Page 23 of The Lady's Guide to Marrying a Viscount
“Withers?”
He looked at her but a moment before disappearing into the gloom. Now, she saw only driftingmist and shifting shadows.
‘Piskie-led’ Dr. Hissop had called it—the trance which overtook the unwary until they knew not what was real and what of their imagination. He’d told her one should turn one’s coat or cape inside out to break their mischievous spell. Ridiculous! As if she would!
Except that she was not alone, for the horses were fidgeting in their harness, sensing something near.
She heard the panting first and the rush of bounding feet before she saw the glint of eyes—not one creature but two, or were there more? They were moving low and from her right, from the direction of the hall.
What had Hugo called them? Wisht Hounds? They were creatures born of ignorant superstition, she knew, but all such stories had some footprint in the truth. Conan Doyle believed so, too, didn’t he? She’d begun reading the book Lord Wulverton had lent her—of the curse ofThe Hound of the Baskervilles.That was just a story though, written to thrill and entertain. Besides which, she’d committed no sin worthy of attracting otherworldly retribution, had she?
Nonetheless, as the first howl rent the air, Geneviève let forth a scream of her own.
CHAPTER 11
It tookbut a few minutes for Lord Wulverton to bring them down from the chapel, driving directly to the servants’ entrance. Geneviève remembered little beyond waking beside the cart, her face wet from the drizzling mist.
Had she fainted?
She’d felt cold to the bone but how wonderful it had been to have his strong arms about her, lifting her gently into the back of the cart.
“She needs warming, Mrs. Fuddleby,” he announced, carrying Geneviève into the kitchen.
“Sit ‘er ladyship in my armchair an we’ll stoke up them flames.” The cook showed little surprise at her master’s abrupt entrance into her domain.
He was pulling off his gloves and then Geneviève’s. Taking her hands in his, he rubbed them vigorously.
Mrs. Fuddleby lifted down a saucepan. “Hot milk and nutmeg’s what’s needed—like when yer were a little ‘un, eh Master.”
He seemed to know his way around, going out to the passageway beyond the kitchen and returning with a blanket, placing it over Geneviève’s knees.
“Like old times, bain’t it,” said the cook, taking up the grater for her nutmeg. “Nummer o’ times yer sat there as a boy, come to ‘ave yer knee bandaged or yer heart comforted.”
She beamed fondly, taking stock of the hulking man perched upon the stool. “Yer’ve grown a mite since, I do say.”
“A little, yes.” He smiled.
They sat companionably for some minutes, listening to the spit and hiss of the burning logs, and Mrs. Fuddleby’s efficient bustle. Geneviève felt very safe. Her earlier attack of fright hadn’t been like her at all.
Nevertheless, she felt compelled to ask. Had he heard the howling? Had he seen those eyes staring through the mist?
Wulverton looked thoughtful. “Nothing like that, though the mist does have a way of altering sound. A wild dog, maybe. There are some, scavenging on the moor.”
“It’s most likely my imagination. I’ve been hearing too many of your legends and have furnished my own spectral hounds.” She really was feeling far more herself, and sufficiently warmed to remove her cloak.
“There yer go, my lovelies,” said Mrs. Fuddleby, doing away with all formality. “And be sure to drink it down while it’s got a bit o’ steam.” She nodded approvingly as Geneviève sipped from her cup.
Wulverton swigged from his, then took leave of Mrs.Fuddleby with a kiss to her forehead. Nodding to Geneviève, in four great strides, he was out of the door through which they’d entered, returning to the horses waiting patiently.
Mrs. Fuddleby followed the sight of him until the door had shut, then gave a sigh. At the kitchen table, she began cracking eggs, separating the whites. Geneviève watched as the cook’s strong right arm commenced whisking.
“You’re very fond of him,” said Geneviève.
“That I am. I can scarce believe the master be back at Wulverton.” She sniffed. “There’s no better piece o’ joy.”
“I can see he holds affection for you, too.” Geneviève unpinned the shawl from her neck.
“I should say so!” Mrs. Fuddleby tossed her head, although she looked gratified at Geneviève’s comment. “I had the raisin’ of ‘im for long enough. Even when the mistress were with us, her never did spend much time with Master Mallon, nor little Edward. He were only a baby when she did leave the two mites.”
