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Gwendolyn walked to the end of the East Wing, taking time to study the paintings, especially those of the property, while
also straining her ears for sounds or bits of conversation from the other side of the doors. She couldn’t hear much.
Colemore, she decided, was lavish and elegant, but there was a coldness about the house she didn’t understand. Everything
seemed a bit too perfect as if no one lived here. Or at least no one who barreled through life with laughter and good humor
in the way she and her sisters had lived in Wiltham. There were no marks on the wall, no signs of wear of any sort. There
didn’t even appear to be a speck of dust on the floor.
She wondered which room was Mr. Steele’s, and then decided it was best she didn’t know. Besides, he was probably still downstairs
basking in Miss Purley’s adoration. Gwendolyn was the one doing the work—but exactly what was she searching for? As she walked
back along the corridor, she cataloged what she did know.
Mr. Steele’s dreams were of a singing woman who confronted an unknown, mysterious terror. The woman might or might not be his mother.
So, what was it Mr. Steele expected to discover at Colemore?
The identity of his mother, of course—whether she was the woman in his dream or not. The answer seemed obvious to Gwendolyn.
Having lost a mother at a very young age herself, she understood the void such a death left. Of course, she was certain he
would not agree with her. Men didn’t grasp the importance of relationships the way women did, except what else could Mr. Steele
be looking for?
And then a new possibility struck her. He might wish to meet his father. The whole journey could be built around a need for
him to have that connection. In any case, he was right when he’d pointed out that his father was the only one who had known
his mother—
A door opened. A couple left their room. Gwendolyn has seen them downstairs, but they had not yet been introduced. The gentleman
had gray at his temples. His lady companion seemed older in that way some self-satisfied women had. He helped her drape a
lovely paisley shawl over her shoulders.
Gwendolyn turned, pretending to inspect a portrait of a sow and her tan-colored piglets with black patches. They nodded to
her as they passed. The gentleman noted her interest in the painting. “You can see the descendants of that sow in the estate’s
north quarter,” he said to Gwendolyn.
“North quarter?”
“Yes, not far from the river. Middlebury likes to keep his pigs as far from him as possible. They say he has a sensitive nose.”
“Oh,” Gwendolyn replied, feigning interest. One didn’t need a sensitive nose to appreciate the marquess’s decision. She wasn’t
fond of the sour, earthy smell of pigs either.
“A short ride. Worth it. We always enjoy a stroll by the river, don’t we, dear?”
His lady gave a wan smile as if truly not interested in being friendly.
“We are going to take a turn in the gardens, if you wish to join us?” the gentleman offered.
“That is very kind, sir, but I’m waiting for Lady Orpington.”
“Oh, well, you are on the wrong floor. She stays in the family’s set of rooms when she visits. They are one floor down.”
“Thank you,” Gwendolyn said.
His wife gave a tug on his sleeve, and the couple continued on their way. They went down the stairs without looking back.
Gwendolyn watched them disappear down the steps. She stood, thoughtful for a moment—a terror-filled dream of a singing woman,
an unknown mother who had probably been a prostitute, an uncaring father who had also paid all of his illegitimate son’s bills,
and Lady Middlebury, who was definitely not pleased Mr. Steele was here.
There was an answer in all of this. She’d wager Mr. Steele was right and Lord Middlebury alone might understand how they fit together. It was also possible that the dream was just a recurring nightmare of the sort she’d had when she was a child.
Funny, but she hadn’t even thought of her childhood bad dreams until this moment, and yet there had been a time when they
had ruled her imagination. She’d started having them when she’d first arrived at Wiltham. They had been so vivid, Gram would
hear her crying out in her sleep and gently shake her awake. Eventually they had stopped. Perhaps because Gram and her sisters’
love had made her feel secure? Gwendolyn didn’t know.
However, there was a difference between her dreams and Mr. Steele’s. She’d experienced hers during that dark confusing time
when she’d been shipped off to a father and family she did not know. His had started after a head wound when he was an adult.
It was as if the dream had lain dormant inside him, only to be shaken loose by being shot. One traumatic event revealing another?
She shook her head at her fancifulness... and yet she did believe in omens. What was a dream if not an omen?
Gwendolyn decided to take her investigation downstairs to the ground floor. It seemed a good place to start. As for her search,
she would be alert for anything that had to do with the elements of Mr. Steele’s dream or secret relationships, and she was
rather excited about it all. She felt as if she was stepping into a novel, one of her own making.
