Her companion broke into her thoughts. “Not much to look at, is it?” He nodded toward the neglected rose bushes and the moss encrusted statuary. “My father has been putting the money my sister-in-law brought into the family to use on other parts of the estate but I imagine he’ll get to the house and garden eventually. If there’s any money left by then.”
Unaccustomed to hearing financial matters spoken of so openly, Drucilla was distinctly uncomfortable.
He appeared unaware of her embarrassment but changed the subject. “Celeste liked to come here alone. She often took moonlit walks about the grounds. I think she welcomed the solitude when she was feeling homesick.”
“Probably. She always enjoyed the outdoors,” Drucilla remembered.
“And then there was the added attraction of avoiding a disagreeable husband and an overbearing father-in-law.”
Drucilla blinked. “That is unkind and not an entirely appropriate remark, given the circumstances. Why would you say such a thing?”
“Because I sensed you wanted to hear it. You want to know how it was with Celeste after she came here. Was she unhappy? Was she afraid? You’re looking for answers about what happened to her and why.”
She didn’t deny it. “You said ‘afraid.’ What did Celeste have to be afraid of?”
He didn’t answer directly but stared off over her head. “I think you’re a very clever sort of girl, Miss Winterbourne. The sort who enjoys puzzling things out.”
She frowned. Was that a taunt? What did he know that he wasn’t saying?
But before she could badger him for more information, he called out over her shoulder. “There you are, Father. We were just discussing Celeste and how fond she used to be of the garden.”
Stomach muscles tightening involuntarily in anticipation of who stood behind her, Drucilla turned.
Chapter Eight
On seeing him up close, Drucilla was surprised how greatly Lord Litchfield resembled his youngest son. They shared the same build, handsome features, and dark hair and eyes. Only the elder man’s face was lightly marked with lines around the eyes and mouth and his hair was streaked with silver at the temples. He also lacked the glint of amusement that lit his son’s eyes.
“Father, I don’t believe you’ve met our guest yet,” Southorn said. “Allow me to present Miss Drucilla Winterbourne. Miss Winterbourne, my father Lord Litchfield.”
She became aware the older man was studying her critically. Refusing to shrink before him, she met his direct gaze with a challenging look of her own.
She thought she caught a hint of approval flickering behind his eyes but then it was gone. Aloud, he merely observed, “Yours is an unusual profile, Miss Winterbourne. You must sit for me sometime.”
It had more the ring of a command than a request.
“My father is a very skilled painter,” Southorn explained, at her baffled look.
“Hardly skilled.” Lord Litchfield waved the praise scornfully aside. “But I’ve dabbled for some years and am a capable amateur.”
Despite his words, Drucilla suspected anything at which the Master of Blackridge had been “dabbling” for years he would be more than proficient in. However, she kept the thought to herself. “I should be happy to pose for you, sir. It will be my first such portrait since I was a child.”
He nodded as if he had never had any doubt of her acquiescence and changed the subject.
“I regret your visit to Blackridge House must come at such a gloomy time. You would have found us a much livelier household when my poor daughter-in-law was still alive.”
Drucilla nodded in understanding and a sober mood overtook the conversation.
Lord Litchfield seemed to shake it off. “Well, I’m on my way out to meet Coles. Do not let me keep you young people.”
“Coles?” Drucilla asked when he had gone.
“Overseer of the estate. Father thinks a lot of him and he keeps things running smoothly around here.”
“I see. His Lordship seemed much affected by the loss of Celeste. I suppose she brightened the house.”
“Do not be fooled by his declarations of grief. This entire situation could not have played out better for him if he had orchestrated it himself.”
She stared. “What a shocking thing to say.”
“Yes, isn’t it? But come; don’t tell me you’re one of those young ladies who thinks if a thing is unpleasant it shouldn’t be said?”
“That depends, I suppose, on how much truth is in the unpleasant statement.”
