What they were up to, he couldn’t care less, for they wouldn’t succeed.
However, considering Sibyl’s behaviour last night, he was beginning to doubt she was a con artist, trading on her resemblance to a long dead woman. She seemed genuinely surprised at his reaction to her and stunned by his behaviour.
Though, Colin wouldn’t put anything passed a woman.
His parents were worth money, he had a large trust fund he’d never touched, substantial sums of his own, his business was worth a great deal and then there was Lacybourne. It was filled with priceless antiques, including an enormous Bristol Blue Glass collection and a centuries old accumulation of Wedgewood, all of which Mrs. Byrne knew very well, and, if Sibyl’s deft knowledge of National Trust properties was anything to go by, she did as well.
Beatrice Godwin’s portrait and the story of Royce and Beatrice Morgan had been published often in books and was still often discussed local lore. Without having to think, Colin knew of five books he’d read himself about the doomed, star-crossed lovers. The National Trust volunteers recited the story dozens of times during every visiting day. If Sibyl so desired to see his house, she would likely know its most famous piece of history.
Mrs. Byrne and Miss Godwin could easily be on a con, which made him their target.
Unfortunately for them, he had no interest in being the target but, rather, aiming at one.
And he decided his target would be Sibyl Godwin.
It was either that, or the romantic myth of star-crossed lovers was true. It could, of course (and considering his cynical nature, he did not give a great deal of plausibility to this option), be merely coincidence that this glorious American woman, who just happened to own a fluffy black cat and an enormous mastiff, crossed his path.
Further complicating matters (but likely because he’d met her yet again), Colin had a dream the night before, a dream of her in a blue woollen gown, riding on a horse before him, kissing him in a forest. Her hair was dark in the dream, like Beatrice’s, but Colin knew it was her.
Perhaps it all was just a misunderstanding. Seeing as she was out with the medic the night before, she could either be moving on as it was obvious their attempt with him would be unsuccessful or she honestly was unaware of their strange, historical connection.
If that was the case, he’d apologise to her, he’d charm her and he’d win her. Of that, he had no doubt.
Either way, he had to know.
And he had a plan.
He walked toward her home and noticed that her front door was open.
Then he heard a man shouting, “Don’t you carry any of those heavy boxes!”
As she had company, instead of seeking her out, without hesitation Colin entered her house through the open door.
He felt immediately welcomed (even though he probably was not) at the same time he was instantly transported back in time.
He was standing in a huge, open room. An enormous, circular, dark-wood dining table with lions paw feet and high backed chairs upholstered in deep rusts and buttery yellows was to his left situated by a handsome inglenook fire place. In its centre was an enormous cut-crystal vase filled with yellow roses. The entire room was painted in the same warm, buttery yellow as was in the chairs and a huge, a wrought-iron chandelier hung imposingly over the table with matching sconces affixed to the walls. There was a formidable chest against one wall, intricately, yet crudely, carved. On it were heavy, cut-crystal tumblers and sturdy decanters filled with varying shades of liquid. The decanters held chains around their necks engraved with the name of the liquor that rested inside. There was a massive mirror on one wall, framed in dark wood. There was also the portrait of a woman hanging over the chest, she had a tumble of auburn hair, flashing blue eyes and very deep cle**age. She managed to look both friendly and severe.
There was a narrow staircase rising up the wall to his right with stout beams holding it up. It looked contradictorily like it could crumble at any second at the same time completely sound. The wood of the outside banister had been lovingly refinished and there was a rope handrail against the opposite wall, leading upstairs.
The stairway separated the dining area from the cosy living room which was filled with deep, comfortable chairs and couches liberally dosed with tasselled pillows and soft throws, all of which surrounded an even larger, inglenook fireplace, which was the room’s focal point. Under the stairs, ancient, arched windows had been uncovered and lovingly restored with stained glass that was a swirl of ivory and buttery yellow. More heavy wrought iron was there, these being candlesticks in the window and higher ones standing on the floor, holding thick rust, ivory and yellow candles.
All the windows were warped with age, diamond-paned and held window seats filled with inviting cushions. There was no television set that he could see but there were bookcases filling the entire side wall beyond the arched windows. The cases had been expertly built around two big windows and they were filled with books and unusual artefacts that invited perusal.
If a woman wearing a tall, conical, pointed hat with her face half-hidden behind a shimmering veil were to walk into the room at that very moment, he would not have been surprised.
Colin felt a slight uneasiness at the entire feel of the house. It was not where he expected an accomplished con artist would live.
Then he mentally shrugged. He knew little of where such people would live and there was a good possibility, the house close to confirming it, that Sibyl was exactly what she appeared to be – a beautiful American living in England who liked to visit National Trust houses and made poor choices on who to date.
He heard noise and voices coming from the behind the house.
“I thought I told you not to carry those boxes.” It was again the gruff man’s voice.
Then he heard laughter that had to be Sibyl’s and, at the husky, sweet sound of it, Colin’s body went completely still.
There was something achingly familiar about it even though he’d never heard it before in his life.
Her voice was a charming alto, he knew. Her laughter as well, was as rich as her voice and unbelievably musical.
“It doesn’t weigh anything, Kyle.”
Through the windows at the side of the house, opened to the unusual warmth of the spring day, Colin saw an older man with a shock of white hair (but strangely, the long sideburns were still completely black) walk by. The man disappeared around the back of the house and then Colin heard a masculine “omph”.
“Doesn’t weigh anything, my arse,” Kyle said.
Again, Colin heard her familiar, effective laughter.