“Yes. It’s been a long time since anywhere felt like home.”
“I hate this house.” The words fell between them, hard and echoing like footsteps on marble. “The past haunts these corridors like a malevolent spirit.”
It seemed they were speaking of Miss Bourne and Justin Lovