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Beck walked to the picture. He placed a hand on the canvas. Beneath the light touch of his fingers, the wigged beauty in the
portrait laughed up at him. She sat at a pianoforte beneath a blue sky and surrounded by the dark green of the forest. A chill
went through him. Why would the woman in the portrait be in his dreams? He had never been to Colemore. He’d definitely never
met this woman with her stubborn chin that spoke of strong character.
“Ellisfield said this was the last marchioness?” he asked, his gaze not leaving the picture.
Gwendolyn set her books on the desk and stood beside him. “He referred to the portrait as his aunt. She drowned trying to
save her son. Have you heard the story?” She didn’t wait for his answer. “Her son was very young, and they believe he fell
into the river close by. The thought is that she drowned attempting to rescue him. They both died, and the current marquess
inherited.”
The story disturbed him, but in a way he couldn’t explain. He looked away from the picture, taking in the quiet of the small library. The back of his neck tightened. There was danger here. He had a flash of memory, of the glint of the knife Olin Winstead had used to attack him, of the man’s dead body in the passageway between the brothels. The dreams had been a warning, but he’d not had one of late. What had he involved Gwendolyn in—?
“I am not leaving,” she said, accurately reading his mind. “You are a formidable bodyguard, Mr. St—” She caught herself. She
looked toward the hall door as if she had finally become aware of the danger if they were overheard. He wished he’d listened
to her and shut it when she’d suggested. At the time, he’d been more concerned over suspicious minds if they were discovered
alone behind a closed door together. Golden-brown eyes returned to him. “—Mr. Curran,” she said as she corrected herself.”
Her voice very quiet, she continued, “Your presence seems to have ruffled feathers and in a surprisingly short period of time.”
He nodded.
“Then let us sow doubt. Let us continue as if we are who we say we are. If there is a connection between you, this portrait,
and Colemore, someone will show their hand. They always do. That is a bit of gambling wisdom my father taught me. Best of
all, Lady Orpington’s campaign to reinstate the whist tournament will keep everyone stirred up. There is nothing close company
like a house party enjoys more than a contretemps.”
“Contretemps?” he echoed. He smiled. Her sensible words and patient tone were helping him to recover a sense of balance. Dreams were strange things. He didn’t believe anyone could see the future, but he had experienced moments he thought he’d lived through before. Moments he’d believed he’d dreamed. Now, looking at the picture, he wondered if he was merely imagining this was his singing woman, possibly because she sat at a pianoforte. In his dream, her hair was as dark as his own, and hundreds of women had lively eyes and determined chins. He felt himself relax.
“A quarrel,” Gwendolyn said as if, from his silence, he needed the word contretemps explained. “An opportunity to watch two old friends bicker back and forth. It will keep the other guests amused. Meanwhile,
we discreetly ask questions.”
“ I can ask questions. You don’t need to be involved further. I mean those words, Miss Lanscarr. No more prying on my behalf.”
“But I have been successful, haven’t I?” She nodded to the portrait, proof that she had helped him. He might have discovered
the painting on his own, but not the story behind it.
She’d also calmed him down when his inclination was to bolt, to drag her out of Colemore if need be. But now, well, she was
right. He could appreciate a sounding board. “Come, we are required at dinner.” He offered his arm, but she didn’t take it.
Instead, she confronted him, her voice low. “Understand this, sir. This is the most excitement I’ve ever had in my life. You are not going to run me off. Especially since I can ask the questions you can’t. Frankly, I think Lady Middlebury is not
happy you are here because she knows you are her husband’s son.”
She could be right.
And he realized a truth—he wanted to collaborate with her. He hadn’t liked seeing Ellisfield cozying up to her. It had made
him want to pack her up and send her back to London. However, Gwendolyn was also an antidote to Violet and those pesky debutantes.
He wasn’t in danger of reigniting an old flame. Violet had jilted him. She could send all the longing looks she wished his
way. They would have no impact on him. The door had closed between them. As for Miss Purley and her friends, he preferred
a more spirited woman.
“What did I overhear that drunken fop say to you?” Beck asked.
“Do you refer to Lord Ellisfield? He seems to have sobered considerably from this afternoon.”
