Page 23 of A Scandal for the Beastly Earl

The entrance hall of Blackthorn Manor was designed to impress, and it succeeded admirably. Soaring ceilings disappeared into shadow, while a massive staircase curved upward like a question mark. Portraits of long-dead Blackthorns gazed down with expressions ranging from stern disapproval to outright hostility. A chandelier that probably weighed as much as a small horse hung from the ceiling, its crystals catching the late afternoon light.

"Your ancestors seem... imposing," Arabella observed, studying a particularly fierce-looking gentleman whose portrait dominated the far wall.

"That's the third Earl," Lord Blackthorn said, following her gaze. "He supposedly killed a man in a duel over a game of cards. Family legend says he cheated at both."

"Charming. And I thought Thistle was the only criminal in the family."

"Speaking of which, where is your miscreant?"

As if summoned, a series of barks echoed from somewhere deeper in the house, followed by what sounded like several people attempting to give contradictory commands.

"I should probably..." Arabella began.

"Mrs. Fielding will handle it," Lord Blackthorn interrupted, gesturing to a formidable woman who had separated herself from the line of servants. The housekeeper was perhaps fifty, with iron-gray hair and the bearing of someone who had never met a crisis she couldn't manage.

"My lady," Mrs. Fielding said, dropping into a curtsey that managed to convey both respect and assessment. "Welcome to Blackthorn Manor. I've taken the liberty of having tea prepared in the Blue Salon, unless you'd prefer to go directly to your chambers?"

"Tea would be lovely," Arabella said, grateful for the prospect of any familiar ritual in this overwhelming place.

"This way, my lady."

The Blue Salon, as it turned out, was only partially blue and seemed to have aspirations toward being a ballroom when it grew up. The walls were covered in silk damask that had probably been the height of fashion during the last king's reign, and the furniture looked as though it had been designed by someone who believed comfort was a character flaw.

"It's... impressive," Arabella managed, perching on a settee that seemed determined to make her maintain perfect posture whether she wanted to or not.

"It's hideous," Lord Blackthorn corrected, taking a chair across from her. "My grandmother decorated it. She believed that suffering built character."

"Did it work?"

"I have an exceptional character and a deep hatred of blue damask."

Tea arrived on a silver service that could have doubled as a mirror, accompanied by enough delicate sandwiches and cakes to feed a small army. Or one enthusiastic dog, who chose that moment to come into the room, tail wagging and what looked suspiciously like meat pie crumbs around his mouth.

"Thistle," Arabella said in a warning tone.

He attempted to look innocent, failed spectacularly, and settled for leaning against her skirts, leaving muddy paw prints on the cream silk.

"Your dog," Lord Blackthorn observed, "has been here less than ten minutes and has already corrupted my kitchen staff."

"That might be a record, even for him."

"I'm not sure whether to be impressed or appalled."

"Both is traditional where Thistle is concerned."

Mrs. Fielding appeared, slightly flushed. "I apologise, my lord. The dog was... persuasive."

"Persuasive," Lord Blackthorn repeated dryly. "Is that what we're calling theft now?"

"Cookie, that is, the Cook, my lord, may have been somewhat... charmed by his enthusiasm."

"Cookie?" Arabella asked, trying not to smile.

"The. Cook, officially," Mrs. Fielding explained. "But she's been Cookie to the household for so long that no one quite remembers to use her proper name."

"And she's already fallen victim to Thistle's charms?"

"She mentioned something about his soulful eyes and tragic circumstances, my lady."