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Hunter frowned. He did not know that his mother had a companion. He did not know anything of his mother’s life in Glasgow, nor why she had suddenly arrived back at Blackloch yesterday, especially not after the way they had parted.
Hunter watched the small dark speck of the gig grow gradually larger and he wondered fleetingly what the woman would be like—young or old, plain or pretty? To the old Sebastian Hunter it would have mattered. But to the man that stood there now, so still and sullen, it did not. What did he care who she was, what she did? Hunter glanced at McEwan.
‘My mother’s companion is of no interest to me.’ He felt only relief that it was not Bullford or any other of his old crowd. And gladder still it was not Linwood.
McEwan made no comment. He turned away from the window and its view. ‘I will see you in the morning, Hunter.’
‘That is Blackloch Hall, over there, ma’am,’ said the young footman driving the gig and pointed ahead. ‘And to the left hand side, down from the house, is the Black Loch itself, Mr Hunter’s private loch, for which the house and the moor are named.’
Phoebe peered in the direction the boy was pointing. Across the barren moorland a solitary building stood proud and lonely, sinister in its bearing, a black silhouette against the red fire of the setting sun. And beyond it, the dark waters of the loch. The gig rounded the bend and the narrow track that had been winding up to this point straightened to become an avenue of approach to the house. At the front there was nothing to differentiate where the moor stopped and the house’s boundary began. No wall, no hedging, no garden. The avenue led directly up to the house. With every turn of the gig’s wheels Phoebe could see Blackloch Hall loom closer.
It was a large foreboding manor house made to look like a castle by virtue of its turrets and spires. As they drew nearer Phoebe saw the rugged black stonework transform to a bleak grey. All the windows were in darkness; not the flicker of a single candle showed. All was dark and still. All was quiet. It looked as if the house had been deserted. The great iron-studded mahogany front door, beneath its pointed stone arch of strange carved symbols, remained firmly closed. As the gig passed, she saw the door’s cast-iron knocker shaped like a great, snarling wolf’s head and she felt the trip of her heart. The gig drove on, round the side of the house and through a tall arched gateway, taking her round into a stable yard at the back of the house.
The young footman jumped down from the gig’s seat and came round to assist her before fetching her bag from the gig’s shelf.
‘Thank you.’ Phoebe’s eyes flicked over the dismal dark walls of Blackloch Hall and shivered. It was like something out of one of Mrs Hunter’s romance novels, all gothic and dark and menacing. Little wonder the lady had chosen to make her home in Glasgow.
The boy shot a glance at her as if he was expecting her to say something.
‘What a very striking building,’ she managed.
The boy, Jamie he said his name was, gave a nod and then, carrying her bag, led on.
Taking a deep breath, Phoebe followed Jamie towards the back door of the house. He no longer spoke and all around was silence, broken only by the crunch of their shoes against the gravel.
From high on the roof the caw of a solitary crow sounded, and from the corner of her eye she saw the flutter of dark wings … and she thought of the man against whom her father had warned her—Sebastian Hunter. A shiver rippled down her spine as she stepped across the threshold into Blackloch Hall.
Phoebe did not see Mrs Hunter until late the next morning in the drawing room, which to Phoebe’s eye looked less like a drawing room and more like the medieval hall of an ancient castle.
Suspended from the centre of the ceiling was a huge circular black-iron chandelier. She could smell the sweetness of the honey-coloured beeswax candles that studded its circumference. The rough-hewn walls were covered with faded dull tapestries depicting hunting scenes and the floor of grey stone flags was devoid of a single carpet rug. A massive medieval-style fireplace was positioned in the centre of the wall to her left, complete with worn embroidered lum seats. A fire had been laid upon the hearth, but had not been lit so that, even though it was the height of summer, the room had a distinct chill to it. The three large lead-latticed windows that spanned the wall opposite the fireplace showed a fine view over the moor outside.
The furniture seemed a hodgepodge of styles: a pair of Italian-styled giltwood stools, a plainly fashioned but practical rotating square bookcase, a huge gilded eagle perched upon the floor beside the door, its great wings supporting a table top of grey-and-white marble, a small card table with the austere neoclassical lines of Sheraton, and on its surface a chessboard with its intricately carved pieces of ebony and ivory. Farther along the room was a long dark-green sofa and on either side of the sofa was a matching armchair and, behind them, in the corner, a suit of armour.