“The name still fits. You knew who I meant.” He took a beat and then added, “Except... Except he did call you ‘quite extraordinary,’
Miss Lanscarr.” He paused and then said, “He’s right. You are.”
Gwendolyn blinked as if startled by the compliment. Her lips spread into a smile so broad, he had a desire to compliment her
every day and every hour.
And then she almost destroyed his regard for her by saying, “To be honest, I find Lord Ellisfield rather charming.”
“In what way?” Beck challenged her.
“He is capable of introspection, something that isn’t common of his set.”
So she thought kindly of Ellisfield? That was no excuse for Beck to hope the man roasted in hell, but it was a start.
She continued, “He understands that his title and his wealth don’t come from his work or by way of his hands or his brain.
It is just a happenstance of birth. And of death. He has a title because someone died.”
“That is the way of all inheritances.”
“It is still weighty, isn’t it? One person’s good fortune depends on another’s misfortune?” She gave a shiver at the thought.
“He can always do whatever he wishes with his life. His family is rich enough. There is the military, government service,
the clergy. Many things he could do besides spending his days drinking with his mates.”
“Except he is the oldest son. Many families don’t wish for the heir to be in danger.”
“No, that is just for lads like me who had to put their lives on the line to make something of themselves. A marquess’s son
is not put on the front lines. He would have been more in danger in the clergy or wandering around Parliament.”
“I told you it weighs on him. He confessed to me that he shouldn’t have been the heir. That his father was a younger brother
who inherited the title after a child died. This was the tragedy Lady Orpington spoke of earlier.”
Beck doubted Ellisfield was as sensitive as she believed. And yes, the death of a child was tragic but war had taught Beck the world was full of such heartbreaks.
He nodded to the door. “We should join the company for dinner before it is noticed we are late.”
“You are right. I have no desire to earn a reprimand from the marchioness.”
Beck checked the hallway. It was empty, but he could hear voices drift up the stairways. That meant the other guests had left
the reception hall. “Come,” he said.
Gwendolyn nodded and followed him out the door. As they walked, she had to finish her thoughts on Lord Ellisfield. “I do give
his lordship credit that he realizes he has advantages others do not have.”
Beck grunted a response. He didn’t like Ellisfield—not if Gwendolyn was going to defend him.
By the time they reached the ground floor, the main hall was empty. Sounds of conversations and chairs being scooted across
the parquet could be heard from the dining room.
The butler stood by the dining room door, apparently watching for stragglers. “Mr. Curran? Miss Lanscarr?”
They hurried toward him.
“Please come with me. We are ready to serve.” The butler didn’t wait but led the way, assuming their compliance.
In the paneled cavern of a dining room, the longest table Beck had ever seen had a setting for everyone. All forty to fifty-some guests. Many were neighbors who would not be spending the night. However, they would be taking part in the activities.
Beck couldn’t help but be impressed. The linens were white. The glassware sparkled under the candlelight. The silver was heavy
and expensive. Some of the female guests wore colorful ostrich plumes in their hair as they would in London. Lady Orpington’s
onyx jewels reflected the light. Magpie was not there, Beck noticed... although he wouldn’t be surprised if she was under
the table.
Everyone stood behind their chairs, waiting for the nod from their hostess to be seated. A footman was in position behind
each guest to help pull out chairs and to cater to their individual needs.
Lady Middlebury remarked upon his and Gwendolyn’s tardiness as they took their places. “Ah, the last of the guests.” She addressed
the butler. “Now all we need, Nathaniel, is my lord, and we may begin.” The butler went off to search for his master.
Beck noticed that Ellisfield was seated close to the head of the table where his mother and Miss Purley would sit. The marchioness obviously hoped for a match between her son and the wealthy banker’s daughter. So Beck did receive a bit of satisfaction when Miss Purley sent a welcoming smile in his direction. Ellisfield appeared not to notice. Instead, his lordship’s gaze wan dered down the table to where Gwendolyn stood between the admiral and the local rector. Beck couldn’t remember his name. However, both men were aged and,
he was certain, boring. He couldn’t have chosen better companions for her. As for himself, he was across from Violet. Her
husband was located near Ellisfield.
