Her Ladyship's Companion by Joanna Bourne Read Free Book Online Page B

in exasperation. There. She’d let them go without even asking the way out.
    The long hallway led to a gallery and from there to the top of a flight of stairs. Melissa put a hand on the newel-post and took a deep breath. Lovely to be in the country again. London smelled of cabbages and coal smoke. Vinton smelled of roses.
    So here she was, her first day on the job, lost and behaving reprehensibly, already deep in a pact of silence with a disobedient, undoubtedly spoiled scrap of a boy. She searched her conscience carefully for the least sign of compunction and found none.
    “You seem thoughtful, Miss Rivenwood,” said a deep voice behind her. “Are you lost?”
    Melissa gave a guilty start and spun about. Giles had come up behind her so softly she’d been oblivious to his presence. He was dressed for riding in a coat of drab olive with French sleeves, leather breeches and Wellington boots, highly polished. His hair was still damped down from the morning’s wash. An expression of cordial interest hovered on his face.
    “I’ve lost my way,” she admitted. “I was admiring the architecture of the house.” She improvised rapidly. If this was an uncle in righteous wrath pursuing his errant nephew, Melissa had no desire to meet awkward questions. She fingered the newel-post nervously. “This carving. It’s Flemish, isn’t it?”
    Giles nodded. “There’s some beautiful workmanship here. As you’ve already discovered, this is the old wing of the house. Damp, of course. Aunt Dorothy burns a man-high stack of wood a week during the spring to keep the mold out of the tapestries.” He accompanied her down the stairs. “This is the shortcut. No need to stop and admire the pictures.” He propelled her along. “All Tarsins. A depressingly plain lot. They look like a bunch of rascally pirates. Not surprising; they were. Any picture with an ounce of artistic merit is in the main body of the house. Not even Aunt Dorothy’s mania for the family makes her bring these monstrosities over.” He stopped abruptly and pulled back one of the window curtains. “Excellent view of the classical grotto from here, if you’re foolish enough to want one.”
    “I noticed it on the way in,” Melissa responded, frantically trying to capture a polite adjective or at least a noncommittal one. “It’s a bit ...”
    “Incongruous?” Giles finished for her. “Is that the word you’re searching for?” Melissa started to deny it, but Giles was already saying, “All that unclothed marble and the long lawn were put in by the fifth earl, my grandfather’s cousin. He made the grand tour and never fully recovered from the experience. What he wanted with that wasteland of grass on this coast is beyond my comprehension. In the winter the winds sweep in from the Atlantic and rattle the hinges off the eastern windows, the reason why the front rooms are now courteously reserved for guests. Sir Adrian will tell you what he thinks of the draft. Would you believe they uprooted a three-hundred-year-old grove of oaks to put in that sheep field?” He ended with the pungent condemnation “Vandals.”
    Giles guided Melissa down the hall and flung open a door. “This will be more to your taste. The Queen’s Room,” he announced. The room was a gem of its kind, paneled in carved dark oak, beautifully proportioned. A picture of Elizabeth hung over the mantelpiece, the painting suffused with the gold brown of great age.
    “Lady Dorothy will at some time or another inform you that Queen Elizabeth slept here. Actually this room is a beautiful fake, constructed in about 1750 by one of the more batty Tarsins of the period. You may deal with Dorothy’s delusion as you see fit. She’s quite rational really, except where family is involved. And she’s only following an ancient family tradition that says Queen Elizabeth once stayed under the roof for one night on her way to some place or another. It’s not true. My esteemed ancestors were a group of