Chapter 2
2
T he cab—or rather, taxi—pulls up to my destination and I lean forward in my seat to hand over a few bills, notes, whatever the Brits call them. The driver thanks me and launches into yet another convoluted story involving a previous passenger, and I can't get the handle on the door open fast enough. If I have to sit through one more inane conversation with the man, I may lose the will to live.
Flinging open the door, I hustle out as quickly as possible. My foot is immediately submerged in freezing wetness. Looking down, I grimace at a pothole in the driveway that is filled with a muddy, snowy slush—and that I'm now standing in. My teeth grind as I clench my jaw against a fresh wave of irritation. I don't need a mirror to know the glower that has cowered entire boardrooms has once again graced my features.
Annoyed that my favourite Ferragamos are now ruined thanks to the poorly maintained driveway, I reach back into the cab and retrieve my suitcase, garment bag, and laptop case. Shutting the door, I cut off the driver, who is still mid-sentence and doesn't seem to require my input in the conversation. I turn toward the entrance and look up at the hotel.
The cab pulls away and I suck in a sharp breath at the sudden chilly slush splattering the back of my pants and cashmere overcoat. Momentarily closing my eyes, I draw in a slow breath and search for the little patience I had which I seem to have left behind when I boarded my flight at JFK.
The wind tugs at my coat and my feet are damp inside my ruined shoes, but I don't head inside, not yet. Instead, I take a moment to look around. The hotel is surrounded by fields and edged in the distance by towering trees and woodland. A thick, pristine blanket of snow covers the grounds, creating a picturesque view.
Everything is so still and silent.
For a moment, I wonder idly when I last stopped and took a breath. The truth is, I can't remember. Eighteen-hour workdays seven days a week have been my norm since my twenties, a work ethic deeply ingrained in me by my late stepfather. He'd been a good man—a workaholic, sure, but a good man, nonetheless.
My body shivers and I frown. It's not even that cold here. After all, living in New York City most of my life, I'm used to winters a helluva lot colder. I may not have been born there, but my mom was and it's the city where I grew up.
Speaking of where I was born…
I tear my gaze away from the scenery and once again stare up at the hotel. It looks a bit like a castle. Directly in front of me is a set of stairs that lead up to a huge oak door surrounded by a stone archway. To the right of the stairs is a statue of a knight riding a horse. His sword is raised high, although it's difficult to make out the details as, like everything else, he's covered in a deep layer of snow.
To the left of the stairs is a lamppost that looks like it's been pulled from the pages of a Dickens novel. Not that I've ever actually read one. The hotel—and I use that word very loosely—is at least five storeys high with square turrets at either side.
So this is the place I came into the world.
It's strange knowing that I was born and lived the first six years of my life here. I have no memory of it at all. Although, it's no great loss. I can't imagine anything profound happened to me in those early years. Sometimes I wish I could remember my birth father and the time I spent here with him and my mom, but there's nothing. My earliest memories are of my life back in the States.
After my dad died, Mom moved us back to New York where she was from. A year later, she met and married my stepfather, and two years later, my brother Warren was born. I'd thought maybe being here would jolt some kind of memory but apparently not. There's nothing, not even a hint of familiarity or a vague sense of déjà vu.
Shaking the thoughts from my mind, I reach for the handle on my suitcase and remind myself I'm not here to take a stroll down memory lane or rekindle a nonexistent love for a drafty old wreck of a house and the bleak English countryside. This is not the opener of a Hallmark movie. I'm here for one purpose alone: to see my grandfather and find out what the hell is going on in this place.
To be honest, I'd rather just ignore this side of my family tree as I have done for the past thirty three years. They've shown no interest in me and the feeling was entirely reciprocal until now. Why couldn't my grandfather just retire quietly and hunt some foxes or whatever the eccentric British upper classes do instead of causing scandals that manage to travel across the Atlantic and have the press knocking down my door for a juicy scoop?
I don't know how the hell they managed to connect the dots and put my name together with a failing hotel, a notoriously eccentric family, and a run of scandals and suspicious deaths that date back decades, but they did. Not good publicity for the hotel empire that my brother and I inherited from my stepfather.
