Jane Feather by Engagement at Beaufort Hall

the corner of her mouth. “Sleep well, sweetheart.”
    It had been such a long time since he’d called her that, and the sound of it filled Imogen with warmth. She touched his cheek with the back of her hand in a fleeting caress and then turned and ran up to the front door, pushing it open.
    Charles waited until the shaft of light vanished as the door closed, and then he went to the stables to retrieve his horse, still saddled but waiting in the warmth of the stable block.
    Imogen stepped into the hall just as Sharpton appeared from the back stairs on his way to lock up the house for the night. He looked at her in surprise. Daisy had undressed her mistress and left her for the night at least an hour earlier. “Good evening, Miss Imogen.” His eyes took in her skates. “Been on the lake, have you?”
    “Yes,” she murmured. “It’s a beautiful night for it.”
    “I’m sure, ma’am,” he agreed in his imperturbable fashion, shooting the bolts on the arched door. “You’ll not be going out again, I take it?”
    “No,” she said. “Good night.” She hurried up the stairs to her own bedchamber. As she reached the landing she paused, hearing whispered voices coming from the shadow of the corridor that led to the bachelor guests’ wing. One of the voices was Duncan’s. The other was too low for her to recognize. Then the voices ceased, and a strange stillness seemed to fall over the darkened landing. An unnatural stillness, she thought.
    Then she heard a shuffling sound, a soft laugh, a rustle, and Duncan stepped out of the shadows, an odd little smile playing over his lips. He stopped when he saw his sister, and the color drained from his cheeks.
    “Gen, what are you doing here?”
    “Going to bed,” she said. “It’s a gorgeous full moon. I went down to the lake.” No need to tell him about skating with Charles. “Are your guests comfortably settled?” She indicated the corridor behind him.
    He nodded curtly. “As far as I know. Good night.” He moved away down the corridor that led to his own chamber.
    Imogen shrugged and went back to her own room. She seemed to be emerging from the strange enchantment of the last hour, and the hard edges of the real world were taking shape again, but she was exhausted now, the restlessness of earlier finally vanquished. In the cold light of day, she would see things more clearly.

    Sharpton, looking thoughtful, completed his rounds of the ground floor, checking all the doors, and then went down to the servants’ hall. It was empty, the fire banked, the gas lamps extinguished. He nodded his satisfaction. The members of his little domain were all tucked up until they had to get up before the winter dawn to see to the fires and the tea trays. It was a dismal prospect in midwinter, when ice would have formed on the insides of the attic bedroom windows and on the surface of the water jugs.
    A light still shone beneath the scullery door, however. Sharpton pushed the door open. A sleepy underfootman was polishing the guests’ boots and shoes in preparation for the morning. “Don’t be too long, now, lad.”
    The boy looked up from his blacking. “Almost done, Mr. Sharpton, sir.”
    The butler nodded and left him to it. He knocked on Mrs. Dalton’s parlor door. It was a ritual they had, a last cup of tea enlivened, at least in Sharpton’s case, with a liberal dose of brandy as they discussed the day’s events.
    “Kettle’s boiled, and the pot’s warmed, Albert,” the housekeeper said comfortably as he came in. She filled the teapot and put the cozy on.
    “Miss Imogen was out tonight, skating on the lake,” Sharpton confided as he sank into a deep chair on the far side of the hearth. “Only just come in.”
    “Good gracious.” Mrs. Dalton stared at her visitor. “Alone?”
    “I doubt that, Letty.” He reached for the brandy bottle on the hearth and poured a healthy slug into the teacup she passed him. “I think she was with Mr. Riverdale . . . not