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“YOU SHOULD GO BACK to bed,” Randolph said. “It’s the middle of the night.”
“I should say the same to you.”
“I’m not supposed to be here,” he reminded her.
“Nevertheless, you’re here now. I doubt you want to return to the snow.”
“I wouldn’t be able to make it out. I had to abandon my car. There were huge snow drifts every which way. I don’t remember a winter so bad.”
“Are you from here?” Cora asked
“No, lassie. I’m from Inverness, the very top of the world and a top place to be. A much more sensible location with more trucks that took a speedy view of the need to discard snow. I’ll just sleep on a chair here. Or,” Randolph said, his lips moving into a roguish grin, “you could offer me space on your bed. I assure you I am quite good at keeping chandeliers off people.”
Cora flushed.
Veronica would laugh if she saw her now. Cora had a vague idea that another woman might bat her eyelashes and perhaps even smooth the lint—or in his case rapidly melting snowflakes—from his coat.
But that was not to be.
A creak sounded in the hallway, and Cora stiffened.
Probably nothing.
Weren’t the floorboards of houses supposed to be forever expanding and constricting, as if the trees were still fighting the indignity of having their bark stripped from them, and of being cut into thin slivers of their once majestic selves?
But the noise continued, and Cora recognized the plodding rhythm of careful footsteps.
The door moved open, and Cora’s breath quickened, and—
It was the butler, in his impeccable black uniform, and she released her breath.
“Miss Clarke.” He gave Cora a placid nod, but his serene expression wavered. His eyebrows seemed to have had the urge to take flight, for they soared upward. “You have a gentleman caller.”
The word may have been gentleman, but if he had said the word devil, he could not have had more disdain on his face.
Cora suddenly felt utterly improper and wanton.
Cora was a young woman alone with a young man in the middle of the night.
And she wasn’t even clothed in proper attire.
“I was not aware you had brought a guest, Miss Clarke.” Disapproval dripped from his words, with the effectiveness of kindling on a fire. “I am unfamiliar with what strange customs you might have in California, but I can assure you that in this household, the door is only answered by me, no matter your romantic urges.”
Randolph moved away from Cora. “I am afraid you misunderstood. This young lady—er—Miss Clarke happened upon me in the living room.”
“I did not let you in,” the butler said.
“I found another method,” Randolph declared with nonchalance. “No one answered my knock on the front door. I entered through the French doors.” He leaned closer to Wexley. “You will, I am afraid, need to repair those.”
The butler’s face took on a purple tint. “I cannot permit you to break and enter—”
“It was cold outside,” Randolph said.
“You mean you are an utter stranger, descending on this house in the middle of the night?” The butler kept his gaze on Randolph, but he stepped backward slightly and stretched a gloved hand to one of the large brass candlesticks.
Tension soared through the room.
The butler clutched the candlestick and swept it before him. The occasional strand of gray in the butler’s hair did not hamper his fitness.
“The Duke of Hawley invited me,” Randolph said. “Miss Clarke just told me he has passed away. I am so sorry.”
The words had an immediate effect on the butler, and suspicion eased from his face.
Cora blinked.
Randolph hadn’t mentioned he’d been invited.
“Still, the duke did not mention other visitors...” the butler said.
Surprise seemed to flicker over Randolph’s countenance, and Cora wondered whether he might, in fact, have belonged to one of the swarms of handsome men who descended on Hollywood with regularity, hoping to transform any gift of deceiving others into a monetary value.
“But perhaps he wouldn’t have mentioned it,” Randolph said. “I was supposed to arrive tomorrow, but I hoped to beat the storm. I tried to call, but—”
“The lines are down,” the butler said.
“My car didn’t quite make it. The snowdrifts were excessively sized.”
“You probably drove your car over next years’ roses,” Wexley said, his voice mournful.
“Look, let me give me you my card.” Randolph shuffled through his pockets and then removed a business card triumphantly.
The butler took it skeptically and held it to the light. “Randolph Hall, Private Detective.”
Cora inhaled sharply.
Was that why he had been hiding under Veronica’s hibiscus? He wasn’t a photographer at all? But he was, perhaps, far more dangerous? Why on earth would the duke have hired a private detective to investigate Veronica? And why would he have followed her all the way here?
Wexley tapped his fingers against Randolph’s business card. “You’re a detective?”
“The duke was adamant that he needed to speak with me in person.” His tone was suave, and perhaps it reassured the butler.
Wexley sighed. “I suppose you’ll need to speak with the young duke. Given the snowstorm, I cannot turn you out. Follow me.”