And all are well-born, gentry at the very least.
That hadn’t escaped Gregory’s notice. It was strange to encounter so many of that class apparently unrelated yet all living together in one very large house. Several pertinent questions rose in his mind, but before he could voice any, his guide continued, “Two of the others—Mr. Vernon Trowbridge and Mr. Percy Hillside—are the glassblower and head woodworker respectively. They’ll both be at their workshops at present, but you’ll meet them at dinnertime.”
“So that’s six of the nine. What of the other three?”
He watched as she drew in a breath, stiffened her spine, and all but visibly girded her loins, then she waved him down another corridor. “At this hour, they’ll be in the conservatory.”
Caitlin was still battling to tamp down the nerves that had flared when he’d gripped her arm. His fingers had, indeed, felt like steel, but the ease with which he’d dragged her out of danger—the sheer muscular strength he’d so effortlessly deployed—had made her lungs seize.
She didn’t know what was wrong with her; she wasn’t usually such a vaporous ninny. She didn’t know what it was about him, but he set her on edge in a most peculiar way. To develop an irrational sensitivity was the last thing she needed right now; dealing with him was going to be difficult enough without having to cope with that as well.
At least, despite the best efforts of the goat, none of the three business leaders he’d met thus far had muffed their presentations. None had been as polished or as informative as she’d hoped, but none had been a disaster.
That might change with the next three.
To distract herself from that possibility, she volunteered, “The remaining three residents are Melrose Walter, Tristan Fellows, and Hugo Martindale.” Mentally crossing her fingers, she added, “All three are painters. They use the conservatory as their studio.”
She felt more than saw the incredulous glance her new employer threw her and hurried to explain, “The conservatory has been the painters’ domain from well before I arrived. Apparently, the light is critical for their work.”
Cromwell had come hurrying after them and had drawn close enough to hear her last words. “Indeed,” he added, settling to walk behind them again, “all three of our painter-gentlemen have been with us since shortly after her ladyship died. She knew all three and had encouraged them to stay, and they came for her funeral and remained.”
From the corner of her eye, she saw Cynster’s jaw tighten, then the muscles eased, and in a frighteningly even tone, he inquired, “Do the painters—like all the others I’ve met thus far—sell their works?”
She nodded. “They do.” She left it at that.
The conservatory lay dead ahead, beyond two half-glazed doors at the end of the corridor.
“It seems that the Hall is a hive of business activity. How many enterprises operate from it?”
“From the Hall itself?”
“From the estate.”
“Fifteen.” She glanced at him in time to see shock register in his face.
“Fifteen? Good Lord.” The words were weak.
She tried to read his expression, but as the shock faded, she was once again unable to guess his thoughts. Nevertheless, while in all physical respects he was precisely as she’d imagined a gentleman-rake would be, he seemed more interested in what was actually going on at the Hall than she—and indeed, the entire company of residents—had expected.
Quite what that augured for their plans, she wasn’t at all sure, but his questions, more precisely their tone, were making her uneasy.
They reached the conservatory doors. Peering through the glass, she saw the three painters clustered farther down the long room. Hugo stood to one side of a shoulder-high screen, holding the end of a thin rope that was presumably attached to the animal they’d placed on the table they used for still-life compositions, which was hidden behind the screen. Beyond the screen and table, Melrose and Tristan stood behind their easels as they busily sketched whatever beast they’d posed.
She uttered a silent prayer and, forcing herself not to hold her breath, grasped the handle, opened one door, and led the way inside.
Hugo had been half-asleep. He startled and, eyes flying wide, swung to face them, and abruptly, the leash jerked free of his hand.
“No!” Hugo yelled and dove for the table.
From behind the screen, a chicken erupted, flapping furiously and squawking in panic.
Tristan rushed out from behind his easel as a rabbit squealed, thumped to the ground, and raced toward them, hotly pursued by a young fox.
Caitlin gawped. Cromwell shouted and rushed forward.
The new owner of the Hall swore, dove back, and slammed the door shut just in time to deny the would-be escapees.
Pandemonium ensued.
