Page 15 of Ashwood (Wallflowers and Demons #1)

HAUNTING THINGS

KATHERINE

T he wheels of our Barouche hit damp cobblestones and Dorian’s grip tightens over mine.

It is usual for him to seek comfort. Neither of us has rested, perhaps that is why.

Dorian was with Gabriel until the early hours of the morning, assisting, but the truth has already soaked into every brick and every whisper inside Ashwood.

The woman’s body was discovered just a block away from where we’re headed.

The newspapers had spared no detail. She was found indecent.

Naked. Strung upside down from the iron gates of the town chapel with her eyes missing and both breasts sliced from her chest. A noblewoman.

Young. Beautiful. Yet, stripped of her dignity and left to decay without as much as a prayer.

Dorian breaks the silence first.

“This was no beast.”

I shove the curtains closed as the streets grow heavy with people. “Perhaps not, but Lord Gabriel still investigates. We must be vigilant.”

Though the bustling of people outside continues, a pall hangs over the town.

Whispers follow the carriage. They bleed through the panels and cling to the windows and shopfronts like smoke.

The papers, eager for indecency, had spared no detail.

The physician’s report spoke of physical evidence. Signs of carnal activity before death.

Seed. Bruises. Violence.

I swallow bile as the carriage comes to a halt. Dorian sits beside me, his posture stiff, his expression carved from granite.

I step out first, my foot met by ash-streaked cobblestone. The street before us is wedged together by too many people, their faces wide with curiosity, suspicion, even disdain.

I feel their eyes before I see them.

“Is that the Chinese duchess?” one says.

Their murmurs rise in volume the moment my boots meet stone.

“What is she doing here?”

“She knew the dead woman. They were friends.”

“I heard she’s foreign-born. Not even English.”

“Can she even run a house like Ashwood?”

“Not with murder at her doorstep…”

Dorian stands tall beside me, taking my gloved hand, but it does not shield me from their stares. Whispers ripple outward like water disturbed by stone. The heat of them laps at my skin.

That is when the second carriage arrives.

Sleek black, it glides into view with the Ashwood crest emblazoned in gold etched across its doors. Four grey horses, perfectly matched in gait, pull it to a smooth stop before the dressmaker’s.

From within, steps a woman unlike any I have seen in England.

She is dressed in turquoise silk, the colour rich and shimmering against her porcelain skin. Her gloves are of pearl-white kid leather, her bodice high and perfectly fitted. Yellow jewels shimmer at her throat. A hat of peacock plume rests atop a coiffure so elaborate it must have taken hours.

She cannot be more than thirty, and yet moves with the regal self-possession of a dowager queen.

And it is she who addresses the crowd with perfect poise.

Her voice is firm, yet gentle, and unmistakably aristocratic.

“Have you no shame? A woman is dead. Must you turn it into a farce? There are ladies present.”

The townspeople are still. The murmurs die .

She glances at me. “You have done well to come,” she mouths. “But perhaps this is best left to those more familiar with Ashwood customs…”

Then, with a flourish, she turns her back on me entirely and addresses the crowd once more.

“I am the Dowager Duchess of Ashwood,” she announces. “And I shall not have this town descend into madness.”

I blink.

Dowager?

That word alone freezes the blood in my veins. She is not old enough. Not nearly. Perhaps five or ten years my senior, no more.

My thoughts rapidly escalate, but she continues without pause. At a subtle nod from her, a man in livery steps forward, carrying a purse of extraordinary size. It is gold-threaded and satin-lined. He opens it with a deft hand, and from it, she draws coins.

Gold sovereigns.

Silver crowns.

They catch the sun and glimmer like fire .

With a gentle throw, she deliberately heaves it into the crowd. Banknotes follow, tied with ribbons of pink and green. At first, the townsfolk only stare. Then, hunger overcomes shame.

Hands reach out.

“Quickly!”

Children duck beneath skirts.

“Oh!”

A woman in a bonnet clutches a single crown to her breast. But they do not riot. They know where their bread is buttered. The Dowager raises one hand, with the final banknote between her fingers. She lets it fall.

“This will do.”

Silence comes.

Obedience comes.

She turns her eyes upon me and approaches Dorian to pat his hand.

“One must remind the people of their nature,” she says, gently. “A coin here… a coin there… and soon, the truth fades like morning fog. It is lovely to see you, my son. You’ve returned. How was the trip?”

I stand rigid. Dorian is the one who gently guides me toward the door of the shop.

“Mother. It was fine. I trust you are well.”

“Yes, I must visit the castle soon, we have a ball to prepare for. We will not allow them to dampen our celebrations.”