“You doubt my word? How suspicious you are, Miss Winterbourne.”
“Not suspicious, just not as cynical as you. Why should your father be glad Celeste is dead?”
“For the same reason anyone is glad to see a terrible fate befall someone else. Because he has something to profit from it. You can be sure father is already mentally lining up potential brides to take Celeste’s place as soon as the necessary mourning period has passed. And why shouldn’t he? The family has obtained all the financial benefit there is to be gotten from that particular marriage. But my brother is young and generally agreed to be tolerable looking. He’s well-versed in the social graces and the heir to a title and a large, if somewhat decaying, estate. He’s the ideal bait, and one Father will not hesitate to use as long as there remains money to be made in the marriage market.”
He paused. “You’re very quiet, Miss Winterbourne. I believe you’re rather horrified by my family’s approach to matrimony. Or is it merely my frankness that is distasteful?”
“Actually, I’m finding your candor rather refreshing, in its awful way. ”
He looked pleased. “Good. I knew you were not one of those silly sorts of girls happy to go through life wearing blinders. That’s why I’ve confided in you to such a degree.”
“I’m flattered to be your confidante. But you’ve told me so much about Lord Litchfield and his schemes to wed Absalom to a wealthy young woman. What about your brother himself? Surely he deserves some say in these matters. Even if he allowed your father to bully him into wedding Celeste, surely he would not allow it to happen again?”
“Waste no sympathy on my dear brother. He doesn’t deserve it. I assure you he isn’t as passive to Father’s whims as you imagine. There’s a quiet, scheming side to Absalom most people fail to detect. At any rate, he’s capable of looking out for himself when it comes time to claim what he wants.”
“You sound positively harsh. Do I detect a hint of sibling rivalry?”
“It’d be only natural, wouldn’t it? Second son jealous of the elder and all that? It’s downright Shakespearean really. The firstborn gets the lion’s share of everything and the youngest son is left to fend for himself.”
She frowned. “Surely you exaggerate. I hardly see Lord Absalom tossing you out into the cold when he inherits.”
“Do not be too sure. We’ve an odd relationship, my brother and I.”
Odd was one way of describing it. Drucilla wondered just how deep the animosity between the brothers actually ran.
Chapter Nine
Immediately after her walk with Southorn, Drucilla looked in on Aunt Bridget only to find the old woman still abed.
“What is she doing sleeping at this hour?” she asked one of her aunt’s maids.
“It’s her stomach, miss. She’s been able to keep nothing down since breakfast. I imagine it’s the excitement of the long journey and finding herself in a strange place,” the girl said.
Drucilla snorted. “My aunt has never been excited in her life and she’s accustomed to travel and not likely to take sick from it.”
But in the end, there was nothing to be done but allow the old lady her rest in the hope she would feel more herself on waking.
Meanwhile, Drucilla found herself alone and without entertainment. It seemed the ideal time to poke about the house. There was something she’d wanted to do since she arrived.
After obtaining directions from a servant, she set off into the part of the
house where the family had their rooms. It was a slightly bold thing to do, visiting Celeste’s bedchamber uninvited, but she felt that, under the circumstances, her grief could be her excuse. She felt compelled to see the place.
She soon found Celeste’s bedroom wasn’t much different from her own guest quarters. Only larger and better furnished. Blue silk draped the canopied bed and the walls were papered with a pattern of blue flowers.
An extra door led out of the room and, upon trying it, Drucilla found it opened into another bedroom, presumably that of Celeste’s husband. Drucilla had no interest in exploring Lord Absalom’s private quarters and she drew the door firmly closed.
A chill whispered over her as Drucilla examined the dressing table where Celeste’s combs, jewelry, and perfume were laid out as if she might still walk in at any moment and pick them up. Celeste seemed closer here than anywhere else in the house.
Drucilla wondered if she ought to offer to pack these things away for Lord Absalom. But if was difficult to concentrate on such mundane thoughts while in this room.
