Page 71 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
With a grunt, Baines nodded to Izzy and followed his eager sergeant out.
Donaldson grinned. “If this works out—”
Izzy held up a hand. “Don’t tempt Fate.”
Donaldson laughed. “I’d better go and see to the darkroom, then. With luck, we’ll have some exciting shots to develop soon.”
He walked out, nodding politely to Mary, who blushed and ducked her head but then watched him walk away before recalling her purpose and bustling in, carrying the revenue ledgers.
Normally, Izzy would have sighed at the sight of Mary’s distraction, but she was distracted, too, in her case by the prospects opening up forThe Crier.
As she settled in her chair and Mary opened the ledgers, Izzy endeavored to force her mind back to figures and sums, but couldn’t stop a smile from curving her lips at the thought of what Gray would make of Donaldson’s zeal and Baines’s change of heart.
Then she caught herself, castigated her wayward wits, and ruthlessly focused them on adding up the advertising revenue.
Gray rode through the open gates of Tickencote Grange and drew rein just beyond the gateposts.
He’d lost count of the properties he’d cast his eye over; contrary to his initial assumption, he’d discovered that his prejudices—or rather his instincts over what was the right house for him—made him decidedly picky.
Given how many times his inner voice had saved him from making potentially disastrous decisions and that the sole occasion on which he’d deliberately ignored it had ended in catastrophe, he wasn’t about to change what had now become a habit.
If his instincts said no, the house wasn’t for him.
He’d taken the train north, putting aside the distrust of rail travel engendered by the accident that had injured Therese several months ago. Although she’d fully recovered, he hadn’t felt any need to risk the train, not until today. Given he’d wanted to see the house and return to London within the day, the train it had had to be. Driving up the Great North Road as far as Stamford, then immediately down again wasn’t an option; he valued his horses too much. So he’d braved the train to Stamford, hired a nag—a retired hunter who wasn’t half bad—and ridden the few miles to the tiny village of Tickencote.
From where he’d halted, he couldn’t see the house. A tree-lined drive, the trees mature but currently leafless, led around a curve with winter-brown lawns rolling away on either side, eventually reaching more trees. He tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks and rode on.
As he rounded the curve, the house came into view. Built in local pale-gray stone with a steeply pitched lead roof that hosted multiple dormer windows, the house faced squarely north. Gray slowed the horse to a walk and looked around. The expanse of lawn that now stretched to his right ended in unkempt hedges that enclosed a knot garden graced with overgrown topiaries, while to his left, the lawn rolled into an orchard with numerous gnarled, presently skeletal trees.
He returned his gaze to the house. It comprised two full stories as well as the attics evidenced by the dormers. Four double chimneys rose from the central roof, and others were visible at various points around the squarish structure. A flight of stone steps led to a porch before the main door, which was located centrally in the front façade and flanked by long, stone-framed mullioned windows. The walls of the house below the level of the ground floor were covered in some creeper, leafless in this season, which framed low windows that presumably admitted light into a basement level.
Tickencote Grange was a substantial edifice, solid and impressive, with twin square towers jutting forward on either side of the central section of the house. The stone pediment above the front door was finely carved, as was a triangular inset above it.
The style hailed from late in the previous century, but given the simmering excitement that had started to spread through Gray’s veins, he wasn’t overly concerned with the house’s age.
He trotted the hunter into the forecourt. The crunch of hooves on the gravel brought the agent hurrying around the corner of the house.
The portly man saw Gray, beamed, and came forward. “My lord. You’re here.”
“As you see, Caxton.” Gray drew rein and dismounted, then led the horse to where a ring set into the wall beside the front steps provided a convenient hitching point. “Now.” Gray turned to the house. “What have we here?”
Caxton seized the invitation, led Gray up the steps and through the double front doors, and proceeded to show him the ground-floor rooms while filling his ears with every last detail the agent had gleaned about the property.
While one part of his mind cataloged the pertinent points in Caxton’s monologue, most of Gray’s attention was focused on what he was seeing and how he felt being inside the house.
The front hall was tiled in black and white and was paneled in walnut to head height. He studied the plain white walls above, which looked sadly denuded at present. Without comment, he followed Caxton through the rooms, taking note of the plentitude of windows, the pleasing proportions, the ornate moldings, and the continuing paneling, which was the dominant feature of the house’s interior. The curtains were heavy velvet, and dustcloths covered the remaining few pieces of furniture. The fireplaces in all the major reception rooms were impressive displays of the woodcarver’s art.
Although Gray’s nose detected the presence of considerable dust, there was no telltale scent of dampness. He broke into Caxton’s description to remark, “You mentioned that the house stands close to a river.”
“Indeed, my lord. The rear lawn runs all the way to the bank of the Gwash.” The agent urged him on. “If you come through to the ballroom, you’ll see how close we are.”
Gray allowed the agent to usher him along a corridor to two tall, impressively ornate doors. With a flourish, Caxton flung them wide, and Gray found himself looking across an expanse of polished boards to a wall of windows. He walked forward and saw, as Caxton had said, that the lawn at the rear of the house ran down to a small river, presently running high.
After studying it for a moment, Gray nodded. “It doesn’t flood around the house.”
“No, my lord. The banks are sufficiently high, and the house itself is still higher.”
And the lack of dampness within the walls testified to the solidity of the house’s foundations. Gray suppressed a smile. Turning to Caxton, without inflection, he said, “Now I’m here, you may as well show me the rest of the place.”
