Chapter 14

14

I 'm still feeling residual guilt over what I did in the shower even after I'm dressed and heading downstairs.

When I'd wandered out of the bathroom and back into my room in nothing but a towel, I'd discovered that the bed, which I'd left as an untidy heap of bed linen piled on the bare mattress, was now completely remade and pristine.

I have to admit John the Maid is scarily efficient, and as much as I do appreciate a productive member of staff, I don't appreciate the fact that he was obviously in my room while I was in the shower.

The first thing I'm going to do when I get downstairs is grab a Do Not Disturb sign and then make it absolutely clear that no one is to enter my room if I'm in there. Mortification rushes over me, warming my skin. What if the slightly scary-looking man heard me in the throes of my orgasm? I try to remember if I accidentally groaned out Ellis' name as I came.

Christ, I hope not.

My body flushes again and I hurry down the steps, trying not to think about it too much. I'd just reached the bottom of the last staircase, the front desk and office in sight, when a figure leaps out from behind the curve of the bannister with a loud shriek and brandishing a large knife.

I shout out in shock and fall back against the steps, my heart pounding. My ass cheek throbs in pain—that's probably going to bruise.

I glare at the writing guy, Ass Pennington, who's now smiling like he didn't just leap out as if we're starring in one of the Scream movies.

"What the hell are you doing?" I exclaim angrily.

"Oh, this?" He places his finger on the tip of the blade and presses. The blade retracts into the handle, and he presses it up and down a few more times as if to demonstrate. "It's a gag knife. Plastic, of course. After all, safety first, especially considering what happened to that murder mystery actor—What was his name? Plume. Professor Plume."

"That doesn't explain what you were doing jumping at me like that. Are you trying to give me a heart attack?"

"Oh, nothing of the sort." He laughs heartily and I'm about two seconds from wringing his scrawny neck. "How are you feeling? Rapid pulse? Sweating? What was the first thought that went through your mind when you saw the knife? Was it instantaneous panic, or did you pause for a moment in confusion?"

"What?" I glower at him.

"I'm doing research"—he raises the knife and wiggles it, as if I missed the damn thing the first time—"for my book. So, tell me how you're feeling right now." He retrieves what appears to be a tiny notepad and the stub of a pencil from his pants pocket.

"Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Incredulity! Marvellous! Yes, I suppose there would be an element of disbelief. A split second where the victim couldn't quite believe what was occurring. Amazing input! Thank you so much for being such a good sport. I should have done this years ago."

"What? Leap out and scare unsuspecting and innocent bystanders?" I grumble as I haul myself off the step and rub my ass cheek.

"No." He gives a merry laugh. "Stay somewhere for the ambience." His smile widens and he almost looks manic. "Really gets the old creative juices flowing." He punctuates that sentence with a small thrust of his fist.

"Uh-huh." My eyes narrow as I eye him suspiciously.

"Ellis was telling me about his idea to host a macabre writers' retreat. Fantastic idea! I will, of course, spread the word in my literary community. Anything to help, after all."

My belly does this weird little jump at the mention of Ellis's name. I shake my head and tune out his rambling. Glancing over his shoulder, I see that the front desk is still empty.

"Hey, Pennington?" I interrupt. "I don't suppose you've seen that John guy around?"

"John the Maid?" he asks, and I nod.

"He was in my room earlier changing the bedding while I was showering, and I don't appreciate the intrusion."

"Oh." His brows draw down as if he's trying to figure something out. "What time was this?"

"About eight thirty."

"I don't think it was John the Maid then. He's been outside shovelling out the snow from the main entrance since seven. Although I really don't know why he's bothering. It's forecast for heavy snow again later today and into late this evening."

"Are you sure?" I reply, and he nods.

"The Met office seemed very certain."

"I meant about John."

"The Maid," he supplies helpfully. "And yes, one hundred percent. I'm an early riser myself, so I saw him on his way out. I'm surprised they changed your bedding though. Especially as you only arrived yesterday. Did you request it?"

"No."

"I've been here a few weeks now, and they usually only change the sheets once a week unless you request an extra set." he shrugs. "Oh well, I'm sure there's an explanation. You can always use one of the Do Not Disturb signs."

"Thanks," I mutter. "Have you seen Ellis?"

I don't want to tell him that Ellis is supposed to take me on a tour of the house. It may sound crazy, but I don't want anyone else tagging along. Mostly because I don't want to have to make the effort of small talk, not because I want his attention all for myself.

At least, that's what I'm telling myself.

"Ellis is in the dining room with Rosie. I've just come from there."

Giving a brief nod of thanks, I head out in search of the quirky little blonde. I've just stepped through the door into the dining room when I'm hit with the mouthwatering scent of bacon. My stomach gives a loud growl that surprises me, especially after the hearty serving of dinner I had late last night. I'm not usually one for breakfast. Usually it's a large black coffee on my way to whatever meeting I have first.

