Read Online The Strange Visitation at Wolffe Hall by Catherine Coulter - Free Book Online
Authors: Catherine Coulter
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hair out of her face. Yes, here she was, a lady, and she was wearing only her bedclothes in a gentleman’s drawing room and it was past midnight and the gentleman was looking at her. No, she was absurd, he wasn’t looking at her like that, and it didn’t matter. What mattered was that he would take care of things.
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Wolffe—Miranda?” Grayson asked her.
She wanted to tell him that of course she was returning with him, she didn’t have any clothes, for heaven’s sake, but what came out of her mouth was, “This room doesn’t have any color.”
He stared at her.
Miranda shook herself. “How stupid of me. It’s not important. I really should come back with you.” She swatted her bed-robe. “I need clothes, P.C. needs clothes. Besides, you need me.” She saw he would argue, so she stuck up her chin. “If you don’t take me, sir, neither I nor P.C. will leave Wolffe Hall.” And because you’re so honorable, you will believe yourself responsible if anything happens to us.
He didn’t want her to go back to that house, but then again, she was smart, and she’d used the perfect leverage. He would be there to protect her. He smiled at her. “All right. No, P.C., Barnaby, you will stay here. Mrs. Wolffe and I will be back when we can. P.C., everything will be all right, I promise you. Now take care of Musgrave Jr.” Grayson’s last view of the big calico was on his back, all four paws up, two feet from the sluggishly burning fire.
Ten minutes later, Miranda, dressed in one of Mary Beth’s gowns, rode beside Grayson back to Wolffe Hall. He wanted to hear the story again, ask her more questions, but what came out of his mouth was, “Why do you believe I’m a man who loves color?”
“Your books,” she said simply. “Even though you fill them with spirits and frightful and strange creatures from other mysterious realms, you always place them in vibrant settings, colorful settings. Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not wrong.”
“I used to be a woman of color,” she said more to herself than to him, “but it’s been a very long time now.”
He said, “You will wallow in color again, not too long from now.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
He grinned at her. “It’s all a matter of how you see the world around you, and soon your world will be a very different place.”
“Does that mean you will fix everything, like P.C. assures me you will?”
“Yes, I will fix everything.”
Miranda realized as she looked at him, listened to his calm, certain voice, the awful fear lessened. Would she really see color again?
They continued toward Wolffe Hall, saying nothing more.
But when they arrived at the manor, all the windows were dark. Suggs, wearing a sleeping cap and a shiny dressing gown, finally opened the door and gaped.
Grayson said, “Suggs, I know our unexpected presence alarms you, but everything is all right. We must speak to his lordship.”
“But, Mr. Sherbrooke, his lordship took himself off to bed nearly an hour ago.”
Grayson nodded. “You will return to your bed, Suggs,” he said over his shoulder as he and Miranda hurried up the stairs, “we will see if his lordship is asleep.”
There was no answer to their knock. The door handle didn’t turn. The Great had locked his bedchamber door and wouldn’t come out. He yelled out, “I know it’s you, Mr. Sherbrooke. I don’t want you here. I told you I will deal with this.” A pause, then, “Miranda, when you and Palonia Chiara leave in the morning, do you mind leaving Musgrave Jr. here? No harm will come to him.”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “He adores that wretched cat. Musgrave Jr. sleeps with him, you know. Warms his ancient bones, he says.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Miranda showed him to the guest room next to her mama-in-law’s, a good-sized room, but filled with a great deal of pink—wallpaper, counterpane, even the bed was canopied with frothy pink silk. A single big window overlooked
“What’s the matter, Mrs. Wolffe—Miranda?” Grayson asked her.
She wanted to tell him that of course she was returning with him, she didn’t have any clothes, for heaven’s sake, but what came out of her mouth was, “This room doesn’t have any color.”
He stared at her.
Miranda shook herself. “How stupid of me. It’s not important. I really should come back with you.” She swatted her bed-robe. “I need clothes, P.C. needs clothes. Besides, you need me.” She saw he would argue, so she stuck up her chin. “If you don’t take me, sir, neither I nor P.C. will leave Wolffe Hall.” And because you’re so honorable, you will believe yourself responsible if anything happens to us.
He didn’t want her to go back to that house, but then again, she was smart, and she’d used the perfect leverage. He would be there to protect her. He smiled at her. “All right. No, P.C., Barnaby, you will stay here. Mrs. Wolffe and I will be back when we can. P.C., everything will be all right, I promise you. Now take care of Musgrave Jr.” Grayson’s last view of the big calico was on his back, all four paws up, two feet from the sluggishly burning fire.
Ten minutes later, Miranda, dressed in one of Mary Beth’s gowns, rode beside Grayson back to Wolffe Hall. He wanted to hear the story again, ask her more questions, but what came out of his mouth was, “Why do you believe I’m a man who loves color?”
“Your books,” she said simply. “Even though you fill them with spirits and frightful and strange creatures from other mysterious realms, you always place them in vibrant settings, colorful settings. Am I wrong?”
“No, you’re not wrong.”
“I used to be a woman of color,” she said more to herself than to him, “but it’s been a very long time now.”
He said, “You will wallow in color again, not too long from now.”
“How could you possibly know that?”
He grinned at her. “It’s all a matter of how you see the world around you, and soon your world will be a very different place.”
“Does that mean you will fix everything, like P.C. assures me you will?”
“Yes, I will fix everything.”
Miranda realized as she looked at him, listened to his calm, certain voice, the awful fear lessened. Would she really see color again?
They continued toward Wolffe Hall, saying nothing more.
But when they arrived at the manor, all the windows were dark. Suggs, wearing a sleeping cap and a shiny dressing gown, finally opened the door and gaped.
Grayson said, “Suggs, I know our unexpected presence alarms you, but everything is all right. We must speak to his lordship.”
“But, Mr. Sherbrooke, his lordship took himself off to bed nearly an hour ago.”
Grayson nodded. “You will return to your bed, Suggs,” he said over his shoulder as he and Miranda hurried up the stairs, “we will see if his lordship is asleep.”
There was no answer to their knock. The door handle didn’t turn. The Great had locked his bedchamber door and wouldn’t come out. He yelled out, “I know it’s you, Mr. Sherbrooke. I don’t want you here. I told you I will deal with this.” A pause, then, “Miranda, when you and Palonia Chiara leave in the morning, do you mind leaving Musgrave Jr. here? No harm will come to him.”
Miranda rolled her eyes. “He adores that wretched cat. Musgrave Jr. sleeps with him, you know. Warms his ancient bones, he says.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Miranda showed him to the guest room next to her mama-in-law’s, a good-sized room, but filled with a great deal of pink—wallpaper, counterpane, even the bed was canopied with frothy pink silk. A single big window overlooked
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