Gwendolyn was at the top of the staircase when she caught a glimpse through the ajar door of the first room on the West Wing side of the house.
Books. Shelves of them.
She could not resist having a peek. Books were her weakness. She must see what there was to read. Like a bee to a flower,
she moved toward a charming, intimate library and slipped through the half-open door.
The room was the size of her bedroom, but two walls, from floor to ceiling, were shelves painted a dark green to match the
room’s walls, and every shelf was tightly packed with books. They were even organized by topic, height, and size.
Someone had thoughtfully placed a chaise by the room’s single window. There was also a small writing desk and chair close
at hand.
The room’s window overlooked the kitchen garden instead of the formal ones that covered a good portion of the land surrounding
the house, and it made her smile. Flowers were lovely, but she enjoyed herbs and colorful vegetables almost as much.
Hanging over the desk were several landscapes and a few small portraits. She noticed one of the landscapes was of Colemore
shortly after the current gardens had been designed. They seemed sparse compared to their lush, late summer glory of today.
However, it was the books that drew her. Gwendolyn walked over to the shelves and started perusing the titles, running her fingers over the bindings as if by touch she could tell what the books held. Many of the tomes were old, their spines stiff and carrying a scent that reminded her of dust and vanilla. They cracked with age when she carefully opened them. And she had to open them. She might need something to read this evening, and this was better than being at Hatchard’s because she could feel the weight of them in her hands without an intermediary.
Some of the books appeared to be recent purchases. Poetry took up one full row, and then Gwendolyn’s favorites—treatises on
travel—took up another. If she had her desire, she would travel. She envied men who had the chance at a Grand Tour. She longed
to see the sights, the art, and the lands she, as a woman, could only read about. She pulled a book down titled Life in Gaul . She also enjoyed history, especially about older civilizations. She skimmed the first paragraphs and decided the author
was too prosaic to read during a house party. She put the book back and then discovered tucked among the botany books all
three volumes of Maria Edgeworth’s Belinda . These were more valuable than gold bars to Gwendolyn.
Almost giddy with happiness, she pulled the slim books from the shelf. She’d take them back to her room for later—and then
her eye landed on five black leather binders on a lower shelf. They were oversized, so they stuck out.
Curious, and thinking they could hold maps—an exciting prospect—Gwendolyn knelt to examine them. She set the Edgeworth books
on the floor, pulled out one of the binders, and opened it.
Sheet music, she saw to her disappointment. Most had lyrics in English or Latin or French, and there were handwritten notes on the pages, including the sorts of musical signs a musician would use to make notes to himself.
Or herself . The handwriting was graceful and precise. And some comments were in Spanish. Possibly Italian. The two languages confused
Gwendolyn sometimes—
There was a sound at the door. She closed the binder just as the door swung open wider. Lord Ellisfield leaned against the
doorframe as if he had been watching her.
He didn’t leer, but his gaze did flick to the swells of her breasts above her bodice. She shifted the binder, wrapping her
arms around it to block his view. He gave her a rueful look that was part repentance over being so ungentlemanly and part
annoyance over being caught. He invited himself in. He’d changed for dinner. Since they were in the country, he wore boots,
but his clothes were finely tailored all the same. His claret jacket over buff-colored breeches seemed molded to his shoulders
and complemented his fair hair. His shaving soap boasted a hint of pine. The scent made her nose twitch. She ducked her head
to hide her discomfort by pretending to give him a small curtsy of respect.
“I’d heard you were a bookworm, Miss Lanscarr,” he said lazily.
Gwendolyn reached down and picked up the Edgeworth books, but she kept the binder for protection. “Guilty. What you heard
is true.”
He walked toward her with the slow, deliberate steps men used when they wished to impress upon women their interest. Gwendolyn tried not to laugh. Men saw themselves as stalking tigers. But she and her sisters referred to this particular saunter as the “pouncing kitten.” She hoped the man was sober.
Lord Ellisfield came to a stop in front of her. “I like you.”
She caught a whiff of drink fumes on his breath but not the overpowering scent of earlier. Apparently he had not dived into
the whisky she’d seen him holding. “Thank you, my lord,” she replied dutifully. She gave him an equally dutiful smile, one
that didn’t discourage, but also didn’t encourage. “Excuse me. I need to take these to my room.” She attempted to slip by
him, but his arm came out to block her path. They stood so close, she could see the shadow of his beard. Her demureness left.
She faced him. A gentleman would step back.
