Knock, knock, knock.
The sharp, official sound echoed through the unnervingly quiet manor at Willow's Creek. The butler, an elderly man whose loyalty had been to the house rather than its temporary occupant, opened the heavy front door. A man in a well-tailored dark coat stood on the step, his expression polite but firm.
"I am here to speak to the lady of the house," the man said, his voice devoid of warmth. "Lady Anne."
The butler bowed and allowed the man into the foyer. The house had been a place of tense, lonely waiting for months, and any visitor was an event. A maid was sent to call Anne down from her rooms.
In a few minutes, Anne descended the main staircase, one hand resting protectively on her fully protruding belly. The pregnancy had taken its toll, but it was also her only remaining asset, and she carried it like a shield.
"My lady," the man bowed as she reached the bottom step.
