The Dangerous Lord Darrington. Sarah Mallory

that littered the bed. He tossed it aside as Guy came in and greeted him with a cry of relief.

      ‘Darrington, thank heaven you are come! I thought I should expire with boredom!’

      Guy grinned at him. ‘You are looking much better, old friend, and sound much more like your old self. How are you?’

      ‘Everything still hurts like the very devil, but only if I move.’ Davey beckoned him forwards. ‘Come and sit down here and tell me all that is going on downstairs. Have you kissed any of the ladies yet?’

      Guy laughed. ‘Only your broken ribs prevent me from punching you for that, Davey! Of course I haven’t! Lady Arabella is a matriarch, born to command, and her two granddaughters are both completely ineligible, one being a schoolgirl, the other a widow.’

      ‘A very beautiful widow, if Peters is to be believed.’

      ‘True, but she is also about to be married.’

      ‘And her future husband dined with you tonight?’

      ‘Why on earth should you want me to tell you anything?’ demanded Guy irritably. ‘You know it all already.’

      ‘Devil a bit! Peters has passed on the little he has gleaned. Most of it was nonsense about the ghosts that walk during the night. Peters tells me some of the servants even swear they have heard wailing and crying in the gardens after dark! Tales set about by the housekeeper, I suspect, to keep them in their own beds at night! I’m hoping you can give me all the details about the family.’ Davey put his head on one side and narrowed his eyes. ‘And by your frown I’d say something is puzzling you.’

      ‘Aye,’ said Guy slowly. ‘It is.’

      He related the details of his evening and at the end of it Davey merely nodded.

      ‘Seems simple enough to me. The widow is marrying a fool. Nothing unusual in that.’

      ‘Not such a fool that he hasn’t tied up the business all right and tight,’ retorted Guy. ‘Over the port he made a point of telling me that the contracts were all signed, and even if Mrs Forrester should cry off now all the property would pass to him.’

      ‘Does she want to cry off?’

      ‘No—that is—I cannot say. I do not believe she is in love with him. The story goes that Radworth brought news of the brother’s death to the family, fell in love with the widow and had been courting her ever since. I don’t think the old lady is too enamoured of him, though.’ A smiled tugged at his mouth. ‘It should prove a stormy marriage—I saw the way she ripped up at Radworth when he threatened to go down to the cellars himself! I had the impression she might actually call upon the servants to restrain him, if he had persisted.’

      ‘It’s the red hair,’ muttered Davey. ‘It might look glorious, but she’ll make the very devil of a wife.’

      They fell silent and Guy realised that Davey was looking rather pale. He stood up.

      ‘Thankfully, the problems of the Priory are nothing to do with us and I for one cannot wait to leave them behind! With good fortune, by this time tomorrow we shall be back at Highridge. Now sleep well, my friend. I shall call on you again in the morning.’

      Guy made his way to his room where he was pleased to see the fire had been built up and a small basket of logs placed on the hearth beside it. Peters had unpacked his nightgown and it was draped across the bed, a pale, ghostly spectre in the shadows. A gusty wind was blowing, stirring the curtains that covered the ill-fitting leaded window and causing the occasional puff of smoke to blow into the room. Guy regarded the old stone hearth with disfavour and thought longingly of his own house, refashioned in the past ten years to provide such modern conveniences as small, iron fireplaces that threw out more heat and kept the smoke going up the chimney. Even Davey’s hunting lodge seemed luxurious in comparison to the Priory!

      Guy was not used to keeping such early hours and as he put his coat over the back of a chair and kicked off his shoes he knew that sleep would elude him for some time yet. He picked a book at random from the mantelpiece and threw himself into the chair beside the fire, adjusting the candles to give him as much light as possible on the page. It was one of the volumes of Tristram Shandy and Guy was happy to amuse himself for an hour. He heard the board creak outside his room as someone padded along the passage. It was not the brisk step of a servant going about his business, but rather a slow, creeping tread. If they were trying not to disturb him, then their efforts were wasted, he thought sourly as another cloud of smoke belched from the chimney. He gave a wry smile. Perhaps Mrs Forrester was correct; he was grown too puffed up in his own conceit. He had stayed in much more uncomfortable houses in the past and never thought to complain. He stirred up the fire and threw a couple of small logs on to the flames, making up his mind that he would read until these had burned down, then go to bed.

      The wind died down and the house grew quiet. The silence of the room settled around Guy and the slow tick, tick of the clock lulled him until he began to doze over his open book. He jerked himself awake. This would not do, he thought, stretching. He should go to bed.

      At that moment he heard a cry. It was like a shout in the distance. It was not loud, and he thought that if he had been asleep it would not have roused him, but now he froze, his ears straining to catch the least noise. He heard the soft thud of a door closing, a murmur—it could have been the wind, or low voices, he could not be sure—then the definite sound of feet hurrying past.

      Guy hesitated. Perhaps Lady Arabella had been taken ill, or one of the servants. It was none of his business, after all, and they would not thank him for his interference. But perhaps it was Davey—he hoped Peters would wake him if that was the case, but Guy could not be sure. Snatching up his bedroom candle, he opened the door and stepped out.

      The passage was empty and silent. Moonlight filtered in through the mullioned windows at each end of the corridor, creating grey patterns on the floor. To his left the passage led to Davey’s room and the stairs down to the great hall, to his right it continued the length of the old building, then turned and provided access to the rest of the house. Guy walked towards Davey’s room. There was no bead of light from beneath the door, no sound save the sighing of the wind outside. As Guy stood, indecisive, a sudden cold draught hit his back. He might have put it down to imagination if his candle had not blown out. He turned. The cold had passed, as if a door somewhere in the house had been opened briefly.

      Guy put down the candlestick. There was sufficient moonlight pouring in through the windows to light his way. He padded along the corridor in his stockinged feet, the only noise he made came from a creaking board. When he reached the end wall he hesitated. Mrs Forrester had led him this way to her own room, so he knew the passage led away into the Tudor wing of the house with the family’s apartments. He had no business here, but he was curious to know who might be about in the house in the middle of the night. Treading carefully, he made his way through moonlit passageways, past a series of doors in the polished-oak panelling until he rounded a corner and saw the dark rails of a narrow staircase before him. That would lead up to the servants’ quarters and down to the kitchens. His ears caught the soft sound of a footstep and at the same time a faint glow appeared in the stairwell as someone began to ascend from the basement. Quickly Guy drew back out of sight. It was most likely a servant, who could continue up the staircase to the bedchambers above. He strained to listen, heard the lightest footfall, the slight creak of a board, barely had time to note the approaching glow before a figure came around the corner and stopped with a small shriek of terror to find him blocking the way. Guy had the advantage of knowing someone was approaching, but he was surprised to find himself gazing into the terrified face of Beth Forrester.

      ‘Do not be afraid.’ Guy reached out and took the lamp from her shaking hand, holding it up so that she might recognise him. ‘I heard noises and thought I might be of assistance.’

      She was shaking so much that he put out his free hand and caught her arm, feeling her trembling beneath the thin sleeve. She had changed her silk evening gown for a more serviceable closed robe in some dark colour. Her hair, free of lace and feathers, hung in a thick braid over one shoulder, gleaming in the