She fingered a familiar jade pin thrust through the lace doily covering the table. She had given it to her friend on the last occasion of their meeting, never guessing they would not see one another again.
She wondered what the Litchfields would do with the pin, wondered what they would do with all the wealth they had so conveniently obtained through Celeste’s death. Recalling her conversation with Southorn in the garden and the earlier argument she had heard between Lord Absalom and the elder Lord Litchfield, she felt a surge of anger at this family who had used her friend so coldly for her money.
She resolved then and there to discover the truth about what had really become of poor Celeste. If there was any possibility someone had helped Celeste along to her death, that person would not long enjoy his ill-gotten gains. Not if Drucilla could help it.
She looked around her now. Had Celeste left behind some clue to her fate? If so, the oak writing table beneath the window seemed a sensible place to begin a search.
Atop the desk rested a tidy stack of fresh stationery and a pen. A slender book was open across the desk as well as a volume of poetry. Drucilla smiled, remembering her friend’s weakness for romantic poetry. Then she noted the page to which the book was opened had been torn out.
That was peculiar. Celeste usually took good care of her things.
Drucilla tried the drawers and discovered them filled with casual correspondence from Celeste’s family in London. There was nothing of interest within the letters she scanned and it seemed wrong to pry into the private correspondence, so Drucilla quickly decided to move on.
But as she shoved the letters back into the drawer something shiny caught her eye, the slender chain of necklace, disappearing as if it had somehow slipped behind the drawer’s back panel. Drucilla pressed and tugged at the panel until it popped out.
Of course. A secret compartment. They were not unusual in such old desks.
What was more interesting was the realization that her friend had felt the need to use such a private place to stash away her secrets. As if she did not wish her husband or anyone else to find them.
Mindful she had now been in this room far too long and might be interrupted at any moment, Drucilla rummaged quickly through the contents of the hidden compartment.
It was not much, this collection of treasures. A golden locket, owning the chain Drucilla had found, and a few other odd bits of jewelry that might have been hidden for their value. And a crumbled ball of paper.
Unfolding the paper, she found it was the page of a book, doubtless the missing page from the book of poetry atop the desk.
Drucilla frowned. Hiding valuables made sense but concealing a page from a book of poems seemed odd. Unless this particular poem held special meaning to the sentimental natured Celeste.
Just then, a door slammed somewhere down the hall. Drucilla jumped guiltily and shoved the rumpled page into her pocket to be studied later. As quickly as possible, she tidied the desk and returned everything to its proper place.
Escaping the room, she pulled the door closed behind her and breathed a sigh of relief. She had not been caught snooping.
Then she turned and ran directly into Lord Absalom.
Chapter Ten
“Miss Winterbourne, what a surprise,” he said.
She froze for a moment, fumbling for an explanation. “Yes, I’m sure you’re thinking I oughtn’t be here—”
“I’m thinking nothing of the sort,” he reassured her. “You are a guest and the entire house is open to you. Naturally, you wanted to visit Celeste’s room. I should have thought to show it to you myself.”
“Thank you for your understanding. It is only that I felt this tremendous longing to see the place where she must have spent so much of her last days.”
“Of course. It is an entirely natural desire. I’m afraid I’ve been neglecting my duties as host and leaving you to wander about the place on your own.”
“You have a great deal to occupy you during this time.”
“Yes, but my wife would not have wanted a guest in our home to be ignored. Such things were important to her. She was always the perfect hostess. Please allow me to soothe my conscience by showing you around the house.”
“I should enjoy that if you’re certain it would not be too great an imposition on your time and…”
She hesitated, unwilling to use the word “grief” now she knew how little affection he had truly felt for Celeste.
She rushed on with, “Your brother has actually already shown me a little of the grounds.”
“Southorn?”
“Yes, we strolled through the rose garden this morning.”
Something in Lord Absalom’s demeanor changed. His face took on a darker expression and it was only then Drucilla realized he could bear the slightest resemblance to the other men of his family after all.
