Page 7 of Darkest at Dusk (Revenant Roses)

Chapter Four

T wo days later, a note bearing Mr. Christopher’s seal arrived late in the afternoon. Isabella slit it open and began to read.

My dear Miss Barrett,

A prospective employer, a gentleman of means, will call upon you tomorrow afternoon to discuss the possibility of engagement as a secretary and cataloguer of rare books.

The position includes lodging and a salary of one hundred and twenty pounds per annum.

You are under no obligation. I advised him you may not yet be ready to receive callers, but he was most insistent. I believe it is a genuine opportunity.

Yours respectfully,

G. Christopher, Solicitor

She stared at the words, hope warring with cynicism. A gentleman of means who wished to hire a young woman without credentials. A salary that was not merely generous but extravagant, almost to the point of absurdity. She was reluctant to trust such unlikely good fortune.

The following morning, she pinned her hair into a modest chignon. She was too thin and too pale, with shadows beneath her eyes. She dressed in her mourning black and left it at that, deciding to add no adornment. Papa’s key lay against her breastbone under her collar.

Then she dusted the parlor and lit a fire there, the first in days, for since Papa’s death, she had placed frugality above comfort.

There came two crisp knocks, then a pause. She allowed herself a moment to gather her thoughts and calm her mind and nerves.

Another knock. Then silence.

She went to the door, opened it, and gasped.

Mr. Caradoc stood on the stoop. His too-pretty gray eyes met hers, his gaze sharp and assessing.

She had not expected him, though now she saw that she ought to have known given the careful wording of Mr. Christopher’s note.

“Mr. Caradoc,” she said, her voice tight.

He offered a spare bow. “Miss Barrett. Please accept my condolences.”

“You already offered them at the graveyard.” Her fingers twitched as she contemplated simply closing the door in his face. She recalled her father’s fury, his flushed face and shaking hands. You are a trickster, a would-be thief.

Papa had wanted her as far away from this man as possible.

And yet, beneath the dismay, beneath the sudden throb of wariness, something else stirred. Aflickerofcuriosity.Adangerouskindofinterest. The morning that she had told Papa she would avoid this man, she had known her assurances were lies. She had wanted answers then. She wanted them now.

Mr. Caradoc took advantage of her hesitation and said, “After your father’s reaction to my visit, I thought it prudent to request Mr. Christopher’s endorsement before approaching you. You have every reason to reject out of hand an offer bearing my name, but I hope you will hear me out.”

She studied him for a long moment and made her decision. “Well, since you are here, you might as well come in.”

He stepped into the narrow, dim entryway, glancing around with cool detachment. The floorboards, warped and dull, were covered by a threadbare burgundy and gold runner. The walls were wainscoted in dark oak panels. His presence made the space feel even smaller.

She made no offer to take his coat. Let him keep it on. Better he be ready to leave rather than stay. He was neither friend nor guest and she had no obligation to make him welcome.

Turning, she led him to the parlor where the fire popped and hissed and the translucent woman stood in the corner, watching.

He looked around the room, his expression neutral. His gaze lingered in the corner for an instant then moved on. He stepped toward the hearth and, leaning his forearm against the mantel, stared into the flames.

“Do you know, I offered your father a position…lodging, salary, work cataloguing my collection,” he said.

She had not known. One more thing that Papa had kept from her. She recalled her father’s rage the morning Mr. Caradoc had come to call and his uncharacteristic behaviour every day that followed. “That cannot be the whole of it.”

“I wrote to him several times.” He glanced at her, then back to the fire. “Each time, he refused.”

“Did he? And yet, despite his refusals, you came to our door uninvited that morning. You incited his rage. Why?”

He turned to face her once more. “I am not easily dissuaded.”

The words settled between them. She almost dismissed them as arrogance, as the hallmark of a man who believed the world owed him its obedience.

He was, by all appearances, a man of privilege and power.

But there was no flippancy in his tone, no smirk curving his lips.

She had the sense that if she barred the door, he would find another way in.

Not through violence. Through…certainty.

“Your father said that your health was the reason he declined the position.” His tone was measured and neutral.

Confusion swelled. “My health?”

