"Rosehill," I guessed.
"Correct."
It didn't look like a house at all, to begin with—just a looming block of darkness screened by darker, twisted trees, but then the wind blew and the branches shifted and I saw a twinkling gleam of yellow light. It wasn't as welcoming as the light coming from the cozy little cottage at the foot of the drive. There'd be a family in that cottage, I thought, as Adrian turned the car in and we swept on past the beaming windows. A young family, perhaps, all cuddled around the telly.
But the light from Rosehill wasn't like that. It spoke to me of work, of intellect, of solitude—a student's candle burning in a lonely garret. It didn't want us there, that light. It wanted privacy.
The strange impression was made stronger by the simple fact that, though the house was huge, a great square fortress of a place, only the one ground-floor window was showing light. I frowned. "It looks as if he's gone to bed."
"At nine o'clock? Not likely. No, I'd be willing to bet that since it's Thursday—the cook's night off—our Fabia's gone out somewhere, to have supper, while the old man makes do with egg and chips in his study."
"Fabia?"
"Quinnell's granddaughter. Quite a fetching young thing. Blonde. At least," he amended, "Quinnell says she's his granddaughter." He saw my face and grinned again, urging the car up the final gasping bit of drive. "Don't worry, darling, the old boy's as harmless as I am."
"Ah."
"And don't go saying 'ah' in that superior little tone." He killed the engine, shifting around to face me. "Really, Verity, your lack of trust in me is quite appalling. Whatever did I do to deserve this?"
It was my turn to smile. “You want a list?''
"Ooh," he inhaled, feigning pain, "a fatal blow. My ego doesn't stand a chance when you're around, does it? Still," he conceded, leaning over to reach across me and unlatch my door, testing the physical power of his close contact with my body, "I am glad we're going to be working together again. We did make a wonderful team." The dashing smile came close to my own mouth, in the near-darkness. Three years ago I might have fallen for it; now I was quite blissfully immune.
"Yes, well," I said, "I haven't got the job yet." I pushed open my door and the cold night air swirled in around us both, breaking the intimate mood. He laughed and made some comment that I didn't catch because the wind stole it, and then I heard the slam of the driver's door as he came around to join me on the level sweep of ground approaching Rosehill House.
I was grateful that I didn't stumble as I walked toward the great solid shadow looming just ahead. Without the benefit of light, I couldn't see the house in any detail. I had to rely on Adrian to lead me up a sideways flight of stone steps to the front door. At least, I presumed it was the front door, because he knocked on it, and after what seemed an age I heard the bolt slide back and watched the door swing heavily inward. An elegant curse, a sharp click, and the hallway beyond exploded into brilliant light.
It was fitting, I suppose, that in the instant I first saw Peter Quinnell my eyes were dazzled.
I tried desperately to focus in the sudden blinding glare, while spots flashed crazily across my vision and the tall black figure at the door leaned in closer still, and spoke. An English voice—a smooth poetic voice that made me think of West End theaters, of words that floated upwards from a semi-darkened stage and built an image with their melody alone.
"What... Adrian, my boy," the voice said, in delighted tones. "Do come in. The wind is foul tonight, you'll both be blown away if you're not careful. Please." The figure stepped aside, in invitation. “And dare I hope that this lovely young woman is who I think she is?"
"Verity Grey," confirmed Adrian, as we moved from darkness into light and shut the door upon the violent wind.
Visible at last, my host reached down to take my hand, and smiled. "I am so very glad to meet you, my dear. I'm Peter Quinnell."
My first thought, on the step outside, had been that I'd been misinformed, somehow—that Peter Quinnell wasn't old at all. He fairly towered over me, loose-limbed and lean, not stooping, and the voice and movements were those of a much younger man than the one I'd expected. Only now, standing in the clearer light of the hallway, could I see the weary lines the world had carved into the long, still-handsome face; the whitened hair that might once have been gold; the evidence of age upon the beautifully formed hand clasping mine. His eyes, too, were the eyes of a man who had lived for many years. They were long, like the rest of him, and languid, and the lids drooped as though the effort of holding them open was too much for him.
I wasn't fooled. Behind the languor burned an intellect that could not be disguised, and though his eyes moved slowly, they were sharp. They wouldn't miss much, eyes like that.
I smiled back. "How do you do?"
"I was about to ask you the same question," Quinnell said. "You must be rather tired, if you've come up today from London. We actually weren't expecting you until tomorrow."
I flushed a little. “I know. Sorry. I just.. . well, the truth is, I'm not very good at waiting. I've been packed and ready to come since Monday, and when I woke up this morning it felt like such a good day for traveling ..." I stopped, aware that I was rambling on. "I thought, you see, that I'd be staying at a B & B, or something . .."