“I don’t know,” she whispered.
“No,” Hugo agreed, his thumb tracing the curve of her lower lip. “You don’t. But you’re learning.”
Before she could ask what he meant, before she could process the implications of his words or the way her body was responding to his proximity, a blood-curdling scream echoed through the castle.
Hugo stepped back immediately, his head turning toward the corridor as another scream followed the first—this one high-pitched and desperate, accompanied by the sound of running footsteps and shouted orders.
“What in God’s name—” he began.
But Sybil was already moving, pushing past him toward the door despite her earlier shakiness. “Someone’s in trouble.”
Someone’s in trouble.And despite everything—despite their argument and her accusations and the way she’d looked at him with such distrust—her first instinct was to help.
Remarkable woman.
“Stay behind me,” he ordered though he suspected she’d ignore him entirely.
Another scream echoed through the corridors, and Hugo found himself hoping that whatever crisis awaited them would be something they could handle together.
Because despite her doubts about his character, despite her fears about his motivations, he was beginning to suspect that Sybil was exactly the partner he’d never known he needed.
If only she could learn to trust me.
Chapter Sixteen
Ayoung maid stood frozen in the corridor outside Hugo’s study, her face white as parchment, her hands pressed to her mouth as though holding back another scream. Mrs. Crawford had her arm around the girl’s trembling shoulders, murmuring soothing words that seemed to have little effect.
“What’s happened?” Hugo demanded, his voice sharp with authority.
“It’s Jenny, Your Grace,” Mrs. Crawford replied, her own composure slightly rattled. “She was cleaning Lady Leah’s chambers when she discovered… well, perhaps it’s better if you see for yourself.”
Hugo strode toward the staircase, Sybil close behind him, both of them taking the steps two at a time. The closer they got to Leah’s room, the more apparent the chaos became—overturned furniture, scattered books, and what sounded like frantic searching.
“Whiskers, where are you?” came Leah’s voice from within her chamber. “Here, boy! Don’t be frightened!”
Whiskers?
Hugo pushed open the door to find his fifteen-year-old daughter on her hands and knees beside her bed, peering underneath it with desperate intensity. Her usually neat brown hair had come loose from its pins, and there was a streak of dust across her cheek.
“Leah, what in God’s name?—”
“Oh, Papa!” She scrambled to her feet, relief flooding her face. “Thank goodness you’re here. Whiskers has escaped, and Jenny started screaming, and now, I can’t find him anywhere.”
“Who is Whiskers?” Hugo asked with deliberate calm.
Leah’s expression grew defensive. “My grass snake. He’s perfectly harmless, Papa, truly. He’s never bitten anyone, and he’s actually quite gentle once you get to know him.”
Grass snake. In my house.
Hugo’s jaw tightened as he took in the scene—overturned furniture, his daughter’s guilty expression, and what appeared to be several glass jars lined up on her windowsill, each containing what looked suspiciously like specimens.
“And those?” he asked, gesturing toward the jars.
“My collection,” Leah said quickly. “Spiders, mostly. A few beetles. They’re fascinating creatures, Papa, if you’d only let me explain?—”
“No.” The word came out sharper than he’d intended. “Absolutely not.”
“But Papa?—”