I'm really not a sentimental person, and I feel no responsibility towards a family I may be descended from but have no real ties to. In fact, I'd rather not be here at all. God, I can't think of anything worse than rattling around in an old castle with nothing but the nearby grazing sheep and horses for company.
I shudder at the thought.
At the very least, I require a hint of civilisation, and this place? Looks and feels like the back of nowhere. Sighing heavily, I grab my suitcase and bags. Heading up the stairs, I try not to grimace as my soaked feet squelch inside my ruined shoes. When I open the door and step inside, it's to find the foyer surprisingly warm. I'd expected it to be cold and drafty. It looks as run-down as the outside of the building and has a slightly musty scent to the air like all old buildings in the UK seem to.
The foyer is huge, more like an entrance hall, with vaulted ceilings and wooden beams from which hang rather dusty… well, I can't call them chandeliers since there's not a single crystal in sight nor do they in any way have the elegance you'd expect in a hotel lobby. These look like they've been transplanted from a medieval hall. Huge circular frames made of heavy black metal with fake candles sitting atop them, strung from the high ceilings and beams by thick chains.
Tied between two beams and drooping slightly in one corner is a large banner that reads "Welcome To The Ashton-Drake Manor House Hotel's First Annual Murder Mystery Weekend!" I scowl at the reminder of the latest scandal.
Still, I'm not here to critique the décor. I'm here to see my estranged grandfather.
The floor is flagstone and covered by fraying rugs so worn that the pattern is no longer discernible. Directly up ahead, some distance from me, a rather grand-looking staircase leads to a small landing where an enormous Tudor-era portrait hangs on the wall. The staircase then splits in two, curving to the left and right and out of sight, and a tall, gleaming suit of armour stands on a wooden plinth tucked into the corner at the right-hand side.
To my immediate left is a reception desk. I'm about to head in that direction when I hear someone humming a Christmas song, which is weird and kind of annoying considering it's now the second week of January. I turn in the direction of the happy humming and find a sofa and chairs littered with open boxes spilling over with Christmas decorations. Beside the mess is a large Christmas tree, and propped in front of that is a tall ladder with a rather slim person in a white shirt and black pants and vest—who I'm assuming is a member of staff—standing at the very top. My shoulders stiffen when they teeter rather precariously while attempting to unwrap a string of fairy lights from the tree's spindly upper branches.
Dropping my bags beside the front desk, I cross the floor quickly to the foot of the ladder. Now that I'm closer, I can see that the person is, in fact, a young man with very curly blonde hair. He's balanced on the very top rung of the rickety old ladder, his arms full of twinkling fairy lights. My stomach clenches as I watch him reach up even further and attempt to untangle more wire from the tree.
"Hey!" I call up at him.
He glances over his shoulder and I just have time to register the bluest eyes I've ever seen when the ladder sways alarmingly. The pretty man yelps as he windmills his arms sending the winding loops of fairy lights flying haphazardly into the air.
Instinctively, I stumble forward, holding my arms out as he falls backwards. The ladder shoots in the opposite direction and crashes into the tree right when he lands in my arms.
I look down, and register that he's even prettier close up.
He's somewhere in his twenties, I'd guess. Too young for me. Shame , I think to myself. Those deep ocean-blue siren eyes, framed by darker blonde lashes, are wide as he stares at me. His skin is fair and he has high cheekbones and a full, pouty mouth just begging to be kissed.
"Wow, you're really strong," he says brightly and those sinful lips curve into a wide smile.
I blink slowly. It's like being blinded by the sun.
"I… er." My brain seems to have short-circuited.
"Welcome to the Ashton-Drake Manor House Hotel." He continues to beam from my arms. "How may I help you?"
"Looks like you're the one who needs help." I scowl at the few flashing fairy light strands that somehow ended up wrapped around him.
"Thank you for catching me," he says happily. "That was very kind."
"Kind?" I feel my scowl deepen. Is this kid for real? "You could've seriously hurt yourself. Where's the rest of the staff? Where's the manager? You shouldn't have been up that ladder on your own without any help. That's got to be against regulations."
