Miss Winthorpe's Elopement (Belston & Friends #1)(59)

Comfortable? She looked at him. If one found museums to be a comforting place, perhaps. But museums were not so different really than… ‘May I see the library?’ she asked hopefully.

‘Certainly. I believe your books have already arrived.’ He led her down the hall and opened a door before them.

She poked her head into the room. Books. Floor to ceiling. Some shelves were so high that a set of brass steps was necessary to reach them. But there was plenty of space for the contents of the crates that stood stacked by the door. A fire had been laid in the grate, and the warmth of it extended to the oak table at the middle of the room. There was space for her papers, ample lamps to light the words. Comfortable chairs by the fireside where she could read for pleasure when she was not working. And the heavy rug beneath her feet was so soft and welcoming that she was tempted to abandon the furniture and curl up upon it.

‘Will there be sufficient room for your collection, or shall we need to add extra shelves?’

Without thinking, she had been counting the empty places, and reordering the works. ‘There is ample room, I am sure.’

‘And here.’ He walked to a shelf by the window, and pulled down a battered volume. ‘You will not need it, for I think you are well stocked in this. It is left over from my own school days.’ He looked at it sadly. ‘Which means it has seen very little use.’ He handed her a schoolboy’s edition of Homer, in the Greek.

She stared down at the book in her hand, and then up to the man who had given it to her. When he was at home, he was a very different person. No less handsome, certainly. The light from the windows made his hair shine, and his eyes were as blue as they had been. But the cynical light in them had disappeared. He seemed younger. Or perhaps it was that he did not seem as arrogant and unapproachable after the previous night.

‘It is all right, then? Do you think you can be happy here?’

Happy? It was a paradise. She hardly dared speak.

‘Of course, there is more. I haven’t shown you your rooms yet.’ He led the way out of the library and down the corridor.

She peered in the next room as they passed.

‘My study,’ he answered. And this time, he opened the door wide so that she could see the desk within. ‘It connects to the library. As does the morning room on the other side. I had thought, perhaps you might wish to use it as well, should the library not prove to have sufficient space.’ He backtracked down the hall and opened another door. ‘It is rather…’ He waved a hand at the decoration, which was rococo with gilt and flowers, and a ceiling painted with cherubs and clouds. ‘My mother, again.’ He looked at her. ‘And there are more of the damn china shepherds.’

She reached out to touch a grouping that was very similar to the one she had left in London, a court couple, locked for ever in passionate embrace. She ran a finger along it and felt the heat of the kiss in her body. ‘That is all right. I think I am growing used to them.’

He gestured her out of the room and led her down more halls to a music room, separate rooms for dining and breakfast, another parlour, and a formal receiving room. Then he took her up the stairs past the portraits of his family to a long row of bedrooms and opened a door near the end. ‘This is to be your room. If you wish.’

It was beautifully appointed, and larger than the one in the townhouse, but of a similar layout. She looked for the connecting door that should link her room to his. ‘And where do you sleep?’

He looked away. ‘I am not particularly sure. I had used this room, for a while. But I could choose another. Here, let me show you.’ He took her into the hall and opened the door to what must have been the master suite. A strong smell of smoke crept out into the hallway.

He sniffed. ‘Better than it was, I’m afraid. The real damage is farther down the hall. But your room is not affected. Let me show you the worst of it.’ He seemed to steel himself, gathering courage, then led her down the corridor to the left, and as they walked the odour of smoke got stronger. The line of tension in her husband’s back increased. He quickened his pace as they reached the end of the corridor, and threw open the heavy double doors at the end.

He caught her, before she could attempt entrance, for there was little floor to step on. The hall seemed to end in open air before him. She was looking down into what must have been the ballroom before the fire. The light in the room had a strange, greasy quality as it filtered through what was left of the floor-to-ceiling windows on the back of the house. Some of the panes were missing, leaving spots of brightness on the floor and walls. Some were boarded shut, and some merely smoke-stained and dirty. At the second-floor level, there were bits of floor and gallery still clinging to the outer walls. From a place near the roof, an interloping bird sang.

‘Oh, my.’

‘It was beautiful once,’ Adam remarked, bitterness in his voice. ‘The retiring rooms were off this hall, card rooms and galleries for musicians. A staircase led up from there.’ He pointed to a blank space opposite them.

‘How did it happen?’

‘There was an accident. After a ball. One of the candleholders was overbalanced, and the flames touched the draperies.’ He stopped and swallowed, then started again. ‘The truth. You should hear it all, before we go further. It was I who caused it. The party was over, and most of the guests had gone. And I followed Clarissa to the second floor, so that we could be alone. My room is just down the hall and I thought…’ He could not look at her, as he spoke. ‘But she chose the musicians’ gallery. I had too much wine that night, and was thinking too slowly to realise that the acoustics would be excellent. Tim was searching for her, to take her home. He must have heard it all. She made no effort to be quiet that night. And when I cautioned her, she laughed and asked what did I think she’d meant to happen.