Page 4 of To Hunt the Hunter

“Of course she’s not mad. She came because she knew something was wrong. I told you she would. I told you.” Phoebe’s voice was indignant, and her grasp on Matilda unrelenting.

“Phoebe, you know she can’t stay. We discussed this,” he began, the confusion in his eyes so evident that Matilda had to suppress the desire to laugh. Poor Lucian. He’d pursued her for so long and, when he finally tried to do the right thing, she landed herself on his doorstep.

“You will stay, won’t you?” Phoebe demanded, looking very much as if she would take a pet if Matilda said no.

“Yes,” she said, though she looked at Lucian as she said it. “I will stay for a little while, until I am certain that you are both well. That is what friends do, no? Is that not so, my lord?”

Lucian stared at her, his expression unreadable.

“Pippin,” he called softly. “You may as well show yourself. I know you’re there.”

A moment later the older lady who had been holding Phoebe’s hand appeared. So this was the beloved cook that Phoebe had spoken of during her last visit. The woman didn’t look at all sheepish at having been caught eavesdropping, nor did she seem the least bit impressed by Lucian’s cool glare.

“Take Miss Barrington to her governess, if you would, please, and then you may send refreshments to the library.”

“My lord,” the woman said, bobbing a curtsey before approaching Phoebe. “Now then, my lamb, do as your uncle says.”

Phoebe turned imploring eyes upon Matilda. “You won’t let him send you away, will you?”

“Phoebe!” Lucian said, clearly exasperated.

Matilda smiled and shook her head. “He’s never been able to make me do something I don’t want to yet, Phoebe, so no, I won’t. I promise.”

Phoebe let out a breath of relief and kissed Matilda’s cheek. “Goodnight, Miss Hunt, and thank you so much for coming.”

Matilda watched until Phoebe disappeared before she could bring herself to face Lucian again.

“Why?” he demanded, a thread of anger behind that one word. “Why have you come?”

“Because you are all alone and I think something is very wrong. I told you I would be your friend, Lucian. I meant it. I don’t abandon my friends.”

She could read nothing from his eyes and had not the slightest idea what he was thinking, whether he was furious or overjoyed, or both. Neither. Before she could take a guess, he turned on his heel.

“Come, then. You may take tea and explain to me, in comfort, what manner of madness has overcome you.”

Matilda followed him, pleased to go to the library which had been one of her favourite rooms when she’d visited before. It was a lavish space, heavy with oak panelling and thick rugs. There were many seating areas, and lamps which cast golden pools of light at inviting intervals, beckoning you to sit and make yourself comfortable with a book. She had noticed this often at Dern. For all its grandeur and pomp, now and then she’d stumbled upon a room which had a different, private feel to it. This was one of those, and she suspected it showed this man’s hand at work. He had made a home here among the rooms of this cavernous palace, for himself and for Phoebe, carving out a few spaces in the acres of magnificent splendour where they could be at ease… though ease was not a word to describe the present atmosphere.

Lucian beckoned her to sit and then went to stand at the fireplace, leaning upon the mantel and staring down at the flames. Though she’d spend the entire journey here thinking about what she would say to him, Matilda was at a loss and was beyond relieved when Denton arrived bearing a tea tray.

“We have prepared the yellow suite for Miss Hunt, my lord,” he said, deftly arranging cups and saucers and placing a plate with a selection of bite-sized savoury tarts, and another of small pastries before her. The kind of thing to tempt the most reluctant appetite.

Matilda thought she saw a flare of something in Lucian’s eyes, but could not guess what it signified and, whatever it was, Denton staunchly ignored it by not meeting his master’s frigid gaze.

“Shall I pour the tea, Miss Hunt?”

“Please, don’t trouble yourself,” Matilda said, intrigued by Lucian’s obvious tension and now rather wishing the obliging butler would make himself scarce so she could discover its cause.

“Your maid is unpacking your belongings,” Denton continued with blithe calm. “You may rest assured I will see to her comfort too, Miss Hunt.”

“Thank you, Denton, you are most kind. Do tell her not to wait up for me. I shall see to myself tonight.”

“Very good, miss.”

Matilda wondered if she was imagining the warmth in the man’s eyes, and decided that it had been such an eventful day, she’d best set no store by it. Her emotions were all out of kilter and, in her present state, she’d no doubt read too much into it.

Soon they were alone once again, and Matilda followed the butler’s example by pretending Lucian wasn’t there, so she didn’t have to meet that uncomfortably searching silver gaze, which she could feel trained upon her.

“Milk?” she asked, not looking up.