“So now that’s settled,” Izzy said. “What do you know about this ‘special Christmas surprise’ Gerald and Lucy are putting on at Alice’s house on Christmas Eve? I confess I’m very curious.”
Zoë shook her head. She knew what it was, but if Lucy wanted it to be a surprise, she wasn’t going to spoil it. “All I know is that we’re all invited to dinner on Christmas Eve at Lord and Lady Tarrant’s home.”
“Yes, but it’s a very early dinner—six o’clock, isn’t it?”
“Yes, because they want the little girls to be there.”
“How intriguing,” Clarissa said. “I’m looking forward to it.”
“And only a few days after that is our reception to introduce Zoë to the world—well, our small corner of it,” Izzy said. “And that will be fun.”
Zoë smiled, but she wasn’t looking forward to that party at all. She was still in the dark about her sisters’ plans for it. She’d had her dress fitted—green silk with dark redpiping, very elegant and stylish, and it suited her beautifully, so why all the mystery about it? But both her sisters were being very closemouthed and secretive, and so there was nothing to be done except wait for it to happen.
As Julian drove between the stone pillars that guarded the long driveway to his childhood home, he felt the tension between his shoulder blades ease. Foxton Place, home of the Earls of Foxton. He’d spent his first seven years living here in blissful innocence.
Then at the age of seven he’d been shipped off to school. His brother had been sent two years earlier and claimed he loved it. Julian had hated it. His brother had called it tough; Julian thought it brutal.
Then some master had called him “dreamy” on his school report and pointed out that he spent more time drawing than studying, so his father had sent him to an even more brutal school.
Being enlisted in the army—even if he was pitched into a war at the age of sixteen—had been a relief.
Now, every time he drove down the long, curving driveway lined with ancient lime trees, he felt a sense of release. And homecoming.
He spent the first few days going over the estate books with Cartwright, his manager, and visiting tenants and following up on the various matters that had arisen in his absence.
Hamish went everywhere with him and soon became a welcome sight, loping along beside Julian’s horse or sitting up on the bench of his curricle, observing his surrounds with a dignified air. The children of his tenants ran out to greet him—not Julian, the dog—who endured all kinds of attentions with remarkable patience until he wearied of them and took himself off to somewhere inaccessible.
“That dog’s your ambassador,” Cartwright commentedone afternoon. “I reckon he’s made you a lot of friends here.” Julian agreed.
On the fourth day home, his butler, Crowther, approached him with a small problem. “One of the maids has reported a leak in her quarters, m’lord. A small matter, but I thought you should know.”
Normally Julian would have simply sent one of the estate workmen to fix it, but it occurred to him that it had been some time—years, in fact—since anyone had inspected the roofs, so he decided to look for himself.
Foxton Place was ancient. It had begun as a sixteenth-century Tudor manor house constructed on the remains of a medieval hall. Various additions had been made over the centuries, depending on the state of the family coffers and the artistic leanings of the current earl, and it was now a mishmash of architectural styles. Constructed initially in a U shape, a final wing, called the Long Gallery, had been added some few hundred years later, creating a central courtyard.
Many called it an architectural monstrosity, and several of Julian’s friends had urged him to demolish it and build something new and elegant—and convenient. But Julian loved it as it was, every twisty, crooked, ridiculous inch of it. All he’d done to the old place was have several bathrooms and a new kitchen range installed, which earned him the undying gratitude of Cook, and a handful of other innovations made mostly for comfort and convenience.
“Take me to this leak,” Julian said. “And then I’ll want to inspect the roof.”
Crowther led the way, taking a shortcut through the Long Gallery, which had been turned into a portrait gallery by the fourth earl. Julian knew every painting by heart. All his ancestors were there, lined up in grim solemnity. His ancestral gallery of rogues, he’d always thought of it. But as he passed, something caught his eye. He stopped. “What the devil is that?”
“It’s a portrait of her ladyship, m’lord.”
“I can see that! But what the devil is it doing here?” The portrait gallery was for portraits of his family, the Fox family. His grandmother was not, never had been and never would be a member of the Fox family. She was only his father’s mother-in-law.
“Her ladyship had it sent down here several weeks ago, m’lord, with instructions that it be hung in the portrait gallery.”
“I bet she did,” Julian muttered. She’d been trying to take control of his family ever since he could remember.
“I thought it a very good likeness, m’lord,” Crowther ventured tentatively.
“Yes, I’m not arguing the quality, just the placement. Why the devil didn’t she hang it in the town house?”
The butler simply looked at him. Of course he would have no idea.
“Take it down.”
“Yes, m’lord. Er, what shall I do with it?”
