“May I ask if you and Sir Robert are still intending to stay overnight?” Mrs. Greengage asked.
They were. They would appreciate the chance to wash up, and possibly to rest before a late luncheon. No, they would not require assistance to dress. Robin hid a brief smile in his collar at the new notes of authority that filled Edwin’s voice.
Mrs. Greengage looked relieved at the prospect of not having to produce an impromptu valet from among the footmen. The housekeeper was thin and capable, with creases at her eyes as she looked at Edwin, who was toying fondly with the trim of his chair.
“I’d say it’s likely the house will show you to your rooms, sir,” she said. “Sir Robert, we’ve put your bag in the next room down.”
She was right. The house showed them the way. Sutton Cottage was large enough that light poorly penetrated the interior corridors of the largest wings, and old enough that the darkness of the wood and stone rendered it shadowy, deep, and cool. The way needed to be lit and warmed, and lit and warmed it was, by clusters of candles in glass lantern-shields. Whenever Edwin hesitated at the foot of a stair or the end of a hallway, a cluster would flare briefly brighter in invitation, guiding them on.
“You’re going to have a terrific chandler’s bill, with this lot,” murmured Robin.
Edwin’s face lit in turn with a smile, even as he reached out a hand to the nearest wall as though to protect it from Robin’s teasing. He’d been doing that—small touches, odd smiles—since he’d fallen to his knees in the grasp of whatever power of this magical estate had sent Walter packing. There were subtler changes too. That authority in his voice. A straighter angle of his shoulders.
They certainly weren’t being stashed in a guest wing this time. The suite Edwin was led to had gold damask wall coverings and comprised at least three rooms joined by doors. There was a bedroom with an imposing four-poster dominating the middle, and an adjoining dressing room, but the bulk of the suite was the large, friendly space that combined study and sitting room. A series of sofas surrounded a pale round table that looked like marble; the centre of it was a chessboard, black stone inset amongst the white. There was a writing desk and chair, a winged armchair adorned with cushions, and a sideboard with a row of full decanters and a tray of crystal glasses. The silk walls were otherwise bare, with faint squares showing the gaps where pictures had been; politely awaiting the imposition of a new occupier’s taste. It was a man’s haven of a room and Robin wanted to wrap himself in it like a blanket.
He directed his comments to the ceiling. “You do realise he’s only going to haul bookshelves in here and crowd everything else out.”
“I shan’t need to,” said Edwin. “I have entire rooms for books. I have. A house’s worth.” The sentence veered, unsteady with disbelief.
“So you do.” Robin hesitated, but the question had been niggling at him. “Edwin, if Sutton Cottage could do that to Walter—for you—why wouldn’t it have done the same for Mrs. Sutton, when he was here before?”
“I’ve been thinking about that—about how it felt when it happened. I can only suppose . . .” Edwin rubbed at his face. He looked tired, as though he’d lived a week in the few hours they’d been here. “Mrs. Sutton realised the same thing that I did. That Walt’s group, whomever they are, knew she still had something they wanted, even if it was just information and not the contract itself. She knew that Walt was only the beginning. The house doesn’t think. It responds to what’s felt, and what’s wanted. I wanted Walt not to slice my fingers off.” A brief, humourless smile. “Flora Sutton wanted to take her secrets to the grave, as the best way to keep them safe. And so she did.”
“What a cheery thought,” said Robin, shaken.
“Indeed.” Edwin went to the sideboard and poured them both drinks. Robin didn’t give a fig for the hour of the day; alcoholic fortification seemed suddenly like the perfect idea.
“A toast,” said Edwin. “To the most valuable thing in the country.”
Robin touched the tiny self-inflicted cut on his neck, which he hadn’t bothered to point out to the kitchen maid. A frisson of awareness, more sexual than painful, echoed the soft burn of spirits in his throat.
“Walter showed his hand there, didn’t he?” he said.
“Walt gets the things he wants,” said Edwin. “He’s never had to pretend he doesn’t want them. He wouldn’t know how.”