Gwendolyn was right. From the seating arrangements alone, he deduced Lady Middlebury knew he wasn’t Nicholas Curran.
On Beck’s left was a giggling Lady Julia, and a very interested Lady Beth was at his right. They greeted him eagerly, ready
to flirt, while Violet sent him heartfelt, searching looks as if yearning for a sign that his affection for her had never
died. He wasn’t interested in any of them. No, his interests lay in the woman he should leave alone if he truly cared for
her... Gwendolyn.
He shifted to look down the table at her. She appeared to listen intently to the admiral, her expression one of interest.
And of grace... with the candlelight giving her cheeks a golden glow and the shadows highlighting her expressive brows,
the line of her lips, the curve of her neck... and the curve of her breasts...
Beck wasn’t one given to the nuances of a person. A woman attracted him, or she didn’t. A situation benefitted him, or it
didn’t. Life was as it was.
But with Gwendolyn, he noted all the subtleties. He heard the sound of her voice in his head, her earnest suggestions, her retorts when she felt he didn’t value her... but he did value her. He trusted her.
The room around him buzzed with the conversation of guests introducing themselves and making small talk while they waited
for a sign from their hosts. Gwendolyn glanced his way as if she sensed he watched her. Her lovely lips twisted in a rueful
smile, and it was as if she knew he was happy her dinner partners were not Ellisfield, but old men. He raised his brows in
a show of mock sympathy, and her smile widened to one more genuine, just as he anticipated.
And in that moment, something hard around his heart cracked.
It was a strange sensation. He hadn’t even realized he’d closed himself off. He’d thought he was fine, that he was good on
his own.
Had he sealed himself off after Violet’s betrayal, as Jem had suggested?
Or had he always been that way—a child rejected by a mother who hadn’t wanted him and a father who had minimally acknowledged
him?
He wasn’t certain. He had never been one for deep introspection, until now. Until Gwendolyn.
And losing her, because he must let her go eventually, would be crushing. But he would manage. Didn’t he always manage...?
Violet said something to him. He smiled without bothering to understand what she said—
“The Marquess of Middlebury,” the butler declared, his voice carrying over the conversation that came to an abrupt halt.
All turned toward the door.
Beck would have to look behind him. His thoughts had been so occupied with his quest for the singing woman—and with Gwendolyn—he’d
not had a moment to ruminate on coming face-to-face with his sire for the first time. Perhaps purposefully? He now prepared
himself. He was no longer a boy with childish dreams of a parent. He hadn’t needed the marquess then; he didn’t need him now.
However, he was curious as to what the man looked like.
The gathered company waited. The announcement had been made. The marquess should walk through the door.
Instead, nothing happened. No one entered the room.
The marchioness was not amused. She looked over to the butler who, almost comically, stood silent, expectant... for a man
who did not appear.
It was decidedly odd.
At last, Beck broke down to glance behind him just as a figure appeared in the doorway. Middlebury.
Beck apparently had his father’s height. The man was lean, his body silhouette far less muscular. He was too thin, almost
as if he was ill. On the other hand, he and Beck did share a nose. As did Ellisfield, Beck realized, truly grasping for the
first time that Ellisfield and his brother and sister were his half siblings.
However, there were more physical contrasts than similarities. Beck was not a younger version of his sire. His lips were thinner, his jaw more square, his shoulders broader.
Then there was the coloring. All of the Middleburys were fair. Beck’s hair was black. Not as dark as Gwendolyn’s but the color
of shadows with more brown tones.
Even more curious, or perhaps not, Beck felt no connection to this man. In fact, if they had met on the street, they would
have passed each other as strangers.
He’d had more of a reaction to Lady Middlebury than his father.
The marquess went to his chair at the head of the table. He stood, taking in the room. His gray eyes rested on Beck. He frowned.
The world around Beck stilled. Did Middlebury see the similarities as he did? Did he recognize some element of himself in
Beck?
For his part, Beck felt a detached indifference, even as the man studied him.
Lady Middlebury broke her husband’s concentration, saying, “My lord, we are famished.”
