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She really did have to stop reading those gothic novels.
The door opened and a rather pleasant-looking, smartly dressed butler peered around the half-open door, the stub of a candle flickering in his pewter candle holder.
‘Good evening,’ she said in her friendliest voice, as if appearing on someone’s doorstep uninvited, in the middle of a storm, looking like a drowned rat, was a perfectly normal thing for a young lady to do. ‘Would you please inform the lady of the house that Lady Iris Springfeld would like to visit?’
The butler continued to stare at her, but his look was bewildered rather than threatening.
‘I’m afraid I’m lost,’ she said, this time hoping to elicit his pity, ‘and, as you can see, rather wet. Would you please tell the lady of the house that I am in need of some assistance?’
The butler stood back to let her in. ‘There is no lady of the house, but I will let the master know of your situation. Please come in.’
Iris entered the home, which was in near darkness, apart from the scant light coming from the butler’s candle and a few candles burning in sconces on the wall. It really was starting to appear as if she had stepped back in time. Or was it simply that the master was a miser who did not want to waste money on keeping his home well lit?
‘Please wait here,’ the butler said and disappeared up the dark hallway.
Iris placed her sodden hat back on her head and tried to straighten up her clothing, then looked down at her muddy boots, which were leaving damp footprints on the oriental rug. She quickly stepped off it and onto the stone tiles. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light and the hallway came into view. This part of the house appeared to be modern, with a large domed window that would let in light during the day, elegant marble pillars, and an expansive divided staircase at the end of the hallway. She looked up at the walls, lined with large portraits glaring down at her through the gloom.
‘His Lordship will see you now.’
Iris emitted a small yelp. It was the butler’s voice she had heard, not one of the painted ancestors coming to life. To cover her embarrassment she gave a small, nervous laugh.
‘Please follow me to the drawing room,’ he said, politely ignoring her rather peculiar behaviour.
‘Thank you,’ she replied, pretending that neither the yelp nor the laugh had actually happened.
The drawing-room door creaked loudly as the butler opened it. Was this house deliberately trying to act as if it was the setting for a horror novel? Was the master going to be a hobgoblin, or some depraved being from the underworld? Right now, she was so desperate for shelter she’d take her chances with a hobgoblin, provided it meant she could get out of the rain.
She entered the room, and the master stood up while the Irish wolfhound lying at his feet raised its head and looked in Iris’s direction.
No, definitely not a hobgoblin. Unless hobgoblins were over six feet tall, broad of shoulder, long of leg and wore dark grey tailored suits.
‘Good evening,’ she said in her sunniest voice as she bobbed a small curtsy. ‘I’m Lady Iris Springfeld. I was caught out in the storm and got rather wet in all that rain.’ She pulled a mock frown and gestured to her wet skirt.
Then she waited for him to say something reassuring. No response came.
‘I’m afraid I also got rather muddy.’ She looked down at the foot of her gown, then sent him another small, apologetic frown. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘Come closer to the fire,’ the man said.
His voice wasn’t exactly friendly, but nor was it the voice of a diabolic, depraved creature from the underworld. Not that she actually knew what diabolic, depraved creatures sounded like, but she was sure they would not have deep, masculine voices that were rather pleasant to listen to.
‘Thank you.’ She approached the fire, which was providing the only light in the room, and relished its warmth, while trying to ignore the way her clothing was starting to steam slightly.
She looked around the large yet sparsely furnished drawing room. It was obvious he did not receive guests often. Not only did his rather unfriendly manner suggest that, but also all the furniture had been pushed to the edges of the room, with only one leather armchair in front of the fire.
‘That’s much better,’ she said. ‘Being beside a warm fire is so much better than being out in that weather.’
She looked up at him and smiled. His face was slightly turned away from her, but in the subdued light he appeared to be much more attractive than the average hobgoblin. Her gaze moved down to his jacket. One lapel was slightly tucked under. He must have pulled it on in haste when she entered the room, and she was tempted to straighten it for him. Instead, she continued to smile, hoping he would smile back and show her she was welcome.
‘And who do I have the pleasure of addressing?’ she finally asked, when it became obvious he had no intention of doing the honours himself.
‘I am Theo Crighton, the Earl of Greystone.’
She bobbed another curtsy and waited for him to say something, anything else. Was he deliberately trying to make her feel uncomfortable? If that was his intention then he was succeeding.
‘The lady perhaps requires a change of clothing, my lord,’ the butler said. ‘She is soaked to the bone.’
Iris would have thought that was obvious and not something that His Lordship needed to be informed of, but she said nothing, merely nodded her thanks in the butler’s direction. At least he had some manners, even if his master didn’t.
