“He means perhaps I shouldn’t attend,” William says as we draw close to Courtenay Hall. “Our marriage may have brought me a measure of respectability, but I am still not acceptable in polite society.”
William is referring to the scandal that has dogged him for over a decade. Three young women have disappeared in William’s life: his sister, his former fiancée and Rosalind. That count sometimes rises to four. I’m the fourth—the mysterious girl seen with him all those years ago.
William was responsible for none of those disappearances. We solved the two murders, and I laid the spirits to rest. That is not, however, the sort of thing he can say in public.
“The problem,” I murmur, “is that while you may have married, I am not someone the earl—or any of his compatriots—has ever heard of. A middle-aged widow from the Americas? Very suspicious.”
“Devil take them all, I say.” He glances my way, his face shadowed by his fur-lined hat. “They won’t bother you. They won’t dare. That’s the one advantage to possessing such a dreadful reputation.”
I shake my head. “I don’t care either. I understand why we can’t spend the night, though. It is his brother’s house.”
“And by the time his lordship decreed we could not stay, the local inns were full. There are others farther along, though when you see the condition of them, you may prefer to carry on.”
“We have blankets,” I say. “If you do not mind me curling up in the back . . .”
He smiles. “I do not mind at all. In fact, I believe I packed enough blankets that you may strip down to your knickers and curl up quite comfortably.”
“And then the sleigh breaks down, and you’re left standing at the side of the road with your wife in her underwear.”
He waggles his brows. “That would certainly provide a boost to my reputation.”
“Not in the proper direction.”
I push my hands deeper into my muff and gaze out at the winter wonderland. Endless fields of snow stretch to the horizon, with the falling sun painting the world a festive red. I cuddle closer to William as he turns the horse onto another road.
We pass a wagon, and the boys in it all turn to stare at the sight of us. Living this close to Courtenay Hall, they’d see their share of well-dressed couples in expensive conveyances. Our sleigh is certainly a wondrous thing—sleek and gleaming black with a leather seat and fur-trimmed blankets. What these boys don’t usually see, I’ll bet, is a sleigh like this being driven by the owner himself. We should be comfortably ensconced on that leather seat while a driver conveys us to Courtenay Hall. Personally, I like this much better. It’s certainly a quicker ride, with William deftly steering the gelding, knowing exactly how fast the sleigh can safely and comfortably travel.
We turn onto another road, and I lean forward with a gasp.
“Pretty little thing, isn’t it?” William murmurs.
In the distance, Courtenay Hall sprawls at the foot of wooded hills. Every window is ablaze with light and a skating rink glistens in the front yard.
We continue down the lane, passing gardens put to bed for the season. I spot a maze, two small ponds, a lake to our left, a grand fountain to our right . . .
“There are follies, yes?” I whisper. “That’s what I heard, though when we visited in the modern day they were off-limits to the public.”
“There are several follies,” William says. “To your right, if you squint, you’ll see a pyramid. There’s a tower in the woods. Oh, and of course, the Grecian temple on the hill ahead.”
I make a noise suspiciously close to a squeal. William chuckles. I have a weakness for follies. Perhaps they carry less mystique to those who grew up in England. Or to those who don’t study Victorian history.
The nineteenth century saw a huge rise in tourism, at least among the upper and upper-middle class. Egypt, Greece, Italy, India . . . The English were mad for travel, and if you traveled, you wanted the world to know it. Souvenirs were a must.
Of course, many of those so-called souvenirs are what we’d now call stolen artifacts, and I suspect I’ll see a few objects d’art inside that will make me squirm with discomfort. But follies are different.
When the wealthy traveled, one thing they brought back was a blazing desire to reproduce the world in their backyard, which worked best if your backyard encompassed hundreds of acres. Victorians rebuilt architecture from places they’d seen, usually scaled down versions. And by “scaled-down” I mean a twenty-foot pyramid instead of a two-hundred foot one.
“Is the temple life-size?” I ask. “At least big enough to walk in?”
“It’s big enough to hold a garden party. That’s where August proposed to Rosalind, if I recall correctly. It was our favorite spot growing up. We’d spend hours in there, playing all sorts of boyhood games. It’s based on the Temple of Athena Nike in Athens, as perfect a scaled replica as could be managed.”
He glances over, a smile playing on his lips. “We could always skip the ball and ride straight there. Spend the evening huddled in blankets on the steps of the temple, gazing up at the stars . . .”
He catches my expression. “And that was a cruel tease. I apologize.” He kisses my nose. “We’ll return when we can enjoy it properly, preferably in spring. The earl despises the countryside, and he’s rarely here. We’ll visit when August comes to stay.”
“We’ll bring little Melvina,” I say.
He laughs. “We will certainly bring little whatever-we-name-our-daughter-that-is-not-Melvina.”
I’m about to tease him when a figure darts from a doorway. It’s a young woman in a maid’s uniform, waving madly.
William pulls the reins and the horse stops sharply. “Trying to get yourself killed, Lottie?” He calls. “I know having the master at home is never cause for joy, but surely it isn’t all that bad.”
The girl—no more than a teenager—giggles and curtseys. “Mr. August told me to watch for you. He’s getting ready, and he wanted you to come in this door, if you please, so he might bring young Edmund down for a visit.”
The maid stops at my side of the sleigh and curtseys again. “I’m Lottie, Lady Thorne. Pleased to make your acquaintance. May I help you down?”
“I’ll assist my wife,” William says. “Get yourself inside before you catch your death of a chill.”
I smile. “Please do go in. Lottie. But thank you for the offer.”
Lottie disappears into the house, and William provides the assistance needed to get off my high perch. Then he carries me straight to the steps, ignoring my laughing protests.
“We’ll go in and get comfortable,” he says as he sets me down. “If August is getting ready, we’ll be here a while. Even with a valet, the man cannot ready himself for anything in a hurry.”
“If he takes extra care tonight,” I say, “perhaps it means he’s ready to look for a new wife.”
William’s snort says what I already know. August is light years away from that. William is about to comment when we step through the doorway, and a reedy voice shouts, “Uncle William! Aunt Bronwyn!”
We turn as a fair-haired preschooler tears along the corridor. William catches Edmund up, making the boy squeal.