“Not yet. Rome was not built in a day.”
“Or even in a year, apparently. At this rate, I shall go bankrupt waiting for you to earn back the money William advanced in good faith.”
Their soup arrived, and for a time, the tense conversation ceased.
The maître d’hôtel stopped at Miss Newport’s table to ask if everything was to her liking. She beamed up at the man and answered in the affirmative, her voice melodic, her smile white, her face lovely.
The author’s words from the next table caught his ear.
“I say, Edgecombe. Well done arranging for Selina to be here. I almost didn’t recognize her, out of context and without stage paint. I applaud you.”
The publisher scowled. “Me? I had nothing to do with it. What do you take me for? The last thing I would do is arrange a meeting with one of your paramours. The only reason I agreed to pay for this charade was because you promised seclusion would help you come up with a winning book idea.Notto facilitate love affairs or the adoration of your public.” He gestured emphatically around the crowded dining room.
Mr. Oliver glanced over as well, and several heads swiftly turned away, feigning interest in their meals. “You’re the onedrawing attention now, old boy. Lower your voice. If it wasn’t your doing, I wonder why she is here.”
Thomas finally arrived. On his way to the table, he bowed to Miss Newport, Miss Lane, and Lady Fitzhoward, and exchanged greetings with Mr. and Mrs. Okeham seated nearby, neighbors who were no doubt dining in the hotel in the hope of seeing the acclaimed author. Then he sat across from Frederick, his cheerful excuses drowning out the conversations around them.
Only half listening, Frederick watched as waiters served another course to Mr. Oliver and his publisher. Suddenly Mr. Oliver tossed down his table napkin, his meal only half-eaten. “I’ll not write another word tonight, thanks to you. Keep hounding me, and I never shall again!”
He rose and started across the room. As he passed the table of a dark-haired, sharp-nosed older man, the two locked gazes. Oliver’s steps faltered. But a second later, he continued on and stalked from the room, his guard on his heels.
A moment of stunned silence followed his exit, and then a whispered buzz rose among the diners.
The publisher sat stone-faced. Then he rose slowly and followed Mr. Oliver from the room.
After dinner, Rebecca returned to her bedchamber but felt too restless to sleep. Knowing she had a little time before Mary stopped by to help her undress, she left her room and went down to the library and writing room, glad to find its lamp still lit. She put on her spectacles to peruse a set of novels she had heard of but not yet read,Northanger AbbeyandPersuasionin four volumes. She wrote her name in the log book by lamplight, the flame dancing in a sudden draft. Had someone opened thedoor to the cloisters? Perhaps she ought to have closed the library door, but she would have felt a little uncomfortable shut inside the dim room alone.
Was she alone?
At the thought, she glanced up at the wall painting above her and met the doleful gaze of the abbess. Her eyes glowed red by candlelight, and Rebecca shivered.
Suddenly a rush of wind blew out the candle lamp, plunging the room into darkness.
For a moment Rebecca froze where she stood. Then, leaving the book, she stepped into the passage and saw the door to the cloisters slowly closing. She opened it and looked out. Diagonally across the courtyard, a figure in flowing black robes sailed through the covered walkway.
Alarm jolted her.
Suppressing the urge to retreat, Rebecca stepped forward to peer through one of the ornamental stone grilles. The figure turned the corner, a sliver of moon-white profile visible for just a moment before it slipped from view. Rebecca’s stomach tightened. She had only caught a glimpse, but whoever it was definitely wore a hooded black robe ... or habit. Had an actual nun come to stay at Swanford Abbey, or who ... or what ... had Rebecca seen?
The image brought back all those terrifying stories she’d heard growing up about the ghost of the abbess who haunted the church ruins, bemoaning her fate and the fate of all demolished monasteries, and taking revenge on anyone who dared to enter her domain.
Even as fear pulsed through Rebecca’s veins, her feet moved as if of their own accord. She hurried along one side of the cloisters, and then turned the corner down the other side where the figure had disappeared. Had she gone into the hotel? It certainlyseemed that way, unless the figure truly was a phantom who could disappear into thin air.No, that is childish foolishness, Rebecca reminded herself. She was a grown woman now and no longer believed in such things.
It had been a flesh-and-blood person. It must have been. But why would anyone wear a monk-like hood indoors, unless he or she meant to conceal his or her identity for some clandestine purpose?
A shiver passed over her.Why indeed.
Rebecca reached the next corner, saw no one lurking there, but heard faint footfalls. She continued through one of the doors into the hotel and then along the interior passage, past the hall with a bored-looking clerk at the desk, past the dining room, dark and deserted at this hour, past the coffee room, also dark, and then to a narrow stairway leading belowstairs.
There she paused. Was this where the person or specter had gone? Dare she follow?
Perhaps whoever she’d seen had been merely a staff member going down to the cellars for some reason.
Another possibility entered her mind. She had heard whispers that tucked away belowstairs was a club of sorts where gentlemen could drink and play cards away from the exacting eyes of gently bred females. That destination seemed far more likely at this hour.
Rebecca didn’t belong in either cellar or club. She ought to return to her own room and try to sleep. Mary might be knocking on her door even now, wondering what had become of her.
Instead, by the light of a candle sconce high on the wall, she carefully made her way down the narrow stairs, the smells of tobacco and sour oak barrels growing stronger as she descended.
