‘I was out of the country, a few years ago.’
Heavens,thought Grace. It gets worse and worse. Are we harbouring a spy in our midst?
‘Ah,’ cried Papa. ‘Here is Truscott come to tell us dinner is ready. Perhaps, Mr Peregrine, you would escort my daughter?’
Grace hesitated as their guest proffered his arm, staring at the worn shabbiness of the sleeve.
Oh, do not be so uncharitable, Grace. You have never before judged a man by his coat.
And in her heart she knew she was not doing so now, but there was something about this man that disturbed her peace.
‘Do not worry,’ he murmured as she reluctantly rested her fingers on his arm. ‘I shall not be here long enough to read more than the first volume ofUdolpho.’
‘I am relieved to hear it,’ she retorted, flustered by his apparent ability to read her mind.
His soft laugh made her spine tingle, as if he had brushed her skin with his fingers. When they reached the dining room and he held her chair for her the tiny hairs at the back of her neck rose. He would not dare to touch her. Would he?
No. He was walking away to take his seat on her father’s right hand.
* * *
Wolf wanted to ask questions. Coming back here had roused his interest in Arrandale. His eyes drifted towards Grace, sitting at the far end of the table. It would be safest to wait until he and the parson were alone, but after ten years of resolutely shutting out everything to do with his family, suddenly he was desperate for news.
‘So Arrandale Hall is shut up,’ he said.
‘But it is not empty,’ said Grace. ‘A servant and his wife are in residence.’
Wolf’s mouth tightened at her swift intervention and the inference that he wanted to rob the place. He kept his eyes on the parson.
‘Do you hear anything of the family, sir?’
‘Alas, no, my son. I hear very little of the Arrandales now.’
‘There was something in the newspapers only last week,’ put in Grace. ‘About the Dowager Marchioness of Hune’s granddaughter, Lady Cassandra. She was married in Bath. To a foreign gentleman, I believe.’
Wolf laughed. ‘Was she indeed? Good for her.’
Grace was looking at him with a question in her eyes, but it was her father who spoke.
‘Ah, yes, you are right, my love, but that can hardly interest our guest.’
‘No, no, of course I am interested.’ Wolf hoped he sounded politely indifferent, as befitted a stranger. ‘I take it there are no Arrandales living in the area now?’
‘No. The house was closed up in ninety-five. There was a particularly bad outbreak of scarlet fever that spring and old Mr Arrandale and his wife died within weeks of one another.’
‘Isthatwhat they say killed them?’ Wolf could hardly keep the bitterness from his voice.
‘It was indeed what killed them, my son.’ The parson turned his gentle gaze upon him. ‘Nothing else.’
‘There had been some trouble earlier that winter, had there not, Papa? At the end of ninety-four,’ remarked Grace. ‘I was at school then, but I remember there were reports in the newspapers. The older son killed his wife for her jewels and fled to France. It was a great scandal.’
The old man shook his head. ‘Scandal has always followed the Arrandales, my love. Not all of it deserved.’
‘You say that because your living is in their gift,’ muttered Wolf.
‘No, I say it because I believe it.’
‘But, Papa,’ said Grace, ‘you believe the best of everyone.’
