, was his favorite room in the house. Charles’s servants under the watchful eye of Wilfrid the butler were unobtrusive, and the solitude the place granted him served his purpose.
Before he returned from Trekellis Manor, he’d spread word in the village about wishing to purchase a mare for Miss Goodridge, but in the meantime he’d decided a mare from his friend’s stable would be perfect for her. Of course, he’d write to Charles to explain. No doubt, Charles would be glad his horses were exercised.
Gideon swirled the amber liquid in the tumbler, peaty fumes teasing his nostrils. Trust Charles to keep a quality stash of Scotch whisky in the house, even though he rarely ventured this far away from London. Gideon briefly wondered what Charles–his drinking partner in many nighttime adventures–was doing at this moment. No doubt, whatever it was, it involved a female. He smiled. If he was in London, he’d be at his friend’s side. No doubt about that either.
Yet for once, Gideon didn’t miss the bustle of the city. The tranquil calm of Cornwall, the earthy attitude of the locals, suited him.
Back home, the constant round of recitals, theatre visits and balls had become tiring. Then, there had been Emmaline, Lady Crowther. Groaning, he remembered his former mistress’s growing demands after ten months of secret liaisons. A widow of three years, her increasingly desperate attempts at luring him to propose had pushed him away. He’d enjoyed her voluptuous body, yes, but marriage? Dear Lord, no! He sighed with relief that he hadn’t heard from her since he ended their affair three months previously.
’Twas more than enough to have his mother nag him to find a suitable bride. So, to escape the clutches of scheming females, he’d decided to uncover the unmentioned family secret of his grandfather’s flight to Paris with an unknown woman.
Mother would hate whatever he might discover at Trekellis Manor. Always one for maintaining propriety, even at the cost of the truth, she’d not thank him once she heard of his…adventure. Just as well only Charles knew his whereabouts.
Gideon chuckled and took a sip. Mother would be mortified if she heard of his growing interest in the young lady whose only inheritance appeared to be a haunted manor, one linked inextricably to his grandfather. But who was Miss Minerva Goodridge? His pulse increased at the memory of the luscious heiress shaking out pillows. Her unconventional behavior, her healthy attitude excited him.
There were still many gaps in his grandfather’s story, and Gideon was keen to explore them, with or without Miss Minnie’s help. When he’d first come across the painting of an unnamed lady in the attic at his manor in Kent, he’d been intrigued. The era matched Grandfather’s time
s. On exploring further, Gideon discovered a small note wedged into the frame at the back of the painting. It revealed Grandfather’s wedding notice–but not to the woman he knew as his Grandmother.
Henrietta Walker. Wed to Rufus Drake, 6th Earl of Rothdale, on December 20th, 1817. Father had been six years old.
Father had never spoken of his own parents, and forbade mention of his own father in the household. A curious maid was once dismissed after she’d asked who the beautiful lady in the painting was. Then the attic was locked–until Gideon opened it during another of Mother’s boring tea parties.
Later that evening, he’d confronted her, but she’d simply stared, murmuring something about disgrace and dishonor. Gideon’s interest was piqued.
Now, here he was and found the first stone thrown in his way in the delightful form of Miss Minerva Goodridge. When he’d broken into the manor two nights ago, he’d raked through the still scattered papers in the study, but couldn’t find any proof of a link.
Until today, when he’d discovered the same unknown woman again–in the portrait in Miss Minerva Goodridge’s bedroom.
Gideon congratulated himself on inveigling himself as helper to Miss Goodridge. A ruse that might get him into the house regularly, although how could he manage to search the study without raising her suspicions? It was too soon to reveal his interest. The headstrong young lady might even turn him away.
Gideon drained the glass and, rising, set it down. The house lay in darkness as he made his way up the stairs, candelabra in hand. He had to plan his next step carefully.
As he slipped beneath the covers and closed his eyes, Minnie’s amber eyes stared at him, her luscious lips open, raven hair tumbling over her shoulder, barely covering her full breasts. He swallowed as blood coursed through his body.
“Damn it,” Gideon moaned and turned on his side, pulling his knees up. He had never lusted after a woman as he did now; not even Emmaline’s ample charms had enticed him thus. “Go to sleep. She’s just a woman you’ll never meet again once this business is finished.”