Mrs Hunter was ensconced on the sofa, supervising the making of the pot of tea. She watched while Phoebe added milk and a lump of sugar to the two fine bone-china cups and poured.
‘How was your father, Phoebe? Does he fare any better?’
‘A little,’ said Phoebe, feeling the hand of guilt heavy upon her shoulder.
‘That at least is something.’ The lady smiled and took the cup and saucer that Phoebe offered. ‘And you attended to all of my matters before your visit to the hospital?’
‘Yes, ma’am. Everything is in order. Mrs Montgomery will send your invitation to Blackloch Hall rather than Charlotte Street. I delivered the sample books back to Messrs Hudson and Collier and to Mrs Murtrie. As you suspected Mr Lyle did not have your shoes ready, but he says they will be done by the end of the week.’
‘Very well.’
Phoebe continued. ‘I collected your powders from Dr Watt and have informed all of the names on your list that you will be visiting Blackloch Hall for the next month and may be contacted here. And the letters and parcel I left with the receiving office.’
‘Good.’ Mrs Hunter gave a nod. ‘And how was the journey down?’
‘Fine, thank you,’ she lied and focused her attention to stirring the sugar into her tea most vigorously so that she would not have to look at her employer.
‘The coach was not too crowded?’
‘Not at all. I was most fortunate.’ A vision of the highwaymen and of a dark and handsome man with eyes the colour of emerald ice chips swam into her head. The teaspoon overbalanced from her saucer and dropped to the flagstones below where it bounced and disappeared out of sight beneath her chair. Phoebe set her cup and saucer down on the table and knelt to retrieve the spoon.
‘I would have sent John with the coach, but I do not wish to be at Blackloch without my own carriage at my dispos—’ Mrs Hunter broke off as the drawing-room door opened and the movement of footsteps sounded. ‘Sebastian, my, but you honour me.’ To Phoebe’s surprise the lady’s tone was acidic.
Phoebe felt a ripple of foreboding down her spine. She reached quickly for the teaspoon.
‘Mother, forgive my absence yesterday. I was delayed by matters in Glasgow.’ The man’s voice was deep and cool as spring water … and disturbingly familiar.
Phoebe stilled, her fingers gripping the spoon’s handle for dear life. Her heart was thudding too fast.
It could not be.
It was not possible.
Slowly she got to her feet and turned to face the wicked Mr Hunter. And there, standing only a few feet away across the room, was her dark handsome rescuer from the moor road.
Hunter stared at the young auburn-haired woman he had left standing alone at the Kingswell Inn. Her cheeks had paled. Her lips had parted. Her warm tawny eyes stared wide. She looked every inch as shocked as he felt.
He moved to his mother and touched his lips to her cool cheek. She suffered it as if he were a leper, shuddering slightly with distaste. So, nothing had changed after all. He wondered why the hell she was here at Blackloch.
‘Sebastian.’ His mother’s voice was cold, if polite for the sake of the woman’s presence. ‘This is my companion, Miss Allardyce. She came down on the late coach last night.’ Then to the woman, ‘Miss Allardyce, my son, Mr Hunter.’ He could hear the effort it took her to force the admission of their kinship.
‘Mr Hunter,’ the woman said in that same clear calm voice he would have recognised anywhere, and made her curtsy, yet he saw the small flare of concern in her eyes before she hid it.
‘Miss Allardyce.’ He inclined his head ever so slightly in the woman’s direction, and understood her worry given that it was now obvious she had palmed the money his mother had given her for her coach fare.
She was wearing the same blue dress, although every speck of dust looked to have been brushed from it. The colour highlighted the red burnish to her hair, now scraped and tightly pinned in a neat coil at the nape of her neck. His gaze lingered briefly on her face, on the small straight nose and those dewy dusky pink lips that made him want to wet his own. And he remembered the soft feel of her pressed against him on the saddle, and the clean rose-touched scent of her, and the shock of a desire he had thought quelled for good. She was temptation personified. And she was everything proper and correct that a lady’s companion should be as she resumed her seat and calmly waited for Hunter to spill her secret.
