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“I wish I could.” His features softened, as if with deep regret. “But you must forgive me. I have a music lesson to prepare for.”

They said their goodbyes and he disappeared to another part of the house. Athena found Mrs. Hillman in the drawing room, where she read aloud several chapters of the Pryor Corbett novel, picking up where Selena had left off the Sunday before.

Mrs. Hillman listened with her eyes closed and a beatific smile on her face, letting out many happy sighs and laughing at all the appropriate moments.

“I love the tension in that last scene, the way Lydia must keep all her feelings for John Brandon in check,” Mrs. Hillman said, when Athena had finished.

“It is such fun,” Athena agreed. “Miss Penrose is practically dying to tell Brandon how she feels, and yet doing so would give away her true gender and mean that she’d be cast off the ship.”

“At least, that is what Lydia fears at this early point in the story.” Mrs. Hillman gave Athena a mischievous look.

Athena laughed. “There is something wonderful about re-reading a book that you have enjoyed many times, don’t you think?”

“I do. The characters and dialog and situations are so beloved and familiar that you can anticipate them with delight, and laugh and cry and be overwhelmed with emotion all over again.”

“I think reading is a bit like music. Every paragraph is a new measure. Every sentence is a new beat. Every word is a note. And the whole piece paints a magical picture in your mind.”

Mrs. Hillman smiled. “I’ve never heard a book described in musical terms before. I suppose it explains why I love music almost as much as reading.” She paused. “Speaking of which. Have you heard there’s to be a concert at the village hall a little over three weeks from now?”

“I heard something about it. Who is performing again?”

“The celebrated soprano Mrs. Augustus from Edinburgh. It’s not often that a singer comes to our small community. She’ll be en route to London and has agreed to appear in Darkmoor Bridge for one night only. I’ve heard her several times and she’s divine.”

“I wish I could go, but I’m afraid that expense is not in the cards.” Athena rose. “And now do forgive me, ma’am, but I must be on my way.”

“I’m so grateful to you for doing this,” Mrs. Hillman said. “You were right, though, about one thing.”

“Right about what?”

“About your sister. Miss Selena is not only every bit as good a reader as you are, but she may be the tiniest bit better.” Mrs. Hillman’s eyes sparkled. “Last Sunday, she was precisely the tonic I needed.”

“Selena has many talents,” Athena replied proudly, and with a laugh. “I knew you would appreciate her. Perhaps you would rather have her read to you exclusively from now on?”

“Oh, no. I enjoy the diversity. I look forward to your visit next week.”

After taking her leave, Athena made her way to Woodcroft House. As she crossed a field dotted with bleating sheep, she pondered her upcoming conversation with Mr. Sinclair.

She didn’t want a repeat of her earlier, disastrous altercation with Mr. Vernon.

Somehow, she had to get Mr. Sinclair on her side.

It would be best, she decided, to begin by questioning him about the garden party where Harold Sinclair had died and learn all she could about that event before sharing her theories.

Athena soon entered through the rear gate of the Woodcroft House estate, which led to the outlying grounds.

Seemingly endless acres of woods and green lawns sloped down gracefully between herds of grazing deer towards the mansion house in the distance.

A grand, rectangular structure built in the baroque style, it was a tribute to the wealth and prominence of its owner.

Beyond the stables, Athena passed the kennel, a sturdy-looking, red-brick structure inside a fenced-in yard. Dozens of hounds erupted into frenzied barking from behind a series of grated windows. In an outdoor pen, two enormous mastiffs snarled and hurled themselves against the iron bars.

Athena shuddered and picked up her pace.

She understood the need for guard dogs. Poaching was a common problem on many estates, especially those with a deer park.

But having been bitten by a neighbor’s mastiff as a child, she feared such animals.

As for hunting dogs—although her father had been fond of hunting, Athena did not comprehend how anyone could derive pleasure from such a sport.

A series of formal gardens followed. Athena circled to the front entrance of the house, where she applied for admittance.

A dignified butler in a tailcoat took her card and bade her to wait in the entrance hall.

Athena’s breath caught as she took in the elegant, high-ceilinged chamber with its black-and-white-checkered marble floor and walls hung with a display of ancient weaponry that rivalled the one at Darkmoor Park.

The butler returned and showed her to an adjacent parlor, where Neville Sinclair sat writing at an immense desk covered in piles of paperwork. The room was clearly a gentleman’s domain, the walls covered by paintings of horses, hunting dogs, and hunting scenes.

“Miss Taylor to see you, sir,” the butler announced before withdrawing.

“Thank you, Miles.” Mr. Sinclair set down his pen and studied the card in his hand. His brow furrowed, and he rubbed his chin. “Ah,” he said at last. “Miss Taylor. I believe we met on that unfortunate morning down at the river?”

“We did, sir.”

“Please have a seat.” He gestured to the chair facing his desk. “How may I help you?”

Athena had discovered, after working many years for men, that the best way to gain their favor was to appeal to their vanity.

“Thank you for seeing me, Mr. Sinclair. That morning you spoke of—when you mentioned it being difficult to get students for my school—you were right. It has been a struggle to find parents willing to send their daughters to study at Thorndale Manor.”

“I wish it weren’t so.” He nodded slowly, his lips pursed in a slight frown. “But that house has a bad reputation now and such things are hard to ignore.”

“Which is why I have come to you. I am new in Darkmoor Bridge. I would like to know more about the history of my house and how it came to have its, as you say, bad reputation. I should think, as one of the leaders of this community, you would know more about it than anyone.”

“I wouldn’t say that. But I’m happy to tell you all I know.

” Neville Sinclair fingered his blond mustache as he regarded Athena across his desk.

“There was nothing wrong with that place for centuries, you know. Not in the same league as Woodcroft House or Darkmoor Park, but it had its merits and the Vernons appeared to be a fine, upstanding family. That is, until Caroline Vernon came along and changed everything.”

“All the blame for the house’s and the family’s tattered reputation, then, goes to Miss Vernon?”

“She was just the evidence of it. It was bad blood that infected that girl. Her father, Arthur Vernon, was no gem, mind you. My father and my brother befriended the man, but I never did. Just look at his decline into debauchery and sin. I suppose I can understand it, though, after learning the truth about his daughter. Miss Vernon was as pretty as you please on the outside, just like an angel, but all the while hiding the temperament of the Devil. She murdered my brother in cold blood and then went home as if it were a day just like any other.”

Athena cringed inwardly at the lack of empathy in his words. “I should like to ask you about that day, Mr. Sinclair. I have only heard the merest mention of it and yet as you say, it changed everything. As I understand it, your brother perished here at a party?”

Mr. Sinclair nodded. “It was a long time ago, but I remember it as if it were yesterday.”

“And can you say with absolute certainty that Caroline Vernon was the one who killed him?”

He lowered his gaze, picked up a pen, and fiddled with it. “I can. I do.”

Something in the man’s tone and expression suggested that he was being less than truthful.

“Please go on.” Athena sat forward in her chair, determined to draw the truth out of him.