His attention turned to her. He smiled, and Beck could almost believe he’d imagined his sire’s scrutiny. Certainly no one
else in the room appeared to notice. “So sorry, my dear.” Lord Middlebury raised his voice. “My regrets to all of you. I lose
myself in my research. Please, take your places.” The footmen pulled out chairs.
The marquess waited until all the guests were seated and, while he still stood, said, “I wish to welcome you.”
He had a raspy voice. His words were measured as if parceled out.
Lady Middlebury had also not taken her chair. She stood close to her husband. Beck suddenly had the feeling that he had seen them standing together before.
But he couldn’t have. Was his mind again playing tricks?
“Enjoy Colemore,” their host encouraged them. “I shall not be hunting. My sons and son-in-law will happily lead you.” He nodded
to Ellisfield and to Lord Martin, his youngest son, and to Lord Grassington, who was married to his daughter, Miranda, Lady
Grassington.
“However,” the marquess continued, “I look forward to enjoying your company at dinner every evening. My wife and I take delight ”—he put emphasis on delight as if he had been rehearsing his speech—“in your presence.”
Beck noticed his hand shook as he gestured, and his fingers were ink-stained. Up until then, he had kept both hands at his
sides in tight fists. The man was not well.
“I shan’t stay,” Lord Middlebury informed them. His guests groaned their disappointment. He made a tight smile to express
his appreciation of their mild protests. “My research needs me. You understand. Now, if you will excuse me?”
“My lord—” Lady Middlebury started as if to encourage him to stay, but he was already walking toward the door.
Beck frowned. What the devil was wrong with Middlebury? Because something was not right.
He was also not the only one to think that way. Looks around the table were exchanged. Eyebrows raised. Did that mean that this was the first year he had behaved in this manner?
Then, to Beck’s surprise, Lady Middlebury took her husband’s chair. She signaled to the butler, and service began. From the
other side of the room, two doors opened, and footmen charged out, carrying tureens of soup as the first course. The footmen
lining the walls began pouring wine into glasses. There were more servants than there were guests so that every need could
be met.
The conversation picked up its previous tempo. Everyone carried on as if the marquess’s behavior had not been strange. Beck
looked over at Lady Orpington and caught her instructing a footman to butter her bread. Apparently she could not be bothered
with such a mundane task.
Perhaps, for this group of people, Lord Middlebury had seemed normal. He marveled at the resilience of the English character.
Dinner became an interminable affair. It seemed to take ages for the courses to be served. Beck found his impatience growing.
He wasn’t one for sitting for long periods of time, and he did not like small talk about matters of no consequence. In between
all the flirtatious comments and Violet’s many attempts to reminisce about the past, a man down the table from him wished
to know where he’d gone to school.
Beck thought that a silly but common question. He answered “Faircote,” and reliably pre dicted the man would be unimpressed, which was true.
The man wondered if Beck was interested in where he went to school. Beck ignored him.
Ellisfield appeared just as annoyed with the dinner as Beck was. There was a tightness to his jaw and, most telling of all,
he’d stopped drinking. Beck wondered if his dissatisfaction was caused by his father’s appearance or the fact that his mother,
instead of offering the seat at the head of the table to her oldest son and the heir, had taken it for herself.
Finally, dinner was finished. The women wasted no time in withdrawing so that the men could enjoy their port in peace. Ellisfield
jumped into that seat at the head of the table the moment his mother left it.
Beck was not interested in lingering.
Excusing himself by saying he felt a need to check on Lady Orpington’s servant, who had been injured in the fall off her coach,
he escaped the room. What he really wanted to do was find Jem and hear what he’d learned over the past week. He wanted the
rumors and the bits of gossip servants shared.
As he was leaving, Randell remarked he didn’t understand why anyone worried about a footman. Beck kept walking. Arguing with
the entitled was pointless.
Out in the passage, he shut the door on the dining room and moved toward the grand hall. A footman had informed him that if he went through the West Wing and out a far door, there was a path that led to the stables.
Beck had just reached the main hall when he overheard Lady Middlebury and Lady Orpington arguing in low, angry tones. They
sounded as if they stood on the staircase closest to him. He took a step back, hoping no one came out of the dining room and
caught him eavesdropping.
“I told you there will be no whist play this year,” Lady Middlebury said.
