Citrine eyes brimming with tears, Hendrix met her gaze in the rearview mirror. He smiled. “The White Hare welcomes you, my liege. Less than a minute on the property, and the bond is already forming. With you here, the inn will soon return to full health, to her former glory, and we will enjoy full occupancy once more.”
He sounded thrilled by the prospect.
Ferguson frowned. “You need to explain what just happened.”
“It is not my place. When you are ready, the Parkland will introduce itself.”
“That doesn’t make any sense. How am I supposed to—”
“Patience, my liege. All will be revealed in due time.”
In due time. Sounded like the title of a bad soap opera. One she wanted no part in.
“Patience isn’t my forte, Hendrix.”
He chuckled. “Never too late to start learning some.”
“Excellent advice,” Cuthbert said, snotty tone out in full force. “How long have I been telling you that?”
“God save me,” she grumbled, skewering the butler with a nasty look before turning it on the gorgon. Her glare bounced right off him.
Clenching her teeth, Ferguson slammed the binder closed. Hendrix’s smile turned into a grin. She scowled at him, then decided to let it go…for now. Arguing with the gorgon wouldn’t get her anywhere. He was entrenched, convinced his way was the best way, so… time to put her business hat on and get into the nitty-gritty. All the pesky details she needed to know in order to run the inn and turn a profit.
“How many rooms inside the inn?”
“Not rooms, my liege—suites.”
“How many?”
“Sixty-seven,” Hendrix said, maneuvering around a fountain featuring three stags, twisted manes flying, front hooves rearing. Bare-chested warriors sat on their backs, swords raised high, faces twisted in maniacal lines. “Though some guests prefer to stay in the stables.”
“The stables,” Cuthbert muttered with disdain.
She threw him a warning glance. The last thing she needed was more of his opinions—or to deal with the butler’s hoity-toity standards. Later would be soon enough to listen to him grumble about propriety and the way things ought to be done in a proper household.
“Sixty-seven,” she murmured, wondering what The White Hare pulled in each year. The revenue must be healthy, much more interesting than Taylor & Co.’s. The tips of her fingers began to itch. God, the fun. She could hardly wait to crack the books open and take a look. She loved numbers, enjoyed accounting and doing a business planning (much to Jethro’s frustration and Cuthbert’s everlasting delight) more than baseball fanatics loved statistics.
“Not including your private flat.”
She blinked. “I have an apartment?”
“Of course, my liege. A very beautiful one, as befitting your station.”
“You make me sound like royalty.”
“To us, you are.”
Cuthbert perked up at the news. Staff in the Victorian Age shared their employer’s status. The higher the status of those you served, the more elevated your position in society. Or so the butler kept telling her.
Ignoring Cuthbert’s renewed interest, she tucked the binder back inside her bag, then turned to examine the grand portico. Jutting from the front of the manor, three arches made a home amid gothic architecture, creating a protected cove. She made some quick calculations. Wide, long, and deep. Lots of room. Enough to park eight or nine cars bumper to bumper, or three large carriages pulled by teams of four horses. She twisted in her seat, looking out the back window as Hendrix drove beneath the structure.
The vaulted ceiling and attention to detail set her imagination on fire, as did the frieze tucked in the corners, stretching from column to column. Her mouth curved. Trolls—a whole army of ugly carved in stone, each making a grotesque face from his lofty perch above her head.
Cuthbert sighed in disapproval.
She smiled. “So far, so good.”
The driver’s door opened and closed.
Ferguson slung her bag over her shoulder, then pulled on the door latch and pushed it open. Helped along by Hendrix, the heavy panel swung wide.
Slithering backward, he gave her the space she needed to exit. “If you’ll follow me, my liege, I will show you to your—”
Hinges hissed. The double doors fronting The White Hare banged open.
A giant rodent dressed in a blue blazer thundered over the threshold. “Hendrix! Thank the stars, you’ve returned!”
Her mouth fell open.
With a flick of his scaly tail, Hendrix turned to face the rodent-slash… Well, she didn’t know what it was exactly. Not a rat or mouse, more like—
“Terrible news, I tell you!” Wringing his paws, the man-sized rodent hopped across the cobblestones. His velvet suit jacket bunched up. The burgundy tie he wore flew over his shoulder as his tufted ears twitched, swiveling forward only to fold back flat against the side of his head. “Terrible…terrible…terrible!”
“What is it, Ascot?” Hendrix asked, calm in the face of his employee’s panic.
“Oh, sir, you’re never going to believe it.”
Hendrix raised a brow.
Ascot’s whiskers quivered. “There’s a dragon in the parlor.”
“Which one?”
“The innkeeper’s private study.” Beady brown eyes turned in Ferguson’s direction. “I’m so sorry, my l—”
“Liege,” Hendrix said, interrupting Ascot before he broke her rule.
“Err, liege,” Ascot said. “I tried to keep him out. Truly, I did, but you know dragons. They’re impossible…impossible, impossible, impossible!”
The panicked screech echoed under the portico. As the wind carried it away, Hendrix glanced at her.
“I’ll handle it,” she said, stepping into the breech without knowing why.
Chalk it up to the alarm she saw in Hendrix’s eyes, or maybe the fact she disliked that a dragon was frightening her staff. The reason didn’t matter. Neither did the look of horror on the Hendrix’s face. She needed to prove to herself, and everyone else, that Mavis knew what she was doing. By choosing Ferguson as heir, her godmother had signaled her intent, believing she could manage the inn.
Which meant she needed to start doing it. Right off the bat. No way would she fold at the first sign of trouble. She’d quit her job, gotten on a plane of her own free will, and left a country she loved for one she no longer knew. No time like the present to put her stamp on the place.
“My liege, I think perhaps—”
“Do me a favor, would you, Hendrix?”
He swallowed. “Of course.”
“Lead the way.”
“You’ve only just arrived.”
“I don’t care,” she said, gesturing toward the towering front doors. “There’s a dragon in the parlor, Hendrix, and that simply will not do.”
His lips curved.
She nodded back and, waving him ahead of her, followed him beneath the watchful eye of frowning trolls to the front entrance. He slithered. She walked, gaze roaming the pictographs craved into the face of the wooden doors. Hendrix opened one for her. She sailed through, shoulders square, only one thing on her mind. It didn’t matter that she had no idea what she was doing. She must earn her staff’s respect by taking the reins and solving the problem. Now, not later, after she settled in.