He did not, and it made her angry. Even in his cups, he should not foist himself upon her.
She was about to say as much when he asked, “Who is the man with you and Lady Orpington?”
“Do you mean her nephew, Mr. Curran?”
“My godmother has no nephew. Other than Vera Newsome, she has no relatives.”
Gwendolyn did not panic. In fact, the confrontation was a touch thrilling to her. She was in the thick of it, whether Mr.
Steele wished her to be or not.
“Obviously, she does,” she replied. “Mr. Curran.”
Lord Ellisfield studied her intently and then shifted his weight, the arm blocking her path coming down. “I was warned you are a bold one. I now believe it.”
“Bold, my lord? Who should I thank for the compliment?” she asked brightly.
He gave a soft laugh. “Lady Orpington.”
“And she told you that Mr. Curran isn’t her nephew?” Gwendolyn pressed, deciding to feign ignorance.
“No, Mother did. Lady Orpington only sings your praise, which means you know how to play whist.”
“She is very partial to the game.”
“Exceedingly so.” He made a self-deprecating sound. “I have no interest in it, which she counts against me.”
Gwendolyn laughed because she was certain it was true, and he smiled back. To her relief, he also took a step away, giving
her a bit of breathing room.
“Your mother plays as well,” she reminded him.
He nodded. “She excels at the game.” He tapped the top edge of the binder she held. “What did you find?”
“Oh, maps. I enjoy reading them.”
“Beauty and intelligence,” he murmured admiringly. Gwendolyn simpered a bit, the way women were expected to, while praying he didn’t
ask to see exactly what was in the binder.
He might be attracted to her, but no man liked to be lied to.
So she confessed, “I also have a book by Mrs. Edgeworth. I’ll open it first.”
He scrunched his nose as if he could not understand her enthusiasm. “I’m not much of a reader.”
Gwendolyn was not surprised. No wonder he acted bored with life. It would explain doing foolhardy things like jumping a harnessed
team of horses or drinking the day away. Someone who enjoyed books, whether they be tales or memoir or journals, could never
be bored.
And while he was this mellow and pliable, she said, “If your mother enjoys whist—”
“She lives for this house party so she can play,” he assured her. “The rest of the year she has to content herself with playing the
neighbors. The only one who challenges her is the vicar.”
“Then why did she cancel the tournament?”
He shrugged and then grinned, the expression actually quite charming, as he said, “Probably to annoy Lady Orpington. My mother
can be quite contrary. So can Lady Orpington. They claim to be friends, but sometimes I am convinced they detest each other.”
True. “Why do you think that is?”
“Because they are women?”
Gwendolyn didn’t hide her annoyance. “You can offer a more thoughtful observation than such a rote dismissal.”
He blinked as if startled she hadn’t thought him clever. “Are you my governess?” he mock-complained.
“Because I’m pushing you to be a bit more insightful?” Gwendolyn suggested, tagging on silently to herself, and informative . After all, he should have some idea for Lady Middlebury’s abrupt change of heart about the whist tournament.
“Perhaps.” He looked away and then shot her a hint of a smile as if needing her to know he had only been jesting.
She wanted to like him. Although she didn’t trust him. She was certain he’d been a handsome boy, one who had grown into a
rather distracted and aimless man who could and should do better.
As if reading her thoughts, he turned serious. “Mother and Lady Orpington have always been at it. They are competitive, and
I’m assured they were so even in girlhood. But ultimately, in the only game that matters—life—Mother has won. She has the
greater title, the more money, the husband who is still alive, and now the reputation as the better whist player, whether
it is well-earned or not. She is not the sort to open the door for someone to take anything from her if she can just laze
about on her laurels.”
Like mother, like son. “Is she truly that covetous?”
“She is,” he answered. “If a door is opened, she isn’t afraid to walk through it.”
“That is an odd statement, my lord.”
“But a true one.” He walked over to the desk and reached to straighten one of the portraits on the wall. “I am the son of
a younger son. I wasn’t to inherit.” He frowned as if still not liking the way the picture hung, but then turned to her. “Then
my uncle died, and his son...” His voice had trailed off as if something bothered him.
“His son?” she prompted.
“Yes, his son,” he answered. “My uncle had a male child. Robbie inherited when my uncle died, even though he was a newborn. The hierarchy and all of that.”
“What happened?”
Lord Ellisfield faced her, leaning back against the desk. “What shouldn’t have.” His expression was somber. “He drowned, and
his mother died trying to save him.”
