Free Secrets of a Perfect Night by Stephanie Laurens, Victoria Alexander, Rachel Gibson

right out on the moor, partially sheltered by a low ridge at its back. Built of red bricks, mellowed now with age, with tall chimneys crowned with ornate pots, the house stood as if it had been planted into the earth and was now a part of the landscape. Mullioned windows reflected the day’s gray light all along the Elizabethan facade. As they drew nearer, the Georgian wings with their cleaner lines came into view. The sweeping frontdrive separated the wide lawn from the front steps; all the gardens were tucked away behind the house, enclosed and protected from the weather.
    From the first glimpse, Adrian had slowed the mare, drinking in the sight of his home as if checking the reality against his memories. The snow in the forecourt lay pristine and undisturbed; they were the first to visit since the snowstorm. Very possibly the first to come to the front door in years.
    Adrian tied off the reins and handed her from the gig. Abby shook out her skirts, then, her hand in his, climbed the snow-encrusted steps. Adrian hesitated, then tried the front door, but it was securely bolted. He rang the bell; they both listened and heard it peal in the distance.
    Footsteps approached, slowly and rather warily. Bellevere was too far from the village for the Crochets to have heard the news. Then the bolts were shot back, the door cracked open, and Crochet looked out. Abby saw Mrs Crochet peering past her husband.
    They hadn’t seen their master in seven years, but they recognized him instantly. Mrs Crochet gave an uncharacteristic squeal of delight; Crochet simply beamed. They entered and Crochet shut the door. Abby stood quietly in the shadows of the paneled hall as Adrian greeted his caretakers, explaining his presence and his intention to resume permanent residence.
    “If only I’da known,” Mrs Crochet wailed. “All the holland covers are still on.”
    Adrian smoothly reassured her, explaining that today he would just look over the house. “I’ll return toMallard Cottage this afternoon. Bolt’s there. I’ll transfer here once you’ve had a chance to reprovision accordingly.”
    Mrs. Crochet nodded. “Aye—that’ll be wise. We’ve most things put by, but there’re some items I’ll need.” She smiled brightly at both Abby and Adrian. “I’ll clear the family parlor and the dining room, then, and get the kettle on, and when you’ve had your look around, if you just pull the bell in the parlor, I’ll bring you in a nice lunch.”
    Beaming, she bustled away to the kitchens. With a nod, Crochet left to tend to the gig. Adrian turned to Abby. “Would you like to wait in the parlor?”
    “No.” She stepped to his side. “I’ll come with you.”
    They went through the downstairs rooms first, Adrian pausing in his father’s study to locate paper and pencil. The huge reception rooms were in remarkably good condition. The conservatory would need to be completely remodeled but once done, the views across the enclosed gardens would be magnificent. As for the library…
    “This will have to wait until spring, when we can open all the windows.”
    Nose wrinkled at the must and the quite incredible dust, Abby nodded. They climbed the wide staircase together, pausing on the landing to exchange a glance, then peek inside the visor of the suit of armor that stood in the landing alcove. Abby giggled; Adrian grinned. They went on.
    The accommodations upstairs were extensive. Adrian took copious notes, examining fragile furnishings and demanding Abby’s opinion on what shouldbe replaced. In the viscountess’s boudoir, after admitting that, in her opinion, the entire room would need to be redone, she glanced around his shoulder at his list. “It’ll take a small fortune to do all that.”
    He glanced up; their eyes met. “So?”
    She blinked at him; his lips curved. “I have been doing something other than bolstering my reputation over the past years, you know.”
    Abby straightened. “I didn’t know”—she strolled to the