A glance at his pocket watch showed that it wanted five minutes to the hour. Edward donned his white waistcoat, shrugged into the black long-tailed coat Tigh held out, nodded his thanks to the bâtman, and retraced his steps to the ground floor. The corridors were dim, lit with the barest number of candles.
At the foot of the stairs he paused and looked around. A door stood ajar opposite the library. Faint light and the sound of women’s voices came from within.
Edward walked over and touched the door with his fingertips. It swung open. The conversation inside halted.
“Er . . . good evening,” he said, as the room’s two occupants turned to stare at him.
Their reaction was one he still hadn’t become accustomed to. Both ladies were well bred enough not to recoil, but he saw the startled widening of their eyes, the stiffening of their faces as they took in his appearance.
There was a moment of silence while they examined each other. His brain mentally cataloged them: one pretty and petite, one tall and plain. He knew what they saw: a hulking brute of a man with a scarred face.
Both ladies were dressed in the gray of half-mourning. The plain one was brown-haired and built on robust lines, with a deep bosom and wide hips. The pretty one looked as if she’d stepped out of a poem, except that her golden hair, blue eyes, and milk-white complexion were entirely real. A line flicked through Edward’s mind: Her tresses gold, her eyes like glassy streams, her teeth are pearl, the breasts are ivory.
His gaze swung between the two ladies. The larger one had to be the nurse-companion, sturdily competent, which meant that the ethereal little blonde was Toby’s cousin, Matilda Chapple. He focused his attention on her and bowed. “Miss Chapple?”
“I am Miss Chapple.”
Edward’s gaze jerked back to the brunette.
“You must be Mr. Kane.” Her voice was a low contralto.
“Yes, ma’am.” Edward bowed again.
Miss Chapple smiled warmly. “Welcome to Creed Hall.” She advanced across the room towards him, holding out her hand, a friendly gesture. She was even taller than he’d thought, all of six foot.
Edward held out his own hand. Miss Chapple saw the missing fingers, hesitated for a brief fraction of a second, and then clasped it. Her handshake was as warm and welcoming as her smile. “Toby spoke often of you.”
“And he spoke often of you.”
“He did?” He saw something in Miss Chapple’s eyes—a dark flicker of grief—before she released his hand. “He was the best of cousins.” She turned towards the pretty blonde. “May I present Mrs. Dunn?”
He was shaking hands with Mrs. Dunn when the thump thump of a cane heralded Arthur Strickland’s arrival. Strickland entered the parlor leaning on the ebony cane, an elderly woman on his arm. “My sister,” he said. “Lady Marchbank.”
Lady Marchbank was as cadaver-like as her brother. She was dressed entirely in black, from her black lace cap to the black hem of her gown. A female grim reaper, was Edward’s involuntary thought. He squashed it hastily and bowed. The resemblance between brother and sister was strong: the tall, stooped postures; the long, bony faces; the wrinkles folded into deep, disapproving lines.
A clock struck six somewhere in the house, a ponderous sound. “I should inform you, Mr. Kane, that we dine plainly at Creed Hall,” Strickland announced as the last echo died away. “And for the sake of our digestion we preserve the strictest silence.”
MATTIE STUDIED MR. KANE surreptitiously while she ate. Goliath, Toby had called him, and she understood how he’d come by that name. He was an uncommonly large gentleman, taller than she was by a good half foot, and solidly built. He looked as if he could carry the weight of a coach-and-four on those broad shoulders.
Mr. Kane had dark hair and a tanned face crossed with pink scars. She knew his age: thirty. The same age Toby would be if he were alive.
Mattie traced the scars scoring across his brow, bisecting an eyebrow, curving down his cheek. She examined his left ear. Most of it was missing. Her gaze dropped to his hands. They bore scars similar to those across his face. Three fingers were missing on his right hand, and one on his left.
Had his sword been cut from his hand? Did that account for the missing fingers?
She imagined him weaponless, trying to ward off an attack . . .
Her ribcage tightened. Mattie looked away from Mr. Kane’s battered hands and forced herself to think of something else. Outside, rain came down in torrents. A cold wind leaked through the cracks in the window casement. The clink of cutlery was loud in the silence: the scrape of a knife across a plate, the tiny clatter of fork tines as her uncle speared a piece of boiled mutton.
What did Mr. Kane think of so silent a meal? Perhaps he was grateful. He didn’t look like a man skilled at small talk, a man who could turn a pretty phrase as easily as he could tie his own shoelaces. He looked like a fighter.
A fighter who’d lost a battle and had almost died.
Her gaze crept back to him. Mr. Kane seemed undismayed by the food. I’ll have no sauces in my house, her uncle was fond of announcing. No spices. Food boiled in plain water is all that one requires.
Pig swill, Toby had called it the last time he’d been home. He had gone down to the village inn to eat his dinner—and
