rolling over in his grave.
She rather hoped he was.
The estate had changed a great deal since he had last seen it ten years before. She had kept it running smoothly and profitably during her father’s long illness, but under her uncle’s inept stewardship, the lands had suffered badly. The cottages in the village needed repairs, and a general air of neglect gave the fields a despondent look. Jason made no comment, however, though he studied the landscape carefully through the window of his traveling carriage.
Now they drew up in front of the large, mottled Elizabethan pile that was Thornwood Hall, and the bullfrog footman Briggs opened the door and helped them descend the steps into the cool, biting winter air. Jason did not offer her his arm; he evidently had no desire to touch her. They walked up the shallow steps together, without speaking or looking at each other, and when they reached the top, Jason lifted the knocker and gave three sharp, imperious raps.
A minute later, Carlisle, the sour-faced butler Uncle Clarence had hired to replace Hawkins, opened the door. His gaze widened at the sight of Miranda, but he remained otherwise impassive.
“Kindly inform Mrs. Thornwood that Jason Blakewell and Miss Thornwood have arrived,” said Jason.
“Mrs. Thornwood is not at home to callers,” Carlisle said grandly.
“We are not callers,” said Jason coolly. “I am not asking your permission. Either you will inform Mrs. Thornwood we are here, or I will do so myself.”
“Now, see here—”
Jason simply put his hand on the door and shoved. The butler, evidently recognizing defeat, moved hastily out of the way.
“Where would your aunt be at this hour?” Jason asked Miranda.
“The Spanish room, most likely,” she said.
He made his way unerringly to the west wing of the house and to the great double doors leading to the blue drawing room. Unceremoniously, he shoved the door open, and Miranda followed him inside.
Beatrice Thornwood, small, pinched and cadaverously thin, sat embroidering at a seat beneath the window. When they came inside, she looked up, a look of pure disdain crossing her narrow face.
“So,” she said to Miranda. “You’ve come back, have you? And where’s that murdering brother of yours?”
“Ah,” said Jason, very softly. “But William didn’t murder anybody, did he, madam?”
Beatrice turned to him, her cold gaze assessing. “And who are you, sirrah?”
“I am Jason Blakewell, madam.”
“I have no idea who you are and this is none of your concern,” said Beatrice. “Carlisle will show you the door.”
“No, I don’t think he will,” said Jason reflectively. “Not until we clear this all up. I understand you have had the local magistrate hunting Lord Thornwood for the murder of his uncle, have you not?”
“The ungrateful brat did murder my husband,” said Beatrice, her eyes flickering. “He deserves to be brought to justice, does he not?”
“But in point of fact,” said Jason pleasantly, “your husband is not dead at all, is he? I believe he is recovering quite nicely from his ordeal.”
Beatrice Thornwood sucked in her breath. “What?” Jason looked amused. “I am fully aware your husband is currently quite comfortably ensconced in that old cottage in the stable block.”
Beatrice managed to recover immediately and drew herself up. “Even if my husband did not die, we intend to see him charged with assault.”
“I do not think you would care for the consequences should you decide to press charges,” said Jason silkily. “If you do, I shall see to it my lawyers sue you for every penny of Miss Thornwood and Lord Thornwood’s inheritance that your husband and son have squandered.”
“That is calumny, sir, and I certainly shall not stand for it—”
“Furthermore, my lawyers shall charge you, your husband and your son with attempted murder,” Jason continued. “You see, in a drunken stupor at my club last night, your son informed me he would
She rather hoped he was.
The estate had changed a great deal since he had last seen it ten years before. She had kept it running smoothly and profitably during her father’s long illness, but under her uncle’s inept stewardship, the lands had suffered badly. The cottages in the village needed repairs, and a general air of neglect gave the fields a despondent look. Jason made no comment, however, though he studied the landscape carefully through the window of his traveling carriage.
Now they drew up in front of the large, mottled Elizabethan pile that was Thornwood Hall, and the bullfrog footman Briggs opened the door and helped them descend the steps into the cool, biting winter air. Jason did not offer her his arm; he evidently had no desire to touch her. They walked up the shallow steps together, without speaking or looking at each other, and when they reached the top, Jason lifted the knocker and gave three sharp, imperious raps.
A minute later, Carlisle, the sour-faced butler Uncle Clarence had hired to replace Hawkins, opened the door. His gaze widened at the sight of Miranda, but he remained otherwise impassive.
“Kindly inform Mrs. Thornwood that Jason Blakewell and Miss Thornwood have arrived,” said Jason.
“Mrs. Thornwood is not at home to callers,” Carlisle said grandly.
“We are not callers,” said Jason coolly. “I am not asking your permission. Either you will inform Mrs. Thornwood we are here, or I will do so myself.”
“Now, see here—”
Jason simply put his hand on the door and shoved. The butler, evidently recognizing defeat, moved hastily out of the way.
“Where would your aunt be at this hour?” Jason asked Miranda.
“The Spanish room, most likely,” she said.
He made his way unerringly to the west wing of the house and to the great double doors leading to the blue drawing room. Unceremoniously, he shoved the door open, and Miranda followed him inside.
Beatrice Thornwood, small, pinched and cadaverously thin, sat embroidering at a seat beneath the window. When they came inside, she looked up, a look of pure disdain crossing her narrow face.
“So,” she said to Miranda. “You’ve come back, have you? And where’s that murdering brother of yours?”
“Ah,” said Jason, very softly. “But William didn’t murder anybody, did he, madam?”
Beatrice turned to him, her cold gaze assessing. “And who are you, sirrah?”
“I am Jason Blakewell, madam.”
“I have no idea who you are and this is none of your concern,” said Beatrice. “Carlisle will show you the door.”
“No, I don’t think he will,” said Jason reflectively. “Not until we clear this all up. I understand you have had the local magistrate hunting Lord Thornwood for the murder of his uncle, have you not?”
“The ungrateful brat did murder my husband,” said Beatrice, her eyes flickering. “He deserves to be brought to justice, does he not?”
“But in point of fact,” said Jason pleasantly, “your husband is not dead at all, is he? I believe he is recovering quite nicely from his ordeal.”
Beatrice Thornwood sucked in her breath. “What?” Jason looked amused. “I am fully aware your husband is currently quite comfortably ensconced in that old cottage in the stable block.”
Beatrice managed to recover immediately and drew herself up. “Even if my husband did not die, we intend to see him charged with assault.”
“I do not think you would care for the consequences should you decide to press charges,” said Jason silkily. “If you do, I shall see to it my lawyers sue you for every penny of Miss Thornwood and Lord Thornwood’s inheritance that your husband and son have squandered.”
“That is calumny, sir, and I certainly shall not stand for it—”
“Furthermore, my lawyers shall charge you, your husband and your son with attempted murder,” Jason continued. “You see, in a drunken stupor at my club last night, your son informed me he would
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