Page 72 of The Secrets of Lord Grayson Child
Caxton was keen to oblige. Over the next half hour, he took Gray through the entire house. The first floor, reached via a wide timber staircase, beautifully carved and elegant, housed nine bedrooms and several bathing chambers, while the extensive attics hosted a nursery as well as numerous rooms for staff. In the semi-basement, the kitchen and associated service rooms were large and easily passed muster.
To Gray, this washishouse—he felt it in his bones, in his marrow.
Aside from being in an excellent location—readily reached from London via train as well as road and within easy riding distance of Ancaster Park and Alverton—this was the right house for him.
On finally returning to the forecourt, he concealed his excitement and questioned Caxton regarding the land attached to the house. The answer translated to enough and not too much. As he harbored no interest in becoming a farmer, that was precisely what he was looking for.
In answer to Caxton’s query of what he thought of the property, Gray glanced around once again and said, “I’ll think about it, but unlike the previous houses you’ve shown me, I’m not instantly crossing this one off my list.”
Caxton brightened.
Before he could press, Gray went on, “I’ll be in touch if I wish to know anything further, but before we part, refresh my memory—how much is the bank asking for the place?”
Sensing the possibility of a sale, Caxton hesitated for only a moment before confiding, “Actually, my lord, I’ve heard a whisper that the bank just wants the mortgage paid out.”
Given the vendor was a bank, Gray had wondered if that might be the case, but arched his brows as if surprised. “And how much is the mortgage?”
The figure Caxton murmured was low enough to make the property an incredible bargain. “But if you are wishful of buying the place, my lord, I would advise making an offer sooner rather than later, given the bank is letting that whisper get out to us agents. They truly are keen to get this place off their books.”
Gray inclined his head in understanding, but he’d learned the hard way to examine gift horses’ mouths very closely. “If I wish to purchase the place, I’ll be in touch.” He nodded in dismissal.
Caxton bowed and left, trotting around the house to where he’d no doubt left his horse.
Gray stood for a moment more, looking around and soaking up the ambience, then untied his horse, swung up to the saddle, and turned the horse’s head toward the orchard. From upstairs, he’d glimpsed a rear drive wending past the orchard, and as far as he could tell, the bulk of the village lay that way.
He’d guessed correctly; the drive ended at a gate that gave onto a lane that led down to a mill on the riverbank. In the other direction, more or less east, the lane ran past several cottages to—as Gray had hoped—the local public house. As he walked his horse along the lane, the pub’s sign came into focus. The Fox and Hound. Appropriate, he supposed, given this was hunting country.
After tying his horse to a hitching post in the narrow paved area before the pub, he pushed through the door and found himself in a comfortable if low-ceilinged room; he had to duck beneath huge oak beams on his way to the highly polished wooden counter. Other than the barman behind it, there was no one else in evidence, no other customers. Then again, it was not quite eleven-thirty, relatively early for a pub.
The barman nodded in that cautious way of countrymen. Having grown up not that far away, Gray wasn’t deterred; he claimed a barstool, leaned on the bar, and in relaxed fashion, ordered a beer.
When the barman set the frothing tankard before him, he handed over a coin. “Nice little village you have here.”
“Aye.” The barman eyed him with undisguised curiosity. “Quiet, it is. We don’t get many outsiders stopping by, not with Stamford so close.”
Gray sipped. “I can imagine. I grew up at Ancaster.” He tipped his head eastward.
“Aye? That’s not so very far. You been visiting there, then?” The barman picked up a cloth and started polishing a glass.
“Not yet.” Gray swallowed another mouthful of the surprisingly palatable beer, then lowered the tankard and glanced toward Tickencote Grange. “I’ve been looking over the grange.” He looked at the barman. “I’m thinking of buying it.”
“That so?” The barman had already taken note of the quality of his clothes, so the revelation wasn’t that much of a surprise.
Gray nodded. “I’m considering it, but the place feels deserted.” Until he said the words, he hadn’t realized that was, in fact, what he’d noted. “I wondered if you knew anything about the previous owners.”
He took another swallow of the beer and, his gaze undemanding and fixed on the barman, waited patiently.
The barman continued polishing the glass. Eventually, he said, “I’ve only been here for some five, six years, so I can’t tell you anything of the family that owned it back when it used to be some nob’s estate. I heard they’d moved elsewhere and sold it to some banker gentleman from London, but seemingly, it didn’t really suit. ’Bout the time I came here, the banker sold the house to some flashy London gent. A Mr. Hildebrand, he was, but he rarely came up here, and then we heard he’d lost his fancy shirt on some horse race, and the bank took possession. It’s the bank itself owns it still and has for nigh on three years.”
Gray digested that, then finished his drink and nodded. “Thank you.”
He walked out and, while collecting his horse, thought again of the house.
Unbidden, his mind supplied an image of Izzy there. She suited the place—or it suited her; he could readily imagine her coming down that magnificent staircase, strolling through the reception rooms, waltzing in the ballroom, or walking the lawns and the riverbank with him.
The images were deeply enticing.
He reminded himself that, at this time, such images were mere fancies, wishes as yet unrealizable. Gripping the horse’s reins, he mounted and turned the horse for Alverton Priory.
