Page 113 of The Marriage Method

Lady Belwood clutched at the strap on the door to prevent herself from being bounced out of her seat. “Dreadful road,” she muttered. “I shall speak to Lord Amstead about it when we arrive.”

Miles’s hand was firmly at Nell’s waist, holding her steady against the worst of the jostling. He looked out the window. “That must be Northwick Hall.”

Nell leaned past him to see for herself. A large Palladian mansion loomed ahead. It was made of a pale whitish-gray stone that perfectly suited the bleakness of the landscape. A long elm-lined gravel drive led to the massive front doors. It was there the driver took them, bringing the carriage to a halt in the selfsame moment the doors of the house swung open and several liveried servants emerged.

One of them assisted Lady Belwood from the carriage, while the others attended to the baggage strapped to the roof. Miles descended next so that he might hand Nell down himself.

Nell held on to his arm as she surveyed the premises. Wind whipped at her skirts and at the ribbons that trimmed her stylish straw hat. There was as yet no sign of anyone who looked important enough to be Baron Amstead. The closest she saw was an older gentleman with a thickening midsection and a balding brown pate who carried himself with an immense and formal dignity that immediately identified him as his lordship’s butler.

He bowed to them and, after a brief word with one of the footmen, invited them to accompany him into the house’s vast entrance hall. A fire was burning at the end of it in a cavernous hearth, hot enough to take the chill from the air. Portraits adorned the walls—ancient oils of an antiquity even greater than the ones Nell had observed in Lady Belwood’s house. This was the home of a gentleman who had valued his ancestry. Or rather, the former home of one who had.

The man who now came to greet them was not the aged Baron Amstead who had corresponded for so many years with the elderly Sir Walter Belwood. It was a comparatively younger man in a loose-fitting flannel suit. He was sandy-haired and hearty, with a conspicuous ease of manner.

“Lady Belwood,” he drawled, bowing over her hand. “I am charmed.”

“Lord Amstead,” Lady Belwood acknowledged him.

His lordship turned to Nell. A smile spread over his face. “And this vision must be your much-praised friend, Mrs. Quincey.” He flourished another bow. “Your servant, ma’am.” On straightening, he at last addressed Miles. “Mr. Quincey? A privilege. I hope you’re fond of shooting. We’re a bloodthirsty lot here at Northwick.”

“I can hold my own,” Miles said.

“Sir Walter sends his regrets, my lord,” Lady Belwood said. “He has bid me do my utmost to enliven your party.”

“Your gracious presence is my recompense, my lady. And the presence of this lovely creature.” Lord Amstead’s speculative gaze lingered on Nell. He smiled again with quicksilver rapidity. “But I get ahead of myself. You must be tired from your journey. I shall let you refresh yourselves. When you’re ready, you may join me and my other guests in the drawing room for cake and sherry.”

“Are we the last to arrive?” Miles asked.

“There are one or two more stragglers,” Lord Amstead said. “But we won’t let their tardiness affect our pleasure.” He motioned to the butler. “Innes? Do show my guests to their rooms.”

Nell’s breath stopped. It was all she could do not to stare at the butler. She’d noticed him when he’d appeared outside, of course, but she hadn’t really looked at him. Not until this moment.

Yet, he was Innes!

She flashed a glance at Miles. He returned her gaze, his expression inscrutable.

“This way, if you please,” Innes said in a colorless voice.

The entry hall opened into a circular stair hall where winding, cantilevered steps rose to the floors above in a dramatic display of architectural splendor. Nell had noted the feature when she’d studied the house plans. It was one of Sir Robert Taylor’s signature designs.

Innes preceded them up the stairs. Lady Belwood came after him, along with her lady’s maid—a superior sort of woman in a black stuff dress, who held her ladyship’s jewel case in her arms as protectively as a mother might hold a newborn child.

Nell and Miles followed. They’d gone no more than a few steps when Lord Amstead called out from behind them.

“What’s this, Mrs. Quincey?” he questioned in a tone of surprised concern. “You haven’t injured yourself during the journey?”

Nell stilled beside Miles. Much as she leaned on her husband, there was no disguising her limp. Not completely.

Exchanging another weighted glance with Miles, she pivoted on the steps to bestow his lordship with a rueful smile. “A trifling thing,” she said. “I’m afraid I twisted my ankle when I stepped onto the train at Euston.”

“Did you, indeed? Poor lamb.” Lord Amstead was all sympathy. “Shall I summon my physician?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Miles said. “I’ll see to my wife myself.”

Lord Amstead inclined his head. “As you wish.”

Nell’s fingers clenched tighter on Miles’s arm as they resumed their progress up the stairs. Innes was far ahead, with Lady Belwood and her maid. Reaching the third floor, they entered a long, carpeted hall. All the while, Nell was running over the facts from Mr. Cowgill’s two notebooks in her mind. The three dates from the first one, and the broken lines from the second.

19th March, 28th March, 3rd September.