Not that Hunter had any intention of doing so. After her experience with the highwaymen he doubted she would make the same mistake again. He watched as she set the teaspoon she was holding down upon the tray and lifted her cup and saucer.
His mother’s tone was cool as she turned to her companion. ‘My son has not seen his mother in nine months, Miss Allardyce, and yet he cannot bring himself into my company. This is his first appearance since my arrival at Blackloch.’
Miss Allardyce looked uneasy and took a sip of tea.
His mother turned her attention back to Hunter. ‘Your concern is overwhelming. I think I can see the precise nature of the matters so important to keep you from me.’ Her eyes were cold and appraising as they took in the small cut on his cheek and the bruising that surrounded it. She raised an eyebrow and gave a small snort.
‘You have been brawling.’ He made no denial.
Miss Allardyce’s eyes opened marginally wider.
‘What were you fighting over this time? Let me guess, some new gaming debt?’
He stiffened, but kept his expression impassive and cool.
‘No? If not that, then over a woman, I will warrant.’
A pause, during which he saw the slight colour that had washed the soft cream of Miss Allardyce’s cheeks heighten.
‘You know me too well, madam.’
‘Indeed, I do. You are not changed in the slightest, not for all your promises—’
There was the rattle of china as Miss Allardyce set her cup and saucer down. ‘Mrs Hunter …’ The woman got to her feet. ‘I fear you are mistaken, ma’am. Mr Hu—’
His mother turned her frown on her companion.
‘Miss Allardyce,’ Hunter interrupted smoothly, ‘this is none of your affair and I would that it stay that way.’ His tone was frosty with warning. If his mother wanted to believe the worst of him, let her. He would not have some girl defend him. He still had some measure of pride.
Miss Allardyce stared at him for a moment, with such depths in those golden-brown eyes of hers that he wondered what she was thinking. And then she calmly sat back down in her chair.
‘Ever the gentleman, Sebastian,’ said his mother. ‘You see, Miss Allardyce, do not waste your concern on him. He is quite beyond the niceties of society. Now you know why I do not come to Blackloch. Such unpleasant company.’
He leaned back in his chair. ‘If we are speaking bluntly, what then has prompted your visit, madam?’
‘I am having the town house redecorated and am in need of somewhere to stay for a few weeks, Sebastian. What other reason could possibly bring me here?’ his mother sneered.
He gave a bow and left, vowing to avoid both his mother and the woman who made him remember too well the dissolute he had been.
After the awfulness of that first day Hunter did not seek his mother out again. And Phoebe could not blame him. She wondered why he had not told Mrs Hunter the truth of the cut upon his face or revealed that his mother’s companion had not spent her money upon a coach fare after all. She wondered, too, as to why there was such hostility between mother and son. But Mrs Hunter made not a single mention of her son, and it was easy to keep her promise to her father as Phoebe saw little of the man in the days that followed. Once she saw him entering his study. Another time she caught a glimpse of him riding out on the moor. But nothing more. Not that Phoebe had time to notice, for Mrs Hunter was out of sorts, her mood as bleak as the moor that surrounded them.
Tuesday came around quickly and Phoebe could only be glad both of her chance to escape the oppressive atmosphere of Blackloch and to see her father.
The Glasgow Tolbooth was an impressive five-storey sandstone building situated at the Cross where the Trongate met High Street. It housed not only the gaol, but also the Justiciary Court and the Town Hall, behind which had been built the Tontine Hotel. There was a small square turret at each corner and a fine square spire on the east side, in which was fitted a large clock. And the top of the spire arched in the form of an imperial crown. The prison windows were small and clad with iron bars, and over the main door, on the south side, was built a small rectangular portico on a level with the first floor of the prison, the stairs from which led directly down onto the street.
Phoebe arrived at the Tolbooth, glad of heart both to be back in the familiar cheery bustle of Glasgow and at the prospect of seeing her father. She hurried along the street and was just about to climb the stone steps to the portico and the main door when a man appeared by her side.
‘Miss Allardyce?’
