Loving Rose: The Redemption of Malcolm Sinclair (Casebook of Barnaby Adair) Read Online Free PDF Page A

road to Penzance, then had turned south along the lane that led toward the cliffs. The entrance to the drive was unremarkable; a simple gravel avenue, it wended between stunted trees, then across a short stretch of rising open ground to end before the front door.
    He’d bought the property years ago, entirely on a whim. It had appealed to him, and for once in his life he’d given into impulse and purchased it—a simple, but sound, gentleman’s residence in the depths of Cornwall. In all his forty-two years, it was the only house he’d personally owned, the only place he could imagine calling home.
    A solid but unimaginative rectangular block constructed of local bricks in muted shades of red, ochre, and yellow, the house consisted of two stories plus dormers beneath a lead roof. The windows of the main rooms looked south, over the cliffs, to the sea.
    As he walked Silver up the drive, Thomas scanned the house and found it the same as his memories had painted it. He hadn’t been back in years—many more than the five years he’d spent in the priory. The Gattings, the couple he’d installed as caretaker and housekeeper, had clearly continued to look after the house as if it were their own. The glass in the windows gleamed, the front steps were swept, and even from a distance the brass knocker gleamed.
    Thomas halted Silver at the point where the track to the stable met the drive, but then, in deference to the old couple who he hadn’t informed of his impending arrival, he urged Silver nearer to the front steps and dismounted. Despite the damage to the left side of his face and his other injuries, the Gattings would recognize him, but he didn’t need to shock them by walking unheralded through the back door.
    Or clomping, as the case would be.
    Retrieving his cane from the saddle holder that the stable master at the priory had fashioned for it, then releasing Silver’s reins, Thomas watched as the big gray ambled a few steps off the drive and bent his head to crop the rough grass. Satisfied the horse wouldn’t stray much further, Thomas headed for the front door.
    Gaining the small front porch, he was aware of tiredness dragging at his limbs—hardly surprising, given the distance he’d ridden, combined with the additional physical effort of having to cope with his injuries. But he was finally there—the only place he considered home—and now he could rest, at least until Fate found him.
    The bell chain hung beside the door; grasping it, he tugged.
    Deep in the house, he heard the bell jangling. Straightening, stiffening his spine, adjusting his grip on the silver handle of his cane, he prepared to meet Gatting again.
    Footsteps approached the door, swift and light. Before he had time to do more than register the oddity, the door opened.
    A woman stood in the doorway; she regarded him steadily. “Yes? Can I help you?”
    He’d never seen her before. Thomas blinked, then frowned. “Who are you?” Who the devil are you were the words that had leapt to his tongue, but his years in the priory had taught him to watch his words.
    Her chin lifted a notch. She was tallish for a woman, only half a head shorter than he, and she definitely wasn’t young enough—or demure enough—to be any sort of maid. “I rather think that’s my question.”
    “Actually, no—it’s mine. I’m Thomas Glendower, and I own this house.”
    She blinked at him. Her gaze didn’t waver, but her grip on the edge of the door tightened. After several seconds of utter silence, she cleared her throat, then said, “As I’m afraid I don’t know you, I will need to see some proof of your identity before I allow you into the house.”
    He hadn’t stopped frowning. He tried to look past her, into the shadows of the front hall. “Where are the Gattings? The couple I left here as caretakers?”
    “They retired—two years ago now. I’d been assisting them for two years before that, so I took over when they left.” Suspicion—which, he