“He claimed that removing his daughter from her home would be detrimental to her health. He spoke of her…delicate nature. Your delicate nature. Unless there is another daughter hidden in the attic…”

Isabella glared at him. “Papa would have said no such thing.” But a whisper of uncertainty snaked through her.

Purges. Tonics. The clang of the door slamming at St. Jude’s.

Had Papa thought her weak? A flush of heat washed through her, then receded, leaving her chilled to the bone.

“I have only your word that he did, with no way to verify your claim.”

“Did you just call me a liar?” His laugh was low, edged with something sharp. “It is rare that I receive such an insult to my face.”

“Do you prefer insults uttered behind your back?” she asked.

“I prefer not to be insulted at all.” He stepped closer. She did not retreat. The space between them crackled like the air before a storm. “I was impressed with the most recent volume of the catalogue of your father’s collection and notes that accompanied it, Miss Barrett.”

“The catalogue…? How did you come to see it?” Had Papa shown him the catalogue when he had called here? That made no sense, given that Papa had chased him off like a crow. “The catalogue was not my father’s work. It was?—”

“Yours,” he finished for her. “Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I make you the same offer I made your father…lodging, salary, work cataloguing my collection and repairing the state of my library. A state that is sorry, indeed. I believe Mr. Christopher outlined the terms of employment in his note. They are generous.”

“They are, but that does not allay my concerns.” Her thoughts spun. Papa had turned down this offer. He had warned her away from this man. She had no reason to trust him and every reason not to.

“I suspect it is not the work that unsettles you,” he said, voice low. “It is me.”

Her heart thudded. She made no reply, her silence answer enough.

“Accept the position,” he said. Not a request. A declaration, softly spoken and inarguable.

A feeling of foreboding settled over her. His offer felt both sincere and forced, the situation contrived, though she could discern no reason for such subterfuge. But then, that would be his intent, would it not? To keep her oblivious and unaware of his purpose?

“I think it is time for you to leave, Mr. Caradoc.”

The moment stretched as he watched her with those too-pretty eyes, and then he said, “As you wish, Miss Barrett.”

She led him back to the entry and opened the door.

He paused. “Take this. It is a ticket for the train to Maidenhead. I will arrange for a post-chaise to convey you from there to The Crown in Marlow. My carriage will meet you in the square.” He held out a train ticket.

A single slip of paper, innocuous and yet…

not. “The ticket is for four weeks from Monday. That gives you time to decide.”

She looked down at the ticket, then back to his face. His expression was unreadable.

When he spoke again, his voice was low and measured, each syllable carefully placed. “You will be paid well to carry out a task you enjoy. You will spend your days with books.”

The proposition felt too neat, too perfect. Books. Shelter. Safety. A quiet refuge where the voices might be softer, the wraiths less insistent. He dangled sanctuary. They both knew it.

The picture he painted ought to have felt harmless. Appealing. But it made something tight and cold prickle across her skin. Curiosity. Dread. A pprehension .

Intrigue.

She inhaled deeply. “You maneuver. You withhold. You hide behind civility. I cannot trust a man who is not honest.”

His mouth shaped a feral smile, white teeth and sharp danger.

“I make no claim to be kind or good…or even civil. But my offer is honest enough and exactly as outlined.” He took a step toward her.The shadows lengthened across his face, leaving his eyes gleaming like shards of glass. “Come to Harrowgate Manor, Miss Barrett.”

Neither of them moved. He held her gaze and she felt as if he looked deep inside her, seeing secrets she had no wish to share.

Her chest rose and fell with shallow breaths. His presence surrounded her, not with touch, but with some unseen current that hung in the air, sparking like a storm.

She did not trust him. But for reasons she was not ready to name, she did not refuse him outright. Her hand lifted of its own accord. She took the ticket, her fingers trembling as they brushed against his. The brief contact sent a jolt up her arm, a cold spark jumping under her skin.

“I make no promise that I will come,” she said, her voice more composed than she felt. Something twisted in her belly…fear or anticipation, she could not tell.

“But you will consider it.” His voice was a snare, rich and dark, curling around her like silk.

She stood in silence as he stepped out onto the stoop. And then she shut the door behind him, train ticket in hand, her heart pounding a harsh rhythm in her chest.