A Marvellous Light (The Last Binding #1)(51)

“Come here,” he said. “Take my hand.”

Robin took Edwin’s outstretched hand in his own. Edwin ignored the flood of physical awareness that tried to clamour in his bones, the way his whole body wanted to turn towards Robin’s.

“If I try to pull away, don’t let me. If I start to run . . .”

“Wrestle you to the ground?” Robin suggested pleasantly. His thumb moved over Edwin’s. Edwin looked away.

“Yes. I’m presuming you included rugby in the list of sports you spent your time excelling at while your family was paying for the improvement of your mind.”

“Message received,” said Robin, amused. “Get on with it.”

Edwin stepped between two of the elms.

The feeling of violent wrongness flooded back at once. He knew he was in the wrong place. He should be anywhere but here.

Edwin held tight to Robin’s hand and managed to propel himself back onto the other side of the warding with a wrench of stumbling effort. He dropped Robin’s hand and turned to touch the trees again. “Fascinating.”

“I’m sure.”

“You don’t understand. That kind of ward has to be constantly re-laid, and the amount of power it would take to maintain it along the entire boundary of a property—or perhaps it’s just this particular row of trees—”

“Edwin,” said Robin. “I utterly refuse to spend the rest of the daylight helping you hop back and forth between trees just because you want to test a theory. Entertaining as it would be when you inevitably got stuck halfway over a fence.”

Edwin sighed and returned to the car. “It’d be simpler to ask Mrs. Sutton how it’s done,” he allowed.

“Ah,” murmured Robin. He followed Edwin and applied himself to starting the engine. “But where would be the intellectual challenge in that?”

To his surprise, Edwin found himself flushing at the tease without feeling like he wanted to make himself small, or meet the barb with coldness, or seek out a quiet space where he’d be unbothered by anyone’s company but his own.

“No need to be like that simply because you wouldn’t recognise an intellectual challenge if you tripped over it in the street,” he said, trying to mirror Robin’s tone, and Robin laughed as he climbed back behind the wheel.

They drove the rest of the way without incident. Sutton Cottage itself was one of those coyly named places; it was nearly as large as Penhallick House. And the grounds were as impressive as advertised, a grand sprawl in the best English tradition. They drove past a rose garden where a pair of gardeners were at work removing spent blooms, tidying and trimming in readiness for winter. The famed hedge maze could be seen briefly, before the drive curved around and the maze was hidden by a gentle hill dotted with trees. And there was the fountain, set in the centre of a scrupulously neat parterre that dominated the area in front of the house.

Two elderly couples were being helped into a carriage as Robin and Edwin pulled up in the motorcar. The women’s old-fashioned bonnets were tied firmly onto their heads and one was clutching a guidebook.

“Looks to be a popular place,” said Robin. “They certainly weren’t persuaded to turn around before they’d even arrived.”

“No,” said Edwin. A different kind of unease had taken over now. He suspected he knew why the other visitors had been unaffected, and it brought up a whole host of new questions.

The carriage pulled out. A man in servant’s livery approached the car. “Here to see the gardens, sirs?”

“Yes. No.” Edwin craned his neck up at the house. The grey stone of the frontage crawled attractively with ivy. “We need to speak to Mrs. Sutton.”

A genteel cough. “My apologies, sir, Mrs. Sutton does not generally see visitors. She is not interested in selling the estate. If you are members of the Horticultural Enthusiasts Association, she does appreciate receiving letters—”

“I quite understand.” One of Robin’s most comfortable, sunny smiles accompanied the calling card he handed over to the footman. There was a pause where the man visibly digested the words Sir and Baronet. “We’re here on family business, about Mrs. Sutton’s great-nephew. Reginald Gatling. We’d consider it a great favour if she’d see us.”

Edwin barely remembered that he owned calling cards even when he was in London. “Edwin Courcey,” he said, in response to the footman’s inquiringly open palm.

They stood under the high, glowering clouds until the footman reappeared and ushered them into Sutton Cottage itself. Flora Sutton received them in a large parlour crammed with vases full of fresh flowers. She was older than Edwin had expected: a small white-haired woman with a bluish translucent look to her wrinkled skin. Her hands trembled. She looked like a piece of crumpled tissue paper, right up until her cloudy, rheumy eyes fixed themselves on Edwin and he had the unnerving sense he’d been instantly understood and classified.

“Thank you for seeing us, Mrs. Sutton,” said Robin.

“Are you the Courcey?” she demanded.

“Yes,” said Edwin. Her eyes hadn’t shifted from him, even when Robin spoke. “We’re here about Reggie.”

“Mm. So Franklin said.” Now the piercing gaze travelled between the two of them. “Reggie did say there would be others, soon enough. You may dig up every square inch of the grounds, gentlemen.” Her chin lifted. “You are too late. It is safe now, far away from here.”