My feet are moving before I'm even consciously aware of it. Drawn to the heavenly scent. I enter the room and head towards a long rectangular table covered with a pristine white cloth. As I approach, I see an array of warming dishes filled with fluffy scrambled eggs, perfectly crispy bacon slices, thick sausages, grilled tomatoes, hash browns, mushrooms, and… what the hell is that? Looks like beans in some kind of grim-looking, orange-coloured juice.

I grab a warm plate from the stack at the end of the buffet and start piling it high with a little of everything—with the exception of the suspect beans. Settling at a nearby table, I pour myself a glass of orange juice from the pitcher in the middle of it and unwrap the sparkling silverware from an immaculate cloth napkin.

I cut into the sausage and raise a piece to my mouth, humming in pleasure as the flavours of the meat and herbs burst over my tongue. I glance around the empty dining room as I devour the contents of my plate. It's delicious, cooked to perfection and exactly the right temperature for a buffet-style breakfast, which sometimes have a tendency to get cold quickly.

It's a shame they can't seem to attract guests. The place may be a little shabby and short-staffed, but I can't fault them for their cleanliness or hospitality. It's a great location, private, whimsical, perfect for couples. Even Ellis' idea of hosting a writers' retreat is great. I can't help but wonder why this place is failing. It's certainly not due to neglect.

There must be a reason.

"Good morning, Morgan."

My stomach gives another one of those stupid little jolts, and I choose to blame it on the fact that I've overindulged and my belly's too full rather than that I may be developing a ridiculous fixation on the younger man.

Jesus, is this the beginning of a midlife crisis?

"Good morning, Ellis." I pick up my napkin and wipe my mouth.

"Did you enjoy your breakfast?" He smiles at me and I blink, my heart picking up a quick, hot step.

"It was g-great. Did you enjoy it? I mean your breakfast, not mine. If you've had breakfast, that is. I mean, you're working, of course, but you should make sure you eat." I almost sigh out loud. And now I'm stumbling over my words and acting like a complete moron.

What is it about this man that makes my palms sweat like I'm a sixteen-year-old with his first crush? I'm always smooth and confident with men, but ten minutes in Ellis' company and apparently I forget my command of the English language.

Oh, who am I kidding? Two minutes.

Fine, one and a half.

Fuck. I'm so glad my brother is not here to witness this. But Ellis simply smiles wider and there goes my pulse again. Perhaps I should get my blood pressure checked too.

"I did have breakfast, thank you. I had toast and jam in the kitchen. Rosie's just taken a plate up to your grandfather. He does love his sausages and bacon, although we do try to keep an eye on his cholesterol levels. He's actually in surprisingly robust health considering he's nearly ninety."

I stare at him for several long seconds before responding. "How is he this morning?"

"I haven't seen him yet," Ellis replies. "But I took him a hot chocolate last night before he went to bed..." He trails off and studies me. Pulling his plump bottom lip between his teeth, he nibbles thoughtfully. "We had a talk, and he explained that seeing you took him a bit by surprise. In his head, he still thought of you as the little boy he remembered, even though he knows you're grown now. But when you walked in and he saw you, for a moment he thought you were your dad, and… it hurt him."

I sit in silence, absorbing his words. Not sure how I feel about them, but a small part of me gets it and it takes some of the sting from his reaction to me.

"Thank you," I mutter finally.

"Maybe if you just give him a day or two to adjust, you can try again," Ellis says gently. "I don't mean to overstep, but I think it will do both of you some good if you could just have a conversation."

"Hmm," I answer, then change the subject. "So, are we still having this tour?"

Ellis brightens and nods enthusiastically. "Yes, although we have had to close off the west wing of the house and a couple of the floors."

"Why?" I frown. "Is there something wrong?"

"Oh, no," he answers easily, shaking his head. "It just saves money on the heating bills if we only heat the parts of the hotel we're using. I could take you to the other floors and the west wing because there's some really cool stuff over there, but it will be really cold."

"I see," I mutter as I continue to watch him.

"Let me just drop your plate in the kitchen." He reaches over and clears away my plate and glass before I can offer to do it myself, then hurries back to the kitchen.

I stand and smooth down my suit. In fact, I don't know why I'm still wearing one instead of something warmer and more casual. Well, no, that's a lie. I do know—it's my armour, just like it always has been. Being here in this place, meeting my grandfather, and having to possibly face unresolved feelings about my birth father has left me more unsettled than I care to admit. But before my brain can descend into an anxiety-induced tangent, Ellis reappears next to me.

"Sorry to keep you. Are you ready?" he asks, and I nod. "I thought we could start on the ground floor." He starts walking towards the exit, and I follow obediently.

We've just stepped through the doorway when Ellis lets loose an ear-splitting scream and stumbles back. I catch a glimpse of a figure brandishing what looks to be an axe and without thinking, I grab Ellis and thrust him behind me.

It takes me an adrenaline-filled second and Ellis's breathless laugh to realise it's that idiot Pennington again.

"What the hell are you doing?" I growl.

"Oh, Mr Pennington." Ellis peeks around me, still laughing, and pats his chest like his heart is racing. "You got me that time." He shakes a finger at the possibly unhinged cosy mystery slash horror writer in mock admonishment.

"Are you trying to give everyone here blood pressure issues?" I demand.

"Oh no, still researching." He waves the axe at me nonchalantly.

"You startled me so much I actually felt a bit dizzy this time," Ellis supplies. "Well done."

I twist to look more fully at Ellis and note his pretty flushed cheeks. "Why are you encouraging this lunatic?"

"Just doing my bit to help." He shrugs, and I turn my attention back to Pennington, who has the rather brutal-looking axe tucked neatly under one arm as he scribbles furiously in his little reporter's notebook.

"Feels dizzy," he mutters to himself. I fight the urge to roll my eyes and sigh instead. Mr Pennington looks up at me once he's finished writing. "It was jolly heroic of you though."

"What was?"

"The way you reacted, it was instantaneous. You didn't even think about it, just grabbed Ellis here and thrust him behind you, out of the way of imminent danger. Bravo."

"He's right, you saved me." Ellis grins up at me playfully.

"Yeah, sure, I saved you." I snort, and this time I do roll my eyes at the absolute ridiculousness of the situation. "From the crazy English writer in pink-checked pants clutching a fake axe. It's not like I gave you a kidney or pulled you out of a burning building."

"Still," he says softly, his eyes bright. "Thank you."

My heart starts to pound out an irregular staccato and I swallow, feeling awkward. "Oh, uh, well, like I said, you were in no real danger. I mean, it is fake." I spin back towards Mr Pennington and eye the axe, which looks like something a Viking would use to pick his teeth and then pillage a small village. "It is fake, isn't it?"

"What, this?" He lifts the axe up. "Of course it is." To prove his point, he gives it a swing, only to freeze in horror as the lethal-looking steel head flies off, followed a second later by the sound of something smashing.

Mr Pennington jolts at the sound and winces, then turns back towards us with his face fixed in a whoops grimace. "I will pay for that." He points at what looks to be a broken vase.

"Oh dear," Ellis sighs. "I believe that was a gift from King Ferdinand of Spain in 1504." Mr Pennington's eyes widen and his face drains of colour. "Either that, or it's the one that Rosie won in the village raffle last summer. They do look remarkably similar."

Mr Pennington closes his eyes and raises both hands with his fingers crossed. "Please let it be the raffle prize."

I glance over at Ellis, who winks at me with a devilish smile. My cock twitches at that naughty look on his face, and I'm pretty certain Ellis, who is completely devoted to this place, knows damn well it's not a sixteenth-century vase.

"Pennington, relax, Ellis is just messing with you."

Mr Pennington opens his eyes and looks over at Ellis hopefully. "Really?"

"Got you!" Ellis points at him and Mr Pennington gasps and gives a roaring laugh.

"My goodness, Ellis, you certainly did! The entire contents of my bank account flashed before my eyes just now."

"Relax." Ellis chuckles. "I'm pretty sure the person who donated it to the raffle got it from the local charity shop."

"Pennington, where did you get the axe?" I ask.

"Oh, from the storage cupboard just off the ballroom. I was out stretching my legs—got to make sure I keep the circulation going, you know. Anyway, I was exploring the ballroom, which is, of course, where poor dear Leona Falberg-Black met her untimely demise from a shoddy stage light falling on her. There was a whole load of props left over from that time period just shoved in a storage room, so I borrowed it."

"Uh, Mr Pennington," Ellis interjects, "the props left over from the film sets are in a concealed part of the old ballroom. That storage cupboard is filled with items from the history of the house."

"The axe is real?" He blinks.

"I believe it was used at the Battle of Bosworth."

Mr Pennington stares at us for several long seconds and then gives a delighted laugh, pointing at Ellis. "Ah, you almost had me there, but fool me once…" He waggles his finger before turning around and heading down the corridor towards the lobby.

"So it was a fake? As in a replica? A movie prop."

"No," Ellis says brightly as he picks up the axe head carefully and follows Mr Pennington. I hurry to keep pace with him. "It really was used at the Battle of Bosworth. It used to be mounted on the wall in the upstairs gallery, but it kept falling off because the head was loose. We took it down and put it in the storage room until we can afford to have it restored properly."

"You're all crazy," I mutter as we step into the lobby and see Mr Pennington waiting for us, still clutching the handle of the axe.

"Ellis, did you say there was a concealed part of the ballroom?" Ellis nods. "Oh," he gasps. "I'd love to see it. Would you mind?"

Ellis shrugs. "Okay," he says simply. "I was going to give Morgan a tour of the house, but we can start there."

He leads us across the lobby and into the bar where I notice a barely visible mop of white hair moving around behind the counter, and I shake my head in bewilderment. An octogenarian bartender that doesn't speak. I guess I've seen it all now; then again, I get the feeling I've barely scraped the surface with this place. I'm almost afraid to see whatever's coming next.

We cut through the bar and head into a lounge set with low tables and couches. It has the same art deco feel as the bar and although it's worn with age, it's actually remarkably well-preserved.

"Just behind that panel over there"—Ellis looks over his shoulder at me and then nods at a wall behind a low sofa—"there's a secret passageway that runs from this room all the way diagonally under the house to the conservatory at the back of the house in the west wing."

"Seriously?" My brows rise, and he nods again.

"We discovered it recently during the murder mystery weekend… or, well, Tristan and Danny did. They got engaged while they were staying here. It was so romantic. I mean, okay, there was a dead body there at the time and the police burst in, but Danny made the sweetest proposal. They are absolutely relationship goals in big blinky, shiny neon letters— GOALS ." He mouths the word goals for emphasis. "I've been messaging with Tris ever since they left."

"Why are you messaging an engaged man?" I demand a little too forcefully, not at all enjoying the strange, unfamiliar churning in my stomach. Maybe I had too much bacon.

"Because he's my friend." Ellis's forehead wrinkles like he doesn't get the question. "Poor thing's going through some really tough personal problems right now."

He stops by a door and when he opens it, I realise it's the storage room he was talking about. It looks as if it's packed to the ceiling with junk. The entire hotel is a secret hoarder's delight.

I watch as he carefully sets the axe head down, then retrieves the handle from Mr Pennington and adds it to the pile. Closing the door again, he reaches into the pocket of his pants and pulls out a small bunch of old-fashioned keys and locks the door firmly.

"There." He points the key in Mr Pennington's direction. "No more snooping about," he says in a firm but kind tone, the way a parent might reprimand a child. "If you want a proper tour of the hotel, then ask. No more helping yourself because there really is a vase that was gifted to the family in 1504 by King Ferdinand. Some of the things here may look old and shabby, but they really are irreplaceable."

"You have my word," Pennington agrees quickly, his cheeks colouring.

Thoroughly put in his place by the gentlest dressing-down I've ever seen, Pennington follows Ellis into a large ballroom while I bring up the rear.

Once Ellis switches on the lights, I take my time looking around. Much like the lounge and the bar, the room has been left with its 1930s original fixtures and feel. It's pretty amazing.

I glance over to Ellis as he crosses the space to the panelled wall on the far side, watching in surprise as he flicks open several cleverly concealed catches. It's not actually a wall I realise when it splits open in the middle and Ellis slides the two halves open on well-oiled runners. It's a divider. The ballroom is actually massive, over double the size I originally thought.

I cross the space towards him, absolutely fascinated, my lips parted in shock as I take in the sight.

I'm pretty sure this is how the Goonies felt when they discovered One-Eyed Willy's ship, The Inferno.

On the other side is a room frozen in time. It's exactly how you'd expect a film studio from the silent era to look. The sets and backdrops are still in place, a little faded but in beautiful condition. Huge old-fashioned studio lights are suspended from the ceiling.

"You'll be happy to know it is safe, despite what happened to Leona. After the accident, the lighting rigs were all reinforced, but the fledgling studio couldn't get insured and none of the backers would fund any more movies, so that was that," Ellis says from just behind me.

It's incredible. The movie cameras are all still here and intact, just a little dusty. Stacks of film reels are in piles amidst racks of costumes and true vintage gowns, shoes and accessories. There are also props everywhere.

"After the studio closed, war broke out," Ellis continues like a seasoned documentary presenter. "The house was requisitioned by the army and designated a temporary hospital. So they basically shoved the whole film studio into one half of the ballroom and sealed it off. The other half was a makeshift ward, in addition to other rooms in the house. After the war, the medical equipment was cleared out—well, most of it anyway. Some of it was moved up to the attics. The ballroom was left alone from the fifties until the late nineties. When the house was opened as a hotel, they had a nicer partition wall built to match the decor of the rest of the room. There were a few weddings and events hosted here, but even that sort of thing fizzled out eventually, and so it is as you see it now." Ellis shrugs. "Such a shame. We could throw some amazing parties and masked balls in here."

"Ellis." I turn to him slowly. "Do you have any idea how much all of this stuff is worth?"

He shrugs and shakes his head. "Not really. There's more though."

"More?" I blink.

"The whole house is filled with stuff like this." He cocks his head curiously as he looks up at me and smiles widely. "I told you there's history around every corner."