“You can’t stop us playing whist,” Lady Orpington answered. “We’ll play it if we like.”
“Not under my roof.”
“You are being ridiculous, Franny. Or do you fear losing to me?”
“What is the matter with you, Ellen? I’ve lost to you in the past. I am not that petty.”
“Then prove it. Let us play.”
“No.”
“Why are you denying me? Why are you denying my husband?”
“And there it is.”
“What?”
“Another accusation that I was unfair to Orpington.”
“You were.”
“And that I may have precipitated his death?”
“He was greatly upset by your—” Lady Orpington paused and then said almost defiantly, “Gloating.”
There was a heated beat where Beck could imagine Lady Middlebury not appreciating such an accusation. Then she said, a chill
in her tone, “And so your answer is to betray my husband?”
“What does Middlebury have to do with this? Middlebury is not a player.”
“You don’t have a nephew.”
Beck sucked in his breath. She knew Curran was an impostor.
However, Lady Orpington didn’t flinch at the accusation. “I do. He was at the table tonight. Miss Purley found him quite entertaining.”
Beck could have kissed her for her courage and aristocratic hauteur. She sounded convincing.
“I know who he is,” the marchioness assured her.
“Nicholas?” Lady Orpington was very good.
“I don’t know his name. Except it is not Curran.”
“Franny, are you feeling well...?”
“No whist.”
“You don’t have the power, even under your own roof, to keep us from playing,” Lady Orpington calmly responded.
“Don’t anger me, Ellen. I am never good angered.”
“We are guests, and a number of us enjoy cards.”
“Then you can leave.”
“Franny, come back here . Franny, we are not done.”
Except they were. It was hard to hear footsteps on the stairs’ thick carpeting, but Beck could imagine their hostess marching
away to join the ladies wherever they were.
Lady Orpington still lingered. “She is the one being ridiculous,” he heard her mutter to herself. “And we will play cards.
We will,” she added childishly. Then he heard her follow Lady Middlebury with a heavy sigh.
Beck stepped out from the nook where he’d secreted himself. He was lucky that all of the servants were apparently busy with a full house so he’d not been caught.
He swiftly found the door to the outside. The grounds were lit with lamps, a nice touch and probably more of a sign of the
Middlebury wealth than anything else Beck had seen.
Out in the stables, he found his man, Jem Wagner, in good spirits. A large group of drivers and stable lads sat around a fire,
talking horses and swapping stories that were probably lies but good to hear.
Jem noticed Beck immediately when he made an appearance at the edge of the circle of light. He’d probably been watching for
him.
They walked into the darkness.
“A good group?” Beck asked.
Jem chuckled quietly. It wasn’t lost on Beck that the tip of his friend’s nose was red, as it always was when he was a bit
foxed. “Probably better than what you have up at the house.”
“I’m certain you are right. So, anything interesting?”
“We’ve been telling ghostie stories. They claim there are spirits here.”
“Such as?” Beck asked, only mildly interested.
“Did you know about a drowning years back?”
Beck’s interest was piqued. Another mention of a drowning. Or was it the same one Gwendolyn had spoken of? “The last marchioness?”
“Ah, you heard of it already, have you?”
“Only that she drowned.” Wanting to hear Jem’s telling, Beck said, “What do the servants say?”
“That she haunts the forest down by the river. After her husband died, she built a cottage on the river’s banks. That is where
they say she can be heard singing...”
Wagner’s voice trailed off, tellingly. He waited a bit and then said, “They say she sings. Like the woman in your dreams.”
“Singing is a common activity, especially amongst women.”
“True,” Jem replied easily enough. “Course, I grow suspicious when I hear about a family of deaths all at one time. Did you
hear about how her husband died?”
“Her husband? I heard them say he collapsed. Probably his heart.”
“Maybe. He wasn’t that old. That’s what the lads say. She had just given birth. Her son was a babe when he took the title.”
Seeing Beck listened, Jem continued. “They claim she grieved deeply after her man’s death. She and her husband’s relatives
didn’t rub along too well. Our current Lord Middlebury complained she didn’t listen to his advice. They had rows over it.