She stopped and glanced round at him.
He pulled the cloth cap from his head, revealing thick fair hair beneath. He was of medium height with nothing to mark him as noticeable. His clothes were neither shabby nor well-tailored, grey trousers and matching jacket, smart enough, but not those of a gentleman. Something of his manner made her think that he was in service. He blended well with the background in all features except his voice.
‘Miss Phoebe Allardyce?’ he said again and she heard the cockney twang to his accent, so different to the lilt of the Scottish voices all around.
‘Who are you, sir?’ She looked at him with suspicion. He was certainly no one that she knew.
‘I’m the Messenger.’
His eyes were a washed-out grey and so narrow that they lent him a shifty air. She made to walk on, but his next words stopped her.
‘If you’ve a care for your father, you’ll listen.’
She narrowed her own eyes slightly, feeling an instant dislike for the man. ‘What do you want?’
‘To deliver a message to you.’ He was slim but there was a wiry strength to his frame.
‘I am listening,’ she said.
‘Your father’s locked up in there for the rest of his days. Old man like him, his health not too good. And the conditions being what they are in the Tolbooth. Must worry you that.’
‘My father’s welfare and my feelings on the matter are none of your concern, sir.’ She made to walk on.
‘They are if I can spring him, Miss Allardyce, or, should I say, give you the means to do so. Fifteen hundred pounds to pay his debt, plus another five hundred to set the pair of you up in a decent enough lifestyle.’
A cold feeling spread over her. She stared at him in shock. ‘How do you know the details of my father’s debt?’
The man gave a leering smile and she noticed that his teeth were straight and white. ‘Oh, we know all about you and your pa. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that. Just think on the money. Two grand in the hand, Miss Allardyce, and old pop is out of the Tolbooth.’
‘You are offering me two thousand pounds?’ She stared at him in disbelief.
He threw her a purse. ‘A hundred up front.’ She peeped inside and felt her heart turn over as she saw the roll of white notes. ‘The rest when you deliver your end of the bargain.’
‘Which is?’
‘The smallest of favours.’ She waited.
‘As Mrs Hunter’s companion you have access to the whole of Blackloch Hall.’
Her scalp prickled with the extent of his knowledge.
‘There is a certain object currently within the possession of the lady’s son, a trifling little thing that he wouldn’t even miss.’
‘You are asking me to steal from Mr Hunter?’
‘We’re asking you to retrieve an item for its rightful owner.’
The man was trouble, as was all that he asked. She shook her head and gave a cynical smile as she thrust the purse back into his hands. ‘Good day to you, sir.’ And she started to climb the steps. She climbed all of four steps before his voice sounded again. He had not moved, but still stood where he was in the street.
‘If you won’t do it for the money, Miss Allardyce, you best have a thought for your pa locked up in there. Dangerous place is the Tolbooth. All sorts of unsavoury characters, the sort your pa ain’t got a chance against. Who knows who he’ll be sharing a cell with next? You have a think about that, Miss Allardyce.’
The man’s words made her blood run cold, but she did not look back, just ran up the remaining steps and through the porch to the front door of the gaol.
‘Everything all right, miss?’ the door guard enquired.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she said as she slipped inside to the large square hallway. ‘If I could just have a moment to gather myself?’
The guard nodded.
Her hands were trembling as she stood aside a little to let the other visitors pass. She took several deep breaths, leaned her back against one of the great stone columns and calmed her thoughts. It was an idle threat, that was all. The villain could not truly hurt her father within the security of a prison as tough and rigorous as the Tolbooth. The man was a villain, a thief, trying to frighten her into stealing for him. And Phoebe had no intention of being blackmailed. She tucked some stray strands of hair beneath her bonnet, and smoothed a hand over the top of her skirts. And only when she was sure that her papa would not notice anything amiss did she make her way through the doorway that led to the prison cells. Once through that door she passed the guard her basket for checking.
He removed the cover and gave the contents a quick glance. ‘Raspberries this week, is it?’ With her weekly visits over the last six months Phoebe was on friendly terms with most of the guards and turnkeys.
‘They are my papa’s favourite.’
‘Sir Henry’ll fair enjoy them.’
