“Good God, no! If I go in alone, I might as well not have brought you. A show of strength may deter my cousin at the outset.”
He had of necessity taken Tarporley into his confidence as well as the captain. The boy was very much shocked and had been more than willing to do what he might to assist Giff to establish himself.
“I’d be only too glad to have you for my neighbour in place of your cousin, Gaunt.”
“Until I’m in the saddle, stick with Giffard, if you would.”
Striding up to the porch, he seized the iron bell and pulled. A clamour sounded within the building. Giff slid his sword part way from its scabbard and hammered the hilt on the door for good measure. As it slipped back into place, he heard footsteps within and the door opened.
The elderly butler Giff saw on his previous visit stood in the aperture. He was a portly fellow with a lugubrious mien and bald dome. His gaze took in Giff and widened as he noted his companions.
“We’re here to see my cousin, Piers Gaunt.”
“You mean the master, sir?”
Giff set his teeth. The master forsooth! “He’s expecting me.”
The man bowed and set the door wide. Giff walked into the wide hall, reflecting that it looked gloomy even on this sunny day, with its dark wood-panelled walls and a mere splash of light casting shadows on the flagged floor.
On impulse, Giff accosted the butler as he turned from shutting the front door. “Have you been in service here for many years?”
The fellow inclined his head. “Around twenty, sir. I began as a footman.”
“Ah, then you won’t have known Lady Baunton.”
An odd look passed over the man’s face. “No, sir. Mrs Joyce, however, was here in her ladyship’s day. The housekeeper, sir.”
“Was she? Fetch her, will you?”
The man looked taken aback, but he bowed and moved in the direction of a door to one side. “If you will wait in the Red Saloon, sir, I will inform the master of your arrival.”
It was the same room into which Giff had been ushered before and he liked it even less upon a second showing. The upper part of the walls were papered in a dull pinkish shade with a rich red pattern, the lower half covered in the ubiquitous dark panelling, which matched the heavy old-fashioned chairs and sofas ranged around the walls. If the rest of Waldiche Keep was done out in much the same fashion, he would have a hell of a task on his hands to change it to suit his personal tastes. Or Delia’s, if it came to that.
“Our houses in India are a deal more bright and airy,” he remarked, when the butler had departed.
“It is a trifle on the gloomy side.” Tarporley was looking about with interest. “Gaunt must use this room rarely. The upper floor rooms are a little more inviting.”
“You’ve been here often?”
“Occasionally. Gaunt does not entertain a great deal. Nor did his father. I beg pardon, I mean your father.”
Giff refrained from snapping back that old Lord Baunton was no father of his. Of course he was, or why in the world was he here? Despite all, he began to wish he had remained in India. What had he to do with all this pompous grandeur?
“Do you remember it at all, Giffard?”
Giff looked across to where Captain Rhoades was inspecting a painting of a hunting scene that hung over the fireplace. “Not in the least. I was but three when my mother left.” Impatience claimed him. “What the deuce does Piers mean by keeping me waiting? And where’s this wretched housekeeper?”
Rhoades was eyeing him. “Do you suppose she might recognise you?”
“Only if she sees my mother in me. My uncle says I have a look of her.”
“Will it help if she does?”
“I have no notion what will help. I’m ready to grasp at any straw, to be frank.”
At this point, the door opened and Piers walked in. He cast an eye across Giff’s retinue and a sneer curved his mouth. “You brought reinforcements then? I thought you would.”
Seething, Giff glared. “What else did you expect? This is Captain Rhoades of the militia and this —”