"It's fine." He shrugs. "It's not the first time I've fallen off the ladder. Last time, the sofa broke my fall, and the time before that, I was only halfway up so it didn't really hurt all that much, although I did end up with a really big bruise on my–"
"Where's the manager?" I demand again as I cut him off. If this is the way they run this place, no wonder there are so many accidents and scandals. I look around, expecting one to magically appear, and it's then I realise I'm still holding him in my arms.
I clear my throat and carefully set him on his feet.
"What?" He blinks, registering my curt tone and question. "Oh, we don't have one."
"You don't have a manager?" I repeat slowly and he nods.
"The last one was Mr Lance. He left just after Christmas, refused to work under these conditions. Apparently."
"What conditions?" My eyes narrow suspiciously, but the tiny blonde man just shrugs.
"I don't know, he didn't say," he replies, clearly unperturbed by the lack of manager or explanations. "I'm Ellis." He holds out his hand.
Despite my irritable mood, my manners have me reaching out and I clasp his warm hand in my much larger one.
"Morgan Ash–" I trail off as I catch a glimpse of something and turn his palm up to read the words scribbled across his skin in pen.
Dead bodies
I glance back at him and raise one eyebrow.
"Oh." He laughs. "Just an idea."
"Just. An. Idea." I repeat slowly. "For what?" I ask in incomprehension.
"The hotel." He blinks slowly as if it should be obvious. "For extra income."
"What are you gonna do?" My brow creases in confusion "A serial killers convention? Turn one of the fields and the woodland into a cadaver farm?"
He stares at me. "I don't know what that is."
I shake my head. "Never mind." Given everything that's happened here recently, I'm not sure I'd like any answer he offered. The best thing to do is speak with my grandfather as soon as possible and then get back on the next flight to the States. "Look… Ellis, is it?"
He nods and then his gaze tracks over to my bags set neatly beside the desk. "Are you checking in?" He brightens.
"Uh, yes." I frown. "But, I came to see–"
I'm cut off once again when Ellis, forgetting he's still wrapped in twinkling fairy lights, moves towards the front desk. Before I can open my mouth to say anything, his feet tangle in the wires. He trips and falls, disappearing behind the plush armchair with a loud oomph as he hits the floor. Unfortunately for him, one string of lights is still attached to half of the tree. I watch wordlessly, my mouth falling open as it topples over and lands straight on top of Ellis.
God damn, is this guy always this disaster-prone? I'm surprised he hasn't accidentally burned the place down. Although that would solve one of my problems.
I grab the tree and pull it off him, propping it back upright before I reach down for him. "Are you okay?"
Ellis scrambles to his feet and brushes the pine needles from his uniform, then unravels himself from the lights. "Whoops," he says with a small self-deprecating giggle that I should not find charming. "I'm fine, thank you, no permanent damage."
I shake my head incredulously; it didn't even dim his smile. Ellis tosses the lights at the foot of the tree and then heads across the lobby, leaving a trail of glitter and tinsel in his wake.
"There now." He scoots behind the desk and opens a large book. "Let's get you booked in."
"With that?" I eye the ledger. "You don't have an online booking system? What is this? The Dark Ages?"
"You're such a kidder." He chuckles. "We do have a computer, but it's not working at the moment."
My gaze follows the direction he's pointing and I'm not surprised it's not working. It's a squat, boxy thing that's yellowed with age.
"Jesus, where the hell did you find that?"
"We did have a more up-to-date one," Ellis replies. "But it got broken last week when the…" he trails off and shakes his head. "Uh… you know what? Doesn't matter. It was broken by accident along with quite a few other things. We found this one, so we figured we'd use it temporarily."
"You found it?" I stare at him. "Where? 1986?"
"In the attic, although we haven't been able to get it to work yet."
"No kidding." I shake my head and sigh. "Look, I'm here to see my grand–" I break off as the coffee cup which had been sitting on top of the desk suddenly moves. By itself. It skids across the polished wood and stops in front of Ellis. "What the…?"
"Oh, don't worry about that." Ellis waves his hand airily. "It's just the ghosts."
"Ghosts?" I reply, considering his words and then shake my head. "Cute gimmick, but I don't think it'll help you much from the looks of this place. Is it always this empty?" I ask and look over my shoulder once again at the silent lobby.