“That’s horrible,” Gwendolyn murmured.
“Yes.” Lord Ellisfield nodded to the portrait he’d just straightened. “That is a painting of my late aunt.”
She took a step forward to look at the portrait. A young woman with a heart-shaped face and wearing what had to be her bridal
finery smiled out into the world with eyes sparkling with joy. A circlet of white-and-yellow flowers, mostly daisies, rested
on her powdered curls piled high on her head. She was posed at a pianoforte. “She was lovely.”
He nodded. “Their deaths still bother me. It was the first time I realized we were all going to die. I was six, soon to turn
seven. I recall being shocked to learn that people just disappeared from your life. Not adults like my uncle who had seemed
very old to my childhood mind, but Robbie. Someone like myself. And ,” he continued, a note of irony in his tone, “that it would be considered a good thing. That people would celebrate. When Robbie died, Mother tried to mourn, but she was pleased with the turn of events. She told me that now, someday, I would inherit Colemore. I was happy because she was happy. But the truth is”—his voice hardened—“the reason my father is the marquess, that he owns all of this, is because of a small child’s death. I liked Robbie. He and I were close. My sister, Jane, had been born, but who wants to play with their sister when there is another lad around?” He frowned. “In those days, it seemed death was everywhere. First my uncle, and then my aunt Catalina and Robbie. The household mourned for years.”
He straightened and waved his hand in the air as if to clear it. “We are being too serious. Someone’s tragedy is another person’s
windfall. The vagaries of life, no? When I die, someone will secretly be pleased.” He flexed his shoulders as if he needed
to release tension. “I haven’t thought about all of that in a long time. Isn’t this the stuff poets write about?”
“The ones who aren’t waxing on about love.”
Her comment surprised a laugh out of him. “You are quite extraordinary, Miss Lanscarr.”
She felt herself blush. “I believe drink has impaired your judgment, Lord Ellisfield.”
“It did this afternoon, didn’t it? I fear I did not impress you.”
“Perhaps because I was in the coach you were jumping?” she pointed out lightly.
He winced as if the memory hurt. “I don’t know what I was trying to prove. Ah, yes,” he said as if remembering. “I wanted
McGrath to know I had the better trained horse.” He took her hand. She did not yank it back. That would be too provoking,
but she braced herself for the move she knew he was about to make.
He murmured, “I fear all I have proved is that I can be a fool.” He leaned in to kiss her.
Gwendolyn knew this game. She turned her head so that his lips met her cheek. He pulled up with a low, frustrated groan. “Miss Lanscarr.”
She made a soft moue back at him. “This is not a good idea. And I am not an easy mark, my lord.” She kept her tone gentle but firm.
He heard what she didn’t say. “I mean no insult.”
“Then do not insult me.”
Her admonishment seemed to hang between them a moment, and then he released her hand. “I merely wanted a taste. Just one taste
of the intriguing Miss Lanscarr.” His laughter, dark and moody, punctuated his request. “Is that such a bad wish?”
“Obviously yes ,” Mr. Steele’s cold voice said from the doorway.
They both whirled toward him. Gwendolyn was surprised that Mr. Steele had come so close to her and she hadn’t felt that tingly
sense of his presence that she often did.
Lord Ellisfield squinted. “Oh, it is the mysterious Mr. Curran.”
Gwendolyn used the moment to move away from him so that when his lordship turned back around, she was a good three feet away.
He gave her a hangdog expression. “He ruined it for us, didn’t he?”
She shook her head, not trusting herself to speak without insulting him.
“Well, then.” Lord Ellisfield clapped his hands, and he faced Mr. Steele. “I shall go down for dinner, because I can tell that the Mysterious Mr. Curran wishes to throw me out the window. Don’t worry, Mysterious Mr. Curran. I will leave her alone.” He shot Gwendolyn a puckish, hopeful grin and added, “Unless she wishes for my attention.”
The problem was that Mr. Steele blocked his exit. Lord Ellisfield walked right up to him. Mr. Steele was taller, but not by
much. “If you wish me to leave, Mysterious Mr. Curran, you need to scoot out of the way.” He waved his hands as if to shoo
Mr. Steele from his path.
With a look that should have cleaved Lord Ellisfield in half if it had been a sword, Mr. Steele stepped aside.
His lordship left the library, but not without a backward grin at Gwendolyn.
She waited until the man was gone before saying, “I’m grateful for your intervention.”
Mr. Steele ignored her statement. “We should go downstairs.”