She wouldn’t listen to any of the family and said she didn’t need to because her son was the marquess. Supposedly for that
reason, she built the cottage. It was a place to escape. Or at least, that is what the servants and villagers believe.”
Beck thought of his father’s behavior at dinner, the marchioness’s abrupt manner. “I can see that.”
“She was also heartbroken. Merton, the stable head, knew her. He said before her husband died, she was always the merriest of women. Frankly, I think Merton was half in love with her. They all were. The lads said she was a looker. However, after her husband died, the only things that made her happy were her music and her son.”
Beck thought of the woman sitting at the pianoforte in the portrait. The artist had caught her optimism in the light of her
eye and in her smile. In that moment captured in paint, she trusted that her future would be everything she expected of it.
Apprehension for her tightened his gut.
“Now remember,” Jem said, “this is a ghostie story. She would go to that cottage often. She’d take her son, and they would
stay there for hours. However, one day they didn’t return. They also weren’t at the cottage when someone went to look. They
had just vanished. A search party was formed. Merton and a few of the others over there”—he nodded to the fire—“were a part
of it.”
“What did they find?” Beck asked.
“That river isn’t a big river, but the waters move fast. The mother and son had disappeared shortly after a spring storm, and the banks were swollen over. Her little boy, the marquess, was said to be always going for a tumble or finding trouble—I have one like that. He is rarely where he should be and often where he shouldn’t. Makes me want to hang him up on a peg until he learns some sense.” He shook his head in parental disgust before saying, “They think the child may have fallen into the water. It would have been like him. They believe she might have gone in to save him and drowned. They found her body downriver a few days after she went missing.”
“Who is the ‘they’ who says these things?”
Jem shrugged. “I don’t know. ‘They.’ Merton. The others. The searchers.”
Beck nodded, frustrated by the lack of details.
“This is just a story,” Jem reminded him. “Well, except it is true the marchioness drowned.”
“And her son?”
“Gone. I asked. Merton said they never found his body. A small child doesn’t stand a chance in a heavy current. Not much weight
to him. He was only like three or four. The lads argued about his age. His wee body could have been swept clear to the sea.
Merton said that the family searched for weeks for some sign of him. Nothing. Fish could have eaten him.” He shivered at the
gruesomeness of the thought.
“Is that it?”
“Of course not. I told you this is ghostie story, Major... and I ask you, have you noticed something is not exactly right
here?” Jem lowered his voice and stepped closer. “No one likes the current marchioness. She’s feared. This is not a happy
place. However, most of the lads have families that have been here for generations. They won’t leave no matter how they feel
about her. Their loyalty is to the Chaytor name.” He referred to the Middlebury family name.
“Have they said anything about the marquess?”
“Only that they believe he is an odd one. He stays to himself, but sometimes he is seen walking the estate, muttering gibberish. We have been ordered to not give him a horse if he requests it. It was my first instruction upon my taking the position. Lady Middlebury will only let him ride in a vehicle, and she has someone watching him at all times.”
“He’s her link to power, isn’t he?”
“’Tis said her sons are not as biddable as her husband.”
Beck thought of the delay in Middlebury’s appearance at dinner. The way his hand shook. “Any gossip about why he is the way
he is?”
“They say he has always been weak. Trust me, sir, she is the true Tartar. However, Major, I’ve seen that behavior before.”
“The shaking?”
“Aye, palsy. It will get worse. They say that over the past six months or so, he has lost two stone as well.”
Beck nodded. The man had not looked well, and yet the marchioness had not seemed overly concerned.
“Now for the ghostie part,” Jem said. “The lad telling the story claims that the drowned marchioness searches for her missing
child. They say she sings for him. A bit like your dream, ain’t it, sir? Whenever you were having a nightmare and I woke you,
you spoke of a singing woman, and I thought it strange that there is one here.”
And that the marchioness in the portrait bore a remarkable likeness to his dream woman.
“There is more, sir,” Jem said. “They say every time the marquess escapes the house, he goes to the river, to that cottage. They always know where to find him. He stands there, talking to himself. Because, you see, he is the one haunted by the ghost. He is the only one who has ever claimed to hear her singing. And not always by the water. He has dreams, sir. Dreams of a singing woman.”