Read Online Lie by Moonlight by Amanda Quick - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Amanda Quick
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assume it belongs to you?”
“As a matter of fact, it does not.”
She stopped quite suddenly. “What on earth do you mean?”
“It is the property of a man named John Stoner.”
She frowned. “Is he here?”
“No,” Ambrose said. “As it happens, he is not in residence at the moment.”
It seemed to her that he spoke a little too casually about the absence of the mysterious Mr. Stoner.
“Are you quite certain that he will not mind having us as houseguests?” she asked.
“Unless he returns unexpectedly, he will not even be aware that he is playing host to you,” Ambrose assured her.
She did not like the sound of that. “I don’t understand. Where is Mr. Stoner?”
“I believe that he is on the Continent at the moment. Difficult to say, really. Stoner is unpredictable in his habits.”
“I see. May I ask what your connection is to this Mr. Stoner?”
He thought that over for a few seconds. “You could say that we are old acquaintances.”
“No offense, sir, but that sounds rather vague.”
“Do not be alarmed, Miss Glade,” Ambrose said very softly. “You have my word that you and your charges will be safe here.”
A frisson of acute awareness fluttered across her nerves. Her intuition told her that the girls would come to no harm from Ambrose Wells. She was not nearly so certain about the safety of her own heart.
8
C oncordia awoke to the soft plink, plink, plink of rain dripping steadily outside the window. It was a peaceful, comforting sound. She lay quietly for a moment, savoring the sensation. This was the first time in several weeks that she had not experienced a rush of anxiety and tension immediately after awakening—the first morning when she had not had to think about the escape plan.
True, things had not gone according to her original scheme, but the girls were safely away from Aldwick Castle. That was all that mattered this morning. Soon she would have to fashion a new plan for the future, but that could wait until after breakfast.
She pushed back the covers, found her eyeglasses and pulled on the wrapper that Mrs. Oates had managed to conjure last night. She gathered the few personal toiletries she had brought with her from the castle and opened the door.
The hall outside her bedroom was empty. Mrs. Oates had mentionedthat the only other room in use on this floor belonged to Ambrose. The girls had been given rooms on the floor above.
Satisfied that she had the corridor to herself, she hurried toward the bath with a sense of cheerful anticipation.
She had discovered the wonders of the grand room the night before and was looking forward to repeating the experience. John Stoner might be mysterious in his ways, but he was evidently a firm believer in modern bathing amenities.
The bath was a marvelously decadent little palace graced with vast stretches of sparkling white tiles. All of the fixtures were of the latest sanitary design. Water taps set into the walls supplied hot as well as cold water brought up through pipes affixed to the side of the house. The basin gleamed. There was even a shower fixture over the tub.
The water closet, located in an equally impressive room next to the bath, was a magnificent blend of art and modern engineering. A spectacular field of yellow sunflowers had been painted on both the outside and the inside of the commode. One did not encounter that sort of refinement and elegance very often.
She could get used to this sort of luxury, she thought.
The door of the bath opened just as she reached out to grasp the knob. Startled, she halted and glanced back over her shoulder at the entrance to her bedroom, gauging the distance.
But there was no time to escape.
Ambrose emerged from the white-tiled bath. He was dressed in an exotically embroidered black satin dressing gown. His hair was damp and tousled.
“Mr. Wells.”
She clutched the front of her wrapper with one hand and her little bag of toiletries in the other. She was aghast at the
“As a matter of fact, it does not.”
She stopped quite suddenly. “What on earth do you mean?”
“It is the property of a man named John Stoner.”
She frowned. “Is he here?”
“No,” Ambrose said. “As it happens, he is not in residence at the moment.”
It seemed to her that he spoke a little too casually about the absence of the mysterious Mr. Stoner.
“Are you quite certain that he will not mind having us as houseguests?” she asked.
“Unless he returns unexpectedly, he will not even be aware that he is playing host to you,” Ambrose assured her.
She did not like the sound of that. “I don’t understand. Where is Mr. Stoner?”
“I believe that he is on the Continent at the moment. Difficult to say, really. Stoner is unpredictable in his habits.”
“I see. May I ask what your connection is to this Mr. Stoner?”
He thought that over for a few seconds. “You could say that we are old acquaintances.”
“No offense, sir, but that sounds rather vague.”
“Do not be alarmed, Miss Glade,” Ambrose said very softly. “You have my word that you and your charges will be safe here.”
A frisson of acute awareness fluttered across her nerves. Her intuition told her that the girls would come to no harm from Ambrose Wells. She was not nearly so certain about the safety of her own heart.
8
C oncordia awoke to the soft plink, plink, plink of rain dripping steadily outside the window. It was a peaceful, comforting sound. She lay quietly for a moment, savoring the sensation. This was the first time in several weeks that she had not experienced a rush of anxiety and tension immediately after awakening—the first morning when she had not had to think about the escape plan.
True, things had not gone according to her original scheme, but the girls were safely away from Aldwick Castle. That was all that mattered this morning. Soon she would have to fashion a new plan for the future, but that could wait until after breakfast.
She pushed back the covers, found her eyeglasses and pulled on the wrapper that Mrs. Oates had managed to conjure last night. She gathered the few personal toiletries she had brought with her from the castle and opened the door.
The hall outside her bedroom was empty. Mrs. Oates had mentionedthat the only other room in use on this floor belonged to Ambrose. The girls had been given rooms on the floor above.
Satisfied that she had the corridor to herself, she hurried toward the bath with a sense of cheerful anticipation.
She had discovered the wonders of the grand room the night before and was looking forward to repeating the experience. John Stoner might be mysterious in his ways, but he was evidently a firm believer in modern bathing amenities.
The bath was a marvelously decadent little palace graced with vast stretches of sparkling white tiles. All of the fixtures were of the latest sanitary design. Water taps set into the walls supplied hot as well as cold water brought up through pipes affixed to the side of the house. The basin gleamed. There was even a shower fixture over the tub.
The water closet, located in an equally impressive room next to the bath, was a magnificent blend of art and modern engineering. A spectacular field of yellow sunflowers had been painted on both the outside and the inside of the commode. One did not encounter that sort of refinement and elegance very often.
She could get used to this sort of luxury, she thought.
The door of the bath opened just as she reached out to grasp the knob. Startled, she halted and glanced back over her shoulder at the entrance to her bedroom, gauging the distance.
But there was no time to escape.
Ambrose emerged from the white-tiled bath. He was dressed in an exotically embroidered black satin dressing gown. His hair was damp and tousled.
“Mr. Wells.”
She clutched the front of her wrapper with one hand and her little bag of toiletries in the other. She was aghast at the
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