The Lord and the Banshee (Read by Candlelight #13) - Gillian St. Kevern Page 0,4

carriage. “That is information I did not need to know.”

“I thought it was interesting.” Julian shrugged, settling back in his chair. “Do you want to know how I worked that out?”

Cross pinched the bridge of his nose. “I very definitely do not. Open the window, Julian. We need a change of air.”

Julian leaned in the window, the wind tossing his hair, even as he took deep lungfuls of it. Cross exhaled, but couldn’t relax. The sound of the wind stopped further conversation, but he couldn’t count on Julian’s remaining distracted—or that his nose wouldn’t give away the game.

His fingers tightened their grip on the newspaper. Cross forced himself to relax his hold. Until Pip was safe, nothing else mattered.

3

The setting sun blazed in the windowpanes of Connaught Castle as they approached, giving them one glimpse of the castle alight, as it must have looked in its prime. Strong grey stone brick walls endured as they had for centuries past, roof tiles reflecting the sun’s warmth. The carriage they’d hired at Galway station plunged down a steep slope, and the castle disappeared from view. When it next appeared, the sun had gone, and it presented a forlorn aspect: only a handful of windows lit, and twilight giving it an air of neglect. Their carriage pulled up before the massive wooden door and stone steps of the entrance.

Thomas cleared his throat. “I neglected to inform Lord Connaught of our intended arrival. This was an oversight, for which I shall take responsibility, but we must brace ourselves for a frosty reception.”

“Strange isn’t it, how so many of the rules of polite behaviour don’t apply when father is concerned,” Julian observed.

Thomas glanced at him, but Julian seemed more preoccupied with straightening his jacket than the effect of his comment. “I’ll do the talking.”

He thumped at the door with his walking stick. There was a delay before the door opened. The household was not expecting visitors.

“Thomas Cross, Lord of Foxwood,” he told the startled footman. “Mr Julian Westaway.” He walked in the door. “Is Lord Connaught at home?”

“Yes, sir. One moment.” The manservant scurried off, soon lost from sight among the dark shadows of the hall.

Thomas surveyed the entrance hall. The sideboards were relics of a distant age, and the hall lit by candlelight. No signs of improvement were visible at all.

“Musty.” Julian made a face. “Well overdue an airing.” He peered at the closest sideboard. “And a dusting.”

“We don’t comment on other people’s housekeeping.”

A door opened somewhere in the shadows. The footman returned. “This way, please, gentlemen.”

He ushered them into a sitting room where a fire blazed, and an abundance of candles lit up the room. There was a small pianoforte, two sofas and an assortment of chairs, all trimmed in soft florals, an incidental table with a matching cover, and an overpowering scent of pot-pourri. Thomas’s eyes fell on a brown haired man getting to his feet, and he ceased to notice anything but Pip.

“Thomas! I thought I misheard the footman. What are you doing here?” No need to wonder if he was welcome. Pip’s blue eyes shone. He squeezed Thomas’s hand. “And Julian, too! I could not be better pleased to see you both.”

Thomas scanned him. Pip looked much as he had when Thomas had seen him off at the London train station: brown hair touched with grey, but the flush of enthusiasm in his cheeks imparting an air of schoolboy excitement despite his forty-odd years. His relief was so strong, he struggled to speak.

Pip turned towards the three people standing in the room. “Lord Connaught, you have met Lord Cross already, but allow me to introduce my son, Julian, of whom you have heard me speak so often. Mrs O’Flaherty, Miss O’Flaherty, may I present Thomas Cross, Lord of Foxwood, and Julian Westaway. Julian, Thomas, I have the great honour to introduce Mrs Beatrice O’Flaherty and her daughter, Miss Stella O’Flaherty.”

The ladies murmured and curtsied. The great-aunt was a waspish grey-haired woman of Thomas’s years, Stella a rather anaemic looking blonde with eyeglasses and a somewhat disgruntled expression.

Connaught stepped forward, proffering his hand. “This is a great honour, Lord Cross. Welcome to Connaught Castle. I only regret that we were not prepared to give you the welcome we would like.” He was a stout young man in his thirties, with a bullish expression on his otherwise handsome face. He wore a much better cut of suit than that in which Thomas had first met him. Then he’d been a new arrival,