assault on the door, and she took a moment's rest. She turned about on the step to survey the grand sweep of sparkling gravel that completed the approach to Oriel Hall. Despite the rather bedraggled appearance of the central flower bed and the tired look of the Hall itself, the estate screamed of old money and even older title. One day the Marquess of Oriel would become the Duke of Abergele, and hence would entertain some of the more illustrious personages of the Realm.
She assumed the architect had not had a poor, plain Scottish spinster in mind when he had designed either the circle or the sprawling Hall. No, the images would have been more along the line of regal ladies in farthingales and starched ruffs, visitors who would most certainly not be left standing on the steps with a single, worn valise beside their scuffed shoes.
Isobel had never paid much attention to the great house. The secretary's daughter, after all, was not likely to be invited for tea. Nor had she gained a clear impression of the place in the past day. One arrival had been in the dead of night, the other in nervous anticipation. She had left shakily both times. This visit promised nothing different, except that she had no idea when she would be leaving.
She was not going anywhere until she had seen Lord Oriel. Squaring her shoulders, she twisted her face into an imitation of the leering satyr and spun, determined to keep knocking until someone answered.
She found herself face-to-face with the butler.
She had seen the man once before, that very morning. Resembling nothing so much as a lichen-covered tree stump, stunted and whiskery, he had silently escorted her and her father toward the cavernous library, then disappeared just as quietly. Now he was regarding her from under hoary brows, only a single blink of his pale eyes to indicate that he was any more animate than the brass satyr.
Isobel hurriedly rearranged her features into a smile. "Good afternoon.
Lord Oriel is expecting—"
She flinched when his shoulder jerked, thinking she was about to receive a faceful of brass-mounted wood. But the man pulled the door fully open and gestured her inside.
Rattled, she entered the hall. There was a tense moment as her worn valise caught on the massive latch, but she tugged it free and, red-faced, followed the clearly unconcerned butler across the marble foyer. He moved slowly, from age or inclination she could not tell. Either way, it gave Isobel an opportunity to study the massive entryway.
Her second daylight visit to the Hall confirmed her vague recollections.
She had absorbed little in the way of decor earlier because there was little.
The walls were filled with portraits, certainly: hawk-nosed men in various amounts of armor and pale women weighted down with gems. Past marquesses and their ornaments, no doubt.
There were marble pillars, too, fat enough that her arms would not reach around them, rising to the vaulted ceiling and first-floor gallery. Other than that, the place was impressively, vastly empty. The butler turned a corner, and Isobel craned her neck for a last look at the foyer. There were no tables, no nymph-topped pedestals, none of the assorted antique vases and other useless knickknacks she would have expected in such a grand house.
And, oddest of all, was the complete lack of people. There was no sign of so much as a footman. Save for the butler and the austere, disquieting marquess, Isobel had not seen another living being at Oriel Hall.
Thus, when she was finally standing in the library doorway, she did not so much as blink when the grim voice announced, "Good day, Miss MacLeod. Welcome to the netherworld."
The greeting was no more incongruous than the sight before her. The marquess was standing behind the desk, neat as a pin in his simply tied cravat and midnight coat. His ebony hair was perfectly combed, his collar points sharp. In fact, had it not been for his taut, ravaged face, he would have appeared the perfect
She assumed the architect had not had a poor, plain Scottish spinster in mind when he had designed either the circle or the sprawling Hall. No, the images would have been more along the line of regal ladies in farthingales and starched ruffs, visitors who would most certainly not be left standing on the steps with a single, worn valise beside their scuffed shoes.
Isobel had never paid much attention to the great house. The secretary's daughter, after all, was not likely to be invited for tea. Nor had she gained a clear impression of the place in the past day. One arrival had been in the dead of night, the other in nervous anticipation. She had left shakily both times. This visit promised nothing different, except that she had no idea when she would be leaving.
She was not going anywhere until she had seen Lord Oriel. Squaring her shoulders, she twisted her face into an imitation of the leering satyr and spun, determined to keep knocking until someone answered.
She found herself face-to-face with the butler.
She had seen the man once before, that very morning. Resembling nothing so much as a lichen-covered tree stump, stunted and whiskery, he had silently escorted her and her father toward the cavernous library, then disappeared just as quietly. Now he was regarding her from under hoary brows, only a single blink of his pale eyes to indicate that he was any more animate than the brass satyr.
Isobel hurriedly rearranged her features into a smile. "Good afternoon.
Lord Oriel is expecting—"
She flinched when his shoulder jerked, thinking she was about to receive a faceful of brass-mounted wood. But the man pulled the door fully open and gestured her inside.
Rattled, she entered the hall. There was a tense moment as her worn valise caught on the massive latch, but she tugged it free and, red-faced, followed the clearly unconcerned butler across the marble foyer. He moved slowly, from age or inclination she could not tell. Either way, it gave Isobel an opportunity to study the massive entryway.
Her second daylight visit to the Hall confirmed her vague recollections.
She had absorbed little in the way of decor earlier because there was little.
The walls were filled with portraits, certainly: hawk-nosed men in various amounts of armor and pale women weighted down with gems. Past marquesses and their ornaments, no doubt.
There were marble pillars, too, fat enough that her arms would not reach around them, rising to the vaulted ceiling and first-floor gallery. Other than that, the place was impressively, vastly empty. The butler turned a corner, and Isobel craned her neck for a last look at the foyer. There were no tables, no nymph-topped pedestals, none of the assorted antique vases and other useless knickknacks she would have expected in such a grand house.
And, oddest of all, was the complete lack of people. There was no sign of so much as a footman. Save for the butler and the austere, disquieting marquess, Isobel had not seen another living being at Oriel Hall.
Thus, when she was finally standing in the library doorway, she did not so much as blink when the grim voice announced, "Good day, Miss MacLeod. Welcome to the netherworld."
The greeting was no more incongruous than the sight before her. The marquess was standing behind the desk, neat as a pin in his simply tied cravat and midnight coat. His ebony hair was perfectly combed, his collar points sharp. In fact, had it not been for his taut, ravaged face, he would have appeared the perfect
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