"Hmm, sometimes but not always."
"Never mind," I mutter, and my eyes once again fall on the cup, which now turns in a slow circle. "What are you using on that mug?" I lean over the desk to study it more closely. "Magnets?"
"Do you mind?" Ellis sighs.
"Excuse me?" My eyes narrow at his tone.
"Oh, not you," he clarifies. "I was talking to Roger."
I once again look over my shoulder in case someone has entered the room without my knowledge, but there's no one. Just me and the quirky little blonde.
"Who's Roger?"
"The tennis instructor," Ellis replies.
"You have a tennis instructor?" I frown. "Do you even have a tennis court here?"
"Well, no," Ellis admits. "If I'm being honest, not since 1963."
"Jesus. I must be more jet-lagged than I thought because I'm not following at all."
"Do you have a booking?" Ellis lifts his pen and clicks it.
"Uh no," I murmur, mesmerised as I watch the mug slide back and forth in a lazy figure eight across the counter. "Sorry, could you switch that off or whatever?" I scowl. "It's really distracting."
Ellis glares at something, I'm not sure what, but the mug grinds to a halt.
Weird.
"Well, it's not a problem if you don't have a booking," Ellis says brightly. "We have plenty of lovely rooms to choose from."
"I'm sure you do," I reply, "but actually, I'm here to see my–"
"Name?" Ellis asks.
"Morgan Ashton-Drake."
"Oh!" Ellis gives a merry laugh. "What a coincidence. The owner of the hotel has the same name."
"How 'bout that," I say flatly.
"I mean, it's a very unusual name," Ellis continues. "What are the odds?"
"Pretty high I'd say." My tone is dry. "I'm here to see my grandfather."
"That's nice," he smiles sweetly. "Is he local?"
"My grandfather, Cedric Ashton-Drake," I prompt.
"Mr Ashton-Drake is your grandfather!" Ellis exclaims, finally connecting the dots. "That's wonderful. How lovely! He's going to be so happy to see you!"
We stand in silence for several long seconds with him smiling at me, and I find myself inadvertently losing my trail of thought again.
"So can I, then?" I finally ask.
"Can you what?"
"See him," I clarify.
"Oh no." Ellis shakes his head. "I'm afraid not."
"Why?" I exhale sharply, getting more frustrated by the moment. He may be pretty as hell but right now I don't have the patience for this.
"He's taking a nap."
I glance down at my watch. "At ten thirty in the morning?"
"Mr Ashton-Drake keeps…" Ellis twists those tempting plump lips, searching for the right word. "Unconventional hours," he finishes.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Fine. Can you just give me a room, then? It's been a long flight and I'd like to wash up."
"Wash up what?" Ellis asks.
I sigh. "Myself."
"Of course," he replies. "I'll give you our nicest room. It's got a beautiful view of the moors and with all the snow, it's so picturesque right now."
"Great," I say with little enthusiasm. "Is there someone who can take my bags up?"
"Oh, that'll be me." Ellis darts out from behind the desk and hooks the garment bag over his shoulder, then reaches for my suitcase and starts dragging it towards the staircase.
"I thought you were on the front desk?"
"I am," he says. I shake my head, too weary to question it.
"Oh, mind Brad. He has a tendency to fall over at random moments," Ellis says as he struggles with my case, hauling it up the first few steps like it's filled with bricks.
"Who's Brad?"
"That's Brad." He nods towards the suit of armour on the plinth.
"Uh-huh," I murmur.
"Well, his name's not actually Brad. His name's Sir Devron Penhalen. He gets really grumpy when we call him Brad, but it's a habit. I've worked here over ten years, and it's what we've always called him. We only recently found out his actual name, but some habits are hard to break."
"It's a suit of armour," I say slowly.
"Yes."
"Not an actual person," I point out. "It once belonged to a person. Giving it a name would be like naming your pants and vest."
He chuckles and heaves the suitcase up another step.
"Here, let me." I trot up the first few steps and take the case off him. "Don't you have an elevator here?"
"You mean a lift?" Ellis asks, then shakes his head.
"What do you do for disabled access for guests?"
"People tend to leave here in a wheelchair rather than arrive in one," interrupts a gruff female voice with a heavy Scottish accent.