“Not yet.” She spoke in a hushed tone. “Come here. And shut the door.”
Mr. Steele did not comply. “They are gathering for dinner. We are expected.”
“I have something of import to tell you.”
He didn’t move closer to her. “What is it?”
Gwendolyn bit back a huff of annoyance. She took three steps in his direction so she could say in a low voice, “Lady Middlebury
does not think you are Lady Orpington’s nephew. You came upon Lord Ellisfield asking me who you were.”
“ That was what he was doing? It didn’t look like it to me.”
At first, Gwendolyn thought he referred to Lord Ellisfield’s mocking “Mysterious Mr. Curran” comments, but then realized he meant the kiss. She held up a hand. “Stop. Nothing happened.”
“Not because he didn’t want it.”
“Exactly, and it is what I want that counts,” she informed him. “However, on a matter of more importance, I believe his mother sent him to ask me what
I knew about you.”
“You told him I am Mr. Curran, correct?”
“Of course...” She wished he had closed the door. She thought about doing it herself, but his mood was strange, and she
didn’t risk countermanding him—yet. “But Lady Middlebury knows that Lady Orpington doesn’t have many living relations. I also
fear that Lady Orpington is going to annoy the marchioness with her clanging on about playing whist.”
“She is definitely going to do that. However, that won’t be a worry.”
“Because?”
“Because I believe this was a bad idea. I should not have come here. I regret I dragged you into it.”
“I don’t regret it, and I believe you are being hasty. I’ve been thinking about this investigation—”
“It isn’t yours to think about.” His voice was quiet, but he might as well have roared the words, considering the intensity with which he spoke.
He glanced toward the hallway as if to see if there was a danger of his being overheard and then moved the few steps toward
her. “I don’t want you involved any deeper than playing cards. Did I not make myself clear?”
“Yes, you did. However, I have some thoughts, some ideas about how we can approach this—”
“There is no we . And now you’ve given me another reason to end this right now. We will return to London.” He made as if to turn in the direction
of the door.
Gwendolyn shifted her books and the binder to one arm and reached for his sleeve. “Why? What is the matter?”
His gaze dropped to her hand. She did not move it. She had a right to understand his thinking. Slowly, sharp, troubled blue
eyes met hers. There was a beat of silence. “I don’t like this place. I don’t wish you to be involved.”
“If Lady Middlebury has sent her son after me to ferret out information, then I am involved. I want to be involved.”
“Gwendolyn, I can’t—”
She stopped him by putting her fingers across his lips. His breath was warm. He smelled much better than Lord Ellisfield.
The spice of his soap against the warmth of his skin drew her to him. Best of all, he had used her first name again. It sounded
like music on his lips, even though he was about to tell her what he wasn’t going to let her do.
But it was too late. She was already doing it.
And then he stepped back, turned away... and she wanted to grab him and make him face her. How could he continually pretend
there was nothing between them?
She straightened her shoulders. “I am helping,” she informed him. “You need me, as a sounding board, if nothing else. Something has been stewing inside of you since you first walked into this house. Share it with me. I can be trusted.”
He responded to her words with a nod as if conceding that she was right. He shifted toward her, a bleakness to his expression.
“I’m not certain why I’m uneasy,” he answered, and then, “I don’t like Lady Middlebury.” He paused. “That sounds petty.”
“She is not fond of you either.” She told him about catching the marchioness watching him. “Women may tolerate their husbands’
affairs, but not many will like it. She must know or sense your connection to Lord Middlebury.”
He shook his head. “It is more than that. I feel surrounded by something I don’t understand. There is a heaviness here. A
weight. Like in my dreams.” He shook his head. “This whole plan is a fool’s errand. My instincts were wrong. I don’t belong
here.”
“Mr. Steele—”
He pounced on her words. “ Curran ,” he bit out in a whisper, his jaw tight. “I can’t afford that sort of mistake.”
Heat flushed her face at her error. But she didn’t want to return to London. She didn’t want to part company with him. Not
yet. “You mustn’t give up so easily,” she whispered back furiously. “We only just arrived...” Her voice trailed off as
she realized he was no longer listening to her.
Instead, he stared at a point over her shoulder, his expression thunderstruck.
She turned. He stared at the wall behind the desk, at the landscapes and portraits. “What is it?”
“That picture.” He nodded to the one of the young bride. “ She is the singing woman from my dreams.”
Gwendolyn looked over to him. “She is Lord Ellisfield’s aunt. The late marchioness.”