Page 96 of The Belle of Belgrave Square

The monstrous edifice was built of granite that had severely weathered in places, giving the surface a look of perpetual shadow. A mad tangle of heavily thorned wild roses climbed the high walls, encroaching on the arched windows and doorways in an oddly sinister fashion. Only a few rain-battered blooms were evident among all the prickly leaves and spikes, their overblown petals as red as freshly spilled blood.

No wonder people said it was haunted. With its imposing facade and air of derelict grandeur, it appeared like something from a gothic story. All gloom and decay and lingering mystery. A castle under an evil fairy’s curse. Heavens. There was even a tower!

Stepping down onto the muddy drive, she took Jasper’s arm. He shepherded her through the rain and up the moss-covered stone front steps. An aged gentleman awaited them at the top, sheltered beneath a stone outcropping. His eyes were keen with intelligence; his gleaming bald head complemented by a profuse white beard.

A boy stood next to him—young and slim, with a mop of black hair, and a scowl etched so deeply into his narrow face it might have been carved there with a chisel.

“My dear,” Jasper said, “this is Mr. Beecham. And this young man is Charlie.” He set a hand at the small of Julia’s back. “Beecham, Charlie. This is my wife. I trust you’ll make her welcome.”

“Mrs. Blunt.” Mr. Beecham bowed. “Welcome to Goldfinch Hall.”

“Mr. Beecham.” Julia inclined her head. “I’m glad to make your acquaintance.” She turned a smile on Charlie. “And I’m very pleased to meet you, sir. Your father’s told me so much about you.”

The boy’s features hardened. “He’s told us nothing about you.”

“Charlie.” Jasper’s voice held an unmistakable note of warning.

Charlie didn’t heed it. Without another word, he bolted off into the house.

Jasper’s muscles tensed as if he might follow him.

Julia squeezed his arm. “It’s all right.”

Jasper’s jaw tightened. It plainly wasn’t all right. Not as far as he was concerned. “Where are Alfred and Daisy?”

Mr. Beecham was shamefaced. “Run off, sir. I haven’t seen either of them since breakfast.”

Jasper’s already somber expression darkened. Without another word, he ushered Julia through the arched front door. Made of weather-beaten wood, it swung back on creaking iron hinges, opening into a slate-tiled hall.

Mr. Beecham accompanied them inside. “We’ve not had a chance to get anyone out to patch the leak in the nursery yet,” he said to Jasper in a low voice. “I only received your letter yesterday evening. McCready’s boy delivered it along with your telegraph. You could have knocked me over with a feather. I told Charlie he wasn’t to trouble you while you were in town.”

“Daisy’s not still sleeping in the nursery?”

“I’ve moved her to the adjoining room. It’s dry there, with less of the damp. She might do well to remain there permanently. Even with the money you sent, the repairs will—”

“We can discuss it later,” Jasper said.

“Yes, indeed,” Mr. Beecham replied. “You’ll be tired after your journey and wanting some refreshment.”

Julia’s gaze drifted over the entrance hall as the two men spoke.

An unnervingly steep staircase rose to the right, curving up to the floors above. To the left was a carved stone archway, leading into a sort of drawing room. After divesting her of her bonnet, cloak, and gloves—and removing his own rain-spattered outer garments—Jasper escorted her there, guiding her in front of a cavernous marble fireplace.

Sunk deep into the wall, it was as wide as it was tall. The largest fireplace Julia had ever seen. The roaring fire within its fathomless depths took the chill out of her limbs in record time.

The rest of the room was less imposing. To be sure, there was nothing very gothic about it. It was furnished neatly, if not lavishly, with a plain rug, upholstered sofas and chairs, and heavy draperies shrouding the tall windows.

“I’ve set out a small repast for you,” Mr. Beecham said, following after them. He gestured to a low wooden table in front of the sofa. A tray had been arrayed there, containing a plate of sandwiches, mismatched porcelain teacups, a silver sugar bowl, and a ceramic pitcher of milk. “I’ll fetch the tea from the kitchen. And there’s a cake that should be done soon.”

Julia sank down on the sofa, grateful for the chance to rest. “Do you bake, sir?”

“Aye, I do, Mrs. Blunt,” Mr. Beecham said. “It’s a pleasure of mine, it is. Though there’s little enough time for it when I’m looking after the children.”

Jasper remained standing in front of the fire. His hair was damp, the silver strands at his temples cast into prominence by the bright light of the flames at his back. “They should be helping you.”

“They do help when they’ve a mind to,” Beecham said. “Though I confess ’twere easier when the boys were in school.”

Julia gave Jasper an inquiring look. “They don’t attend school any longer?”