“Well, if it has a dry stable we might borrow it for a bit, mightn’t we, Mr. Yale?”
“We might.” He studied the boy. “Fine work, Owen. Thank you.”
The lad took Galahad’s lead. “Just up the road a bit, sir.” He gestured.
They went. Not more than a quarter mile ahead, where the road bent south, a tiny lane led off north, overhung by a stand of old oaks interspersed with the tall dark pines that seemed so comfortable in this lush world. Vines twined in thick majesty around the gatehouse built of gray stone and the stone fence running along the lane, some still flowering and content in the rain. The drive was pebbled, sprigs of grass poking up here and there.
Hidden behind a copse of ancient trees, the house sat on a rise, a very large structure that did indeed have the look of a church about it—rather, several churches all connected in one grand sprawl. Its roofs sloped steeply to points, turreted towers of gray stone rising over the treetops. But the towers featured chimneys of modern appearance. Windows gleamed dimly, reflecting the black trees and the gray sky above.
A long, low building ran along the drive to another barnlike structure—the stable and carriage house, presumably. Huge rosebushes clustered about the buildings’ knees. Beyond, close to the low wall that ran another fifty yards to a fenced sheep field, a wooden rope swing hung from a branch of a solitary grand oak.
“It’s perfectly charming,” she whispered, although of course that was silly since the horse’s hooves were loud enough to be heard by a stable hand if there were one. She glanced at Mr. Yale. He scanned the house, his face sober.
“Owen, go around to the back and make certain there are none here.”
Owen disappeared at a jog.
Mrs. Polley accepted Mr. Yale’s assistance dismounting. “We’re here now, sir. So what would you have us do?” She made a show of stretching her back, her squat round form like a tilting teapot, bonnet and cloak drooping. “It’d best be deserted or the poor souls that live here will have a sorry shock when they discover us soggier than stewed mutton on their doorstep.”
“Stewed mutton sounds wonderful right about now,” Diantha mumbled.
He smiled his slight smile and came to her. “Wishing for roast and shepherd’s pie?” He grasped her by the waist and drew her off the horse. The moment her feet met the earth he released her, but he did not move away and she was obliged to pretend to him up close that his hands on her hadn’t felt like heaven. Her knees and behind were wretchedly sore, but a tingle danced inside her now where he had touched her so deeply the night before.
“I don’t suppose anyone is cooking stewed mutton for dinner inside?”
“I doubt it. But let us see how matters lie within before we relinquish hope of dinner entirely.” He moved toward the front door.
She followed. “I thought we were to rest in the stable. Do you intend to enter the house?”
“I do.”
Owen came around from the opposite side. “All’s clear, sir.”
Mr. Yale climbed the two steps to the door, a heavy wooden panel without adornment, and she went behind him. Closer, the stone seemed to be a subtle pink.
“But what if they return without notice?”
“Then we will hope they are gracious hosts. And Owen will keep a watch on the drive from the gatehouse. Owen, how would you like turning your talents to guard duty?”
“It’d be better than the mines, sir.”
“You see? All is well.” But his eyes gleamed with an odd intensity. Diantha followed as he ascended the stoop. He tried the door latch.
“Locked,” Mrs. Polley harrumphed.
He reached into his coat and withdrew a leather case no larger than a billfold.
Diantha peered around his shoulder. “What is that?”
“Why are you whispering?” he replied as quietly. He opened the case with hands slick with rainwater and withdrew two tiny metal tools.
“Because what you are doing there seems remarkably clandestine.”
“No doubt it is.”
She wished he wore gloves. She wished she could not see his capable hands that made her feel weak all over.
“What are those tools, Mr. Yale?”
“They are a lock pick, Miss Lucas.” He fit it into the keyhole.
“I suppose I should be shocked that you carry a lock pick in your topcoat pocket.”
“Yet it seems you are not.”
“That would be remarkably silly of me by now, wouldn’t it?”
“Probably.” Two metallic clicks sounded from the door. With the picks still in the keyhole, he lifted the latch. “Push on the door, if you will.”
She reached past his shoulder. “What do you do when you haven’t a third hand to do this for you?”
“On those occasions I do not break into houses, of course.” The door remained fast. “It is bolted from within.” He released the handle.
Her teeth clacked and she gripped her sodden cloak tighter about her. “What will we do now?”
“Try the back door. Remain here, if you will.” He moved down the steps and around the rosebushes, Ramses trailing after.
In minutes a clunking sound came from within and upon heavy hinges the door swung open. Mr. Yale stepped back and bowed.
“Welcome to Abbaty Fran Ddu, ladies.”
She stepped into the foyer, dragging off her sodden bonnet. It was a modest space and well appointed with dark wooden paneling, a graceful iron chandelier, and a tiled floor. The scent of dust was heavy upon the still air, but no mold.
“It is so modern. And wonderfully dry. I feel badly dragging in all our rain.”
“As nice a place as I’ve seen, for all it being hid away in a valley.” Mrs. Polley looked shrewdly about.
“How do you know the name of this house, Mr. Yale?”
He took Mrs. Polley’s coat and her cloak, and gestured toward a row of servants’ bells above an open doorway. Beside the bells hung an embroidered frame with the words ABBATY FRAN DDU picked out delicately in green and blue silk.
“Owen will bring in the luggage then light a fire. I suspect there is a parlor above.” He motioned toward a staircase winding up from the foyer.
“Oh, but we cannot possibly go upstairs. We should remain here. The kitchen must be down that corridor. You have not removed your coat.”
“I must see to the horses. But the place is empty. Be at your leisure. See to your comforts and your companion’s first, then if you will, investigate the kitchen. The lad will not fare well for much longer without dinner.”
“And me as well, you mean.”
He offered a hint of a smile then bowed and went through the front door again.
Chapter 13
She moved about the house in obvious appreciation. Wyn watched her discovering, drawn to follow her as though he had not trodden these floors thousands of times before. Every opening door drew another smile from her, another murmur of pleasure.
“It is all so lovely, though remarkably dusty.” She ran her finger along a windowsill in the East Parlor. “Perhaps the owners have been away for some time.”
Five years. “Perhaps.”
“We should confine ourselves to only this chamber, and try not to disturb too much. And we must leave
