The Secrets Of Wiscombe Chase. Christine Merrill

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      He pointed to the door to his room. ‘What is the meaning of this?’ There was a shiny brass lock on the door of the master bedroom, where none had been before.

      ‘Oh. Oh, sir. I mean, Captain, I am so sorry.’ His poor housekeeper was devastated that their first meeting after his return was because of an error in her management. ‘When the maid aired the room and lit the fire, she locked it after. It is always locked. The mistress’s room, as well.’

      ‘I see that.’ He had tried the door just down the hall from his, thinking he could enter his own room through the connecting door. He had been blocked there, as well. ‘Am I expected to break down the benighted doors to gain admittance, then?’

      ‘No, sir.’ Aston was fishing on his ring for a key. He turned it in the lock and then placed it in his master’s hand. Gerry’s single glance down the hall to his wife’s room had the servant relinquishing that key as well.

      ‘We meant no insult by it,’ Mrs Fitz said hurriedly.

      ‘Of course you did not. But what is the purpose of such security?’

      Aston cleared his throat. ‘There are frequent guests here. Strangers to the house sometimes wander down the wrong hallway and disturb the peace. Mrs Wiscombe thought it better that the family rooms be locked when not in use.’

      ‘Yours especially, Captain Wiscombe,’ Mrs Fitz said, as though it was somehow a point of pride. ‘She was adamant that no matter how full the house, your room was to be kept empty and ready for your return.’

      ‘As it should be,’ he said. The housekeeper gave his wife far too much credit for simple common sense. ‘Before I left, I gave the Norths permission to use the house as their own. But it is not as if we are running some roadside hostel with rooms to let.’

      There was an uncomfortable silence from the two servants at his side.

      ‘I said, my home is not an inn.’ His voice was rising again, as was his temper.

      Aston cringed. ‘Of course not, Captain Wiscombe.’ Then why did he sound doubtful?

      ‘But?’ Gerry gave a coaxing twitch of his fingers and waited for the rest of the story.

      ‘The Misters North entertain here. Frequently,’ Mrs Fitz said, with a little sniff of disapproval.

      ‘There are often large house parties,’ Aston supplied. ‘Guests come from the city for hunting and cards.’

      ‘Friends of the family?’ Gerry suggested.

      ‘The Earl of Greywall is usually among the party. But the rest...’ Aston looked uncomfortable. ‘Very few guests are invited twice.’

      ‘I see.’ In truth, he did not. Why would Ronald and his father bring crowds of strangers to such a remote location? And why was Greywall here? He knew he was not welcome and he had a perfectly good residence only a few miles away.

      He considered. ‘Is the earl in residence now?’

      ‘Yes, sir.’

      Damn. When he was alive, Gerry’s father had loathed the peer who could not seem to limit himself to the game on his own side of the property line. After he’d died, Greywall had not waited for the body to cool before he’d begun to pester Gerry to sell house and land for less than they were worth. The crass insensitivity of his offers had convinced Gerry that anything, including a sudden marriage and military career, would be preferable to giving in to Greywall’s demands.

      His stubbornness had netted nothing if the earl had caged a permanent invitation to house and grounds. It was about to be rescinded, of course. But it would have to be done carefully. Even peers one did not like demanded special handling in situations like this. He sighed. ‘Then I suspect I will meet him and the rest over dinner.’

      ‘Very good, sir. Do you require assistance in changing? A shave, perhaps?’

      ‘As long as my bag and kit are waiting, I can manage on my own,’ he said, although the thought of the master dressing without help clearly appalled his poor butler. He gave them both an encouraging smile. No matter what had occurred in his absence, the staff was not at fault. ‘It is good to be home,’ he added.

      They smiled back, and Mrs Fitz bobbed a curtsy. ‘And to see you again, safe and well, sir. If you need anything...’

      ‘I will ring,’ he assured her and gave a brief nod of thanks to dismiss them. Then he opened the door and entered his room.

      For a moment, he paused on the threshold, confused. Before his sudden marriage and equally sudden departure, he’d never felt at home in the master suite. He had gone from the nursery to school, returning only on news of his father’s death. For most of his life this had not been his space at all, but his father’s.

      He’d felt woefully out of place during the few months he’d been master of the house. Days had been spent in his father’s study trying to decipher the bookkeeping and poring over stacks of unpaid bills. Nights had been marked with uneasy sleep in his father’s bed, too embarrassed to admit that he missed his cot in the nursery. How was one expected to get any rest, surrounded by so many judgemental eyes?

      His father had been a mediocre parent, but an avid sportsman. The bedroom, like so many other rooms in the house, was full of his trophies. Gerry did not mind the pelts, so much. He would even admit to a childish fascination for the rugs of tiger and bearskin in the billiard room. But what was the point of decorating the room in which one slept with the heads of animals one had killed? Stags stared moodily down from the walls. Foxes sat on the mantel, watching him with beady glass eyes. Antlers and boar tusks jutted from the wall behind the bed as though they might, at any moment, fall to impale the sleeper.

      Gerry had proved in countless battles that he was no coward. When the killing was done, he’d treated the dead with as much respect as he was able. He had hoped for the same, should his luck fail him and circumstances be reversed. A gentleman should not gloat on the lives he’d taken, especially not at bedtime.

      His father had not shared the sentiment. Of course, to the best of Gerry’s knowledge, his father had never killed a man, much less dozens of them. The stuffed heads had been nothing more than decorations to him. But to Gerry, they would be reminders of other soulless eyes, judging him as he tried to sleep. It was with trepidation that he opened the door tonight, prepared for the distasteful sights within.

      He stood on the threshold, confused.

      Today, as he’d walked through the house, he’d noted the subtle changes that had been made to the decorating. The overt masculinity had been retained. There could be no doubt that he was in a hunting lodge and not a London town house. But the stained and faded silks had been removed from the walls and replaced. Paint had been freshened. Furniture had been re-upholstered and rearranged. Though most of the trophies remained where he remembered them, they had at least been dusted. One could entertain both ladies and gentlemen here, without fear of embarrassment.

      But no room he’d seen so far had been so totally transformed as his own bedroom. The dusty velvet chairs had been replaced with benches and stools covered in saddle leather. The heavy green baize on the walls had been exchanged for a cream-coloured, watered silk. The hangings over the bed were no longer maroon brocade. They were now a blue sarsenet shot through with silver. To stare up at the canopy would be like staring into a night sky full of stars.

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