“If I were you,” he said, “I would be on my guard with Southorn.”
She blinked. “But he’s such a charming young man.”
“He can be. But he has an unfortunate penchant for playing little pranks at the expense of others. I shouldn’t take too seriously anything he does. Or says.”
Was it her imagination or was there more to his warning than was immediately clear? She thought of Southorn’s hints at the discord between Lord Absalom and Celeste. Had Southorn been exaggerating their unhappy situation for his own amusement? Or was it Absalom who had reason to make his brother’s comments seem less significant?
As if sensing her thoughts, her companion changed the subject.
“Look at me. I’m boring you with details of the family dynamics. Anyway, Southorn probably wouldn’t trouble you. He generally reserves his mischief for tormenting the servants. Now come, tell me what parts of the house you haven’t seen.”
And so Drucilla spent a diverting hour in the company of Lord Absalom, who gave her a thorough tour of Blackridge House.
Only one chamber gave him pause, as if he was reluctant to reveal its interior.
“No one goes in here much, aside from me. It’s something of a workspace.”
“You mean a study?”
“Not quite. You’re welcome to come in and have a look if you like but I’ll warn you it’s a bit of a mess.”
“Now I’m intrigued. Do lead on.”
He threw open the door to reveal a cheerful room lined by tall windows admitting golden sunlight.
The only furnishings here were a collection of half finished chairs, tables, and other pieces of what Drucilla could only describe as rubbish. The floor was dirty and heaped with wood shavings, saws of various types, and carving tools.
“I told you it was my workroom,” Lord Absalom said apologetically. “Wood carving and furniture making is a pastime I took up some time ago. Father thinks it an absolute waste of time and he’s probably right. He is about most things.”
He looked uncertain.
“Nonsense. I thin
k your work is marvelous,” Drucilla lied, running her hand over the rough back of an unfinished chair. She immediately picked up a splinter.
Hiding the injured palm behind her skirt, she said, “However, you’ve taken me completely by surprise Lord Absalom. I should not have suspected you had the soul of an artist in you.”
“Nor any sort of soul at all, I suppose.” His smile was faintly sardonic.
When she did not hurry to correct him, he said, “You must not confuse me with my father, Miss Winterbourne. I’m aware Southorn has no doubt painted a black portrait of me. One I at least partially deserve, I’ll not deny. But I remain quite human, with all the feelings and weaknesses of any other such creature.”
“Unlike the elder Lord Litchfield?” she suggested.
“My father has his share of failings, make no mistake. But whether or not he possesses any of the other foibles of us mere mortals is a matter of debate.” He smiled then and she thought he could appear attractive, when he was of a mind to.
“You do not get on with your father,” she observed. She was aware she was being impolitely blunt but felt unable to help herself. “I am surprised. I should have thought you had much in common, both sharing a respect for artistic work.”
He shrugged. “My father may dabble with oil and canvas from time to time but it is nothing to him but a method of burning off excess energy. He has no real interest in anything save the estate and no ‘respect’ as you put it, for anyone but himself.” He spoke bitterly and she realized there was much more animosity between father and son than she had first thought.
She must proceed cautiously, lest he realize the depth of her interest. She certainly had no wish for him to guess she had overhead the argument between them. “He restricts your freedom I suppose?” she said casually. “No man can enjoy that.”
“It goes much deeper than that, Miss Winterbourne. The feelings between my father and myself are no secret. As a boy, he drove me hard, seeking, I think, to mold me into the image of himself. As you can see, he did not succeed. I believe that was a bitter disappointment to him. Our tense relations continued, even once I reached my majority. I would have continued my studies at school. He brought me home early to train me in my duties toward the estate. Later, I set my heart on seeing something of the world and traveled to Madrid, among other places. I felt free, happy while I was there. But my father interfered once more and wrote to order me home. You can imagine how that affected me.”