Page 17 of Hush Money

Good. I could use a nice, hot shower to clear my head.

I go up to the master bedroom, pack my things and leave again as quickly as I can because that space rightfully belongs to Ravenna. I feel like I shouldn’t even set foot in there now. Thank God Lucien designated the yellow bedroom for me. I head for it way down at the other end of the endless hallway, rolling my bags along with me, and that’s when I hear it.

A floorboard creaking behind me. The soft sound of a closing door.

I glance over my shoulder, all the fine hairs prickling down my arms and up my nape across my scalp. Most of the doors are shut, and this is not the sort of house that invites people to roam freely and explore, especially with the watchful eyes of all the antique portraits on the walls locked on me. “Hello? Someone there?”

There’s no answer and no movement. Only an echoing silence and my jagged nerves. I wait, listening hard. Nothing. So I continue on my trajectory, my pace much faster now, avoiding the accusatory gaze of several of Lucien’s ancestors as I go. I can’t escape into the yellow bedroom fast enough.

I lock the door, telling myself I’m being childish. The house is full of staff. People work and live here. I can’t freak out every time something creaks.

But I also can’t escape the feeling of dread around here.

I shower fast, dress and grab one of the historical romances that Lucien thoughtfully stockpiled for my reading pleasure. It’s one of my favorite comfort reads, a Julia Quinn Bridgerton novel. Those always cheer me up. Thus fortified, I roll the carry-on and my full-size suitcase back down the hallway to the top of the staircase. No scary creaks, thank God.

So. Right. I’ll run my stuff over to the cottage, then come back and grab some breakfast in the big kitchen. After that? Who the hell knows. Like Indiana Jones says, I’m making this up as I go along. But I have enough of a plan to get through a good chunk of the morning, so I focus on that as I park the full-sized suitcase and start down the staircase with my purse and carry-on. But I’m only about two or three steps down when sudden footsteps startle me.

“What are you doing?” cries a voice right behind me, scaring me to death.

CHAPTER EIGHT

TAMSYN

I cry out and start to lose my balance as I turn to face them. The foyer threatens thirty feet below me on the other side of the railing and at the bottom of all those marble steps, but two people swoop in to grab my upper arms and stop me before I actually fall. They’re staff of some sort, I realize, heart thundering. A man and a woman. They’re both wearing the requisite white polo shirts and khaki pants. The man is tall and handsome, with military bearing and brown hair trimmed to a razor’s edge. The woman looks vaguely familiar with her sandy bob. They’re both in their early thirties, I’m guessing.

“Easy, Ms. Scott,” the man says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

“It’s okay,” I say, shaky and embarrassed now as I make sure I’ve got my feet under me and pull free. See? Members of Lucien’s staff. Not the bogeyman. “I’m fine.”

He reaches for my carry-on. “Let me help you with that.”

“I’ve got it,” I say. “But if you can help me with the big suitcase, that would be great.”

The man shakes his head and tugs the carry-on away from me, deftly passing it to the woman before climbing the last of the steps and grabbing the big suitcase. “Lucien said we were supposed to take care of everything for you.”

“It’s fine,” I say, watching as the woman runs my carry-on down to the bottom. She’s pretty much my size and moves at the exact pace that I was moving at. So I’m not sure what was accomplished here. “She’s the same size I am. Why should she be forced to carry my luggage?”

The two of them exchange a look that suggests they’ve caught me playing with a blowtorch and the pilot light on the monster oven in Lucien’s kitchen.

“She doesn’t understand,” the woman tells him, brows up.

“Understand what?” I say, watching the man shuttle my big suitcase down to the bottom.

“Lucien said he doesn’t want you to lift a finger.” He sets it down with a decisive thunk. “On anything.”

He says it with awful finality, as though he expects Lucien to suddenly appear and embody Lord Toranaga from Shogun, possibly ordering everyone to commit seppuku if his orders aren’t fulfilled to the letter.

I join them at the bottom, recovering now and thinking that this whole situation is crazy and maybe a little alarming. I’ve always known Lucien is rich and powerful, but things are hitting the next level. “And what would happen if you accidentally let me carry my own bag?”

The two of them exchange another oh, shit look. “We don’t want to find out,” the woman says gravely.

“I’m Tamsyn, by the way,” I say as I extend my hand to the woman. “I assume we’re allowed to introduce ourselves and shake hands without Lucien throwing us all in some secret dungeon.”

She eyeballs my hand and hesitates before shaking. “We know who you are, Ms. Scott. I’m Bertha Madden, the housekeeper. We met yesterday when you arrived. Call me Maddie.”

“Oh, that’s right. I remember. Sorry about that. You can both call me Tamsyn,” I say, now turning to the man and shaking his hand.

“No, we can’t, Ms. Scott,” he says darkly. “I’m Ted Winwood. Security. You’re not leaving, are you? No one told us you were leaving.”

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