head slowly. Dark red Persian rugs did not soften the stark flagstones. No fire brightened a huge marble fireplace at the opposite end of the vestibule. Above the fireplace stretched a grim plaster relief of some battle scene. Dully glowing suits of armor stood guard around the walls, each one grasping a vicious-looking weapon in its iron hands.
“Grand, isn’t it?” Mama said, catching Grace’s eye.
She thought it quite terrifying. “Yes. Grand.”
“Och, Master Calum, d’ye not see any o’ the lad-dies about?” Angus staggered in with another trunk. “I’m afraid Shanks may have forgotten to tell them we’re expectin’—”
“What’s all this then?” A stocky man burst from an archway to a dark corridor and marched into the center of the vestibule.
“Nice of you to come, muck wallop,” Mr. Innes said, silkily menacing. “Do you suppose we could rouse the rest of the appropriate staff?”
“I should
think so,
”
Mama murmured.
Crowned by a thatch of curly red hair, the man had the ruddy face and brawny body of a vigorous laborer. He jutted his square chin ferociously. “Appropriate staff, sir? Nothin’s been said to me about needing any particular staff. Therefore I’ll away back to my duties and assume ye’ve made a mistake.”
“Kindly stay where you are.” Mr. Innes’s smile was not reassuring. “Miss Wren, allow me to introduce you to his lordship’s steward, Mr. McWallop.”
For a dreadful instant Grace thought she would laugh hysterically. “How do you do?” she said, and giggled—and coughed. “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. McWallop.”
“Aye.” He straightened his claret-colored jacket and smoothed the dashing yellow silk waistcoat he wore beneath. “Aye, well, that’s as may be. Here’s Shanks. If he weren’t deaf, he’d o’ been here when ye made all that racket comin’ in.”
“I’ll thank you not to cast aspersions on my hearing, McWallop.” The newcomer strutted into sight on spindly legs encased in black breeches. He wore the reassuringly familiar uniform of a butler. When he saw the little assembly, he raised a beaked nose, causing the vestibule’s dim light to shimmer on his bald head.
Mr. Innes flexed a hand at his side. “This is Miss Wren, Shanks. And her mother, Mrs. Wren.”
Barely taller than Grace, Shanks eyed her with the interest a dog might show a dinner he didn’t want. “We are not expecting visitors,” he said.
Mama huffed loudly.
“Ring for Mrs. Moggach,” Mr. Innes ordered.
“
Now.
And send one of the footmen I haven’t seen since I got back to help Angus with the luggage.”
“Oh!” Grace realized she’d unknowingly rested her hand on the head of half a polar bear, stuffed and with a gray-green fish clasped in its paws. She crossed her arms.
Mr. Innes advanced upon her, deep concern in his eyes. “Are you unwell, Miss Wren? I expect you are exhausted from your travels. And your dear mother. Please accept my apologies for the delay in showing you to your rooms.”
“It’s quite all right. Evidently the servants are surprised by ... our ... appearance,” she finished slowly, warily watching the latest arrival in the vestibule.
Tall, large-boned, and heavily flashed, the woman dwarfed Shanks, who smiled happily at the sight of her.
“There you are, Mrs. Moggach,” Shanks said. “Really, it’s a shame to disturb you at such an hour, but—”
‘Such an hour?” Mr. Innes said through his teeth. “For God’s sake. Who is this household run for?”
“Ladies present,” Shanks said, disapproving, undaunted, and stately all the way to the tips of his shiny black slippers. “These are visitors, Mrs. Moggach. Seems Mr. Innes expects rooms prepared for them.”
Grace’s courage deserted her completely. “This is too much trouble,” she said, turning up the corners of her mouth and retreating. “Perhaps Angus could take us to the village. I’m sure we’d find a place at the inn for the