“I will call upon you soon.”

He nods and the Dowager returns to her carriage.

Mother…

The name replays in my brain.

I do not look back as he escorts me inside.

Mother?!

* * *

Inside the dressmaker’s salon, I perch upon a damask chaise, fingers tucked beneath my gloves.

A corsetiere tightens the laces at my back while rolls of blue charmeuse unfurl.

Dorian waits across the room in a tufted chair, his eyes dark with circles, his mind elsewhere.

He hasn’t spoken since we entered. Then, the bell above the door rings and a hush descends inside the shop.

Madame Lenoir appears with her powdered cheeks gritted tight. “Your Grace…you have visitors.”

Patrons are ushered out and I stand as Gabriel enters, flanked by two men I don’t recognise. Bow Street Runners, from the look of them. He removes his hat and bows slightly. “My apologies, Duchess. I wouldn’t disturb you if it weren’t urgent.”

Dorian rises. “What is it?”

Gabriel’s mouth tightens. “Testimonies. Lord Sainsbury was last seen travelling toward Ashwood Castle. That’s confirmed. He spoke with a man dressed as a steward the night he vanished. Since then, even his staff have not been accounted for.”

Dorian says nothing, but I take a cautious step forward. “Is there more?”

Gabriel hesitates. “You should not be here for these delicate matters, Your Grace.”

Ignoring him, Dorian ushers him closer. “What is it?”

Gabriel sighs. “As you wish.”

He reaches into his coat and withdraws a folded paper. The Primrose — Ashwood’s local scandal sheet. The ribboned print is still fresh. “Read this,” he says and passes it to Dorian. I read it over his shoulder.

The headline is bold and unmistakable:

Scandal at Silk House

Lady Carrington: Patron of Sin?

Sources report that the late Countess Isabella Carrington was observed entering Madame Belle’s on Candlewick Street, the night before her tragic death. Madame Belle’s is a known establishment catering to ‘gentlemanly recreation,’ long suspected to be more than a parlour for cards.

Anonymously confirmed by footman testimony and a coachman’s account, her arrival was neither discreet nor brief.

The question remains. Was Lady Carrington a willing guest? Either way, the truth will rattle the chandeliers of every drawing room in Ashwood.

Yours in truth,

The Primrose

I gasp aloud.

A brothel.

The word does not appear in the article, but its meaning drips from every euphemism.

The implication is clear. Lady Carrington, the same woman who let me pet her mastiff and offered kindness over dinner, had secrets.

And now, she is gone and only scandal will define her memory.

I think of her husband, Lord Carrington and Reginald.

I cannot imagine their grief.

Madame Lenoir politely excuses the attendants until only the four of us remain. “There are gowns that require boxing. I’ll return soon.”

Dorian folds the paper and tucks it away. “This is no coincidence.”

Gabriel nods. “We intend to investigate Madame Belle’s, however, we’ve also come to escort you both back to the castle. With the mountains unguarded, it’s no longer safe to travel alone. There may be dangerous highwaymen about.”

He says it as a courtesy.

But Dorian knows and so do I.

This is not protection.

It is scrutiny.

“We will purchase everything,” Dorian suddenly announces to the standing attending. “Have it boxed and ready by the day’s end.”

DORIAN

The carriages have stopped under the thick leaves of the old woods. Rain licks the canopy above, but it is thick enough to offer protection. I remain close enough to hear them but not to interrupt.

Gabriel sits against a tree, with his forearms resting on his knees, coat discarded, and his waistcoat unbuttoned. He is tired. Not merely from travel, or from the bodies left behind, but from years of living as a nobleman without wealth nor sanctuary. He is a lord in title only.

And then she kneels.

Katherine.

My wife.

My Duchess — not his.

She kneels beside him, wearing one of her London gowns of ivory moiré silk and a navy sash tied high, but beneath it, I see the mandarin collar, fastened with jade clasps instead of buttons. There is a home stitched into the Duchess’s finery.

From the crook of her reticule, she removes a small lacquer box carved with peonies.

Gabriel raises an eyebrow. “I assume that’s not a pistol.”

Katherine smiles. “Incense.”

My heart stops beating.

She opens the box. Inside are six hand-rolled sticks, delicate, brown, and sealed in beeswax paper. She strikes a match on the stone beside them, lights the tip of one, and then places it upright in the mud, protected by an overturned cup.

The smoke drifts upward, saccharine, hot and unfamiliar if I were anyone else.

Gabriel leans in, drawn without realising. “That’s… pleasant. ”

“My mother used it when someone in the family had a broken heart.”