I glance over my shoulder and see a small, plump woman in chef's whites march through the lobby, gripping a meat cleaver in one hand and a burlap sack in the other.
My eyes widen and I'm almost afraid to ask.
"Stew and dumplings tonight, Ellis," the woman says briskly, and doesn't even spare us a glance as she opens another door and heads through, leaving us once again alone.
"That's Aggie, she makes the best dumplings!" Ellis grins. "You're in for a treat tonight."
"This place is crazy," I mutter.
"Come on." Ellis starts up the steep stairs, still clutching my garment bag, and I follow behind him with my suitcase and laptop bag.
By the time we've reached the fourth floor, which is apparently where my room is located, I'm almost wheezing.
"Are you sure you don't have an elevator?" I lean against the polished mahogany banister to catch my breath. I'll say one thing for the staff. The place may be run-down and firmly lodged in a previous century, but it's ruthlessly clean. Not so much as a spiderweb or speck of dust anywhere.
"Sorry." Ellis shakes his head. "We do have some disabled access rooms on the ground floor, but the rest of the house is accessed by stairs only."
"Is it much further?" I push myself up and extend the handle on my case so I can wheel it to the room.
"Just round the corner."
After a moment of twisting hallways decorated with faded silk wallpaper and dull-looking portraits, we arrive at room 419.
"Here we are. This is the block of rooms we use as honeymoon suites," he announces proudly.
"Excuse me?" My brows rise.
"They're the nicest rooms we have and the ones with the most up-to-date bathrooms." He leans in closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "They even have whirlpool bathtubs."
What is this? 1998? Who even has whirlpool baths anymore? That's what hot tubs are for.
"Uh, thanks." I watch him unlock the door, but when it swings open, my heart jolts in shock as we come face-to-face with a giant of a man.
He looks like an ex-marine. His stoic face is clean-shaven and his head is bald. He's wearing black pants and a black polo shirt with a name tag, and weirdly enough, he also has a little white frilly apron on, the kind of thing that would be part of a sexy French maid's outfit. In his hand is a fluffy pink duster.
I lean in a fraction to read his name tag: John, the Maid.
The scary-looking guy gives me a slow once-over, starting at my face and traveling down my body. His eyes narrow as he takes in my damp coat and its mud splashes from the puddle to my soggy shoes, which leave a damp imprint on the carpet. His eyes narrow further.
"There you are, John," Ellis greets him warmly, as if the man doesn't look like he's about to murder me for dirtying the floor. "This is our newest guest, Mr Ashton-Drake. He's Mr Ashton-Drake's grandson. Isn't that exciting!"
John the maid growls in my direction and I find myself wanting to take an involuntary step back. "I'll be watching you, four-one-nine."
Before I can say anything, he strides past us and down the hallway.
"What the–" I mutter.
"That's just John." Ellis lets himself into my room, leaving me to grasp at the door so it doesn't swing shut in my face. "He doesn't tend to remember names, just room numbers, but he's a sweetheart. Just don't drop crumbs on the bed or leave toothpaste smeared on the sink and he's as sweet as a baby."
I glance around at the room and I'm forced to admit it's not terrible. I mean, yeah, it's dated and very, very British, but it's got a kind of quirky charm to it, I guess, with its huge wooden-framed bed and plush bedding, polished dark wood furniture and pale green walls. There are fresh flowers on the dresser and a light lemony scent to the air. There's also a huge fireplace.
"Well, I'll let you settle in." Ellis lays my bag on the bed and heads back towards the door. "Lunch will be served in an hour and a half if you're hungry. Aggie's sandwiches are the best. Today it's beef with her homemade horseradish sauce. That's a spicy, peppery sauce, by the way."
"I do know what horseradish is." I barely resist the urge to scowl.
He grins. "Well, Aggie's is the best."
"So you said."
"Anyway, I'll let you unpack. If you need anything else, let us know." He pauses at the door and turns back to me. "Oh, and don't worry if the furniture moves."
"Why would you be moving the furniture?" I ask, but he's already gone and the door is slowly swinging closed with an ominous creak.
"This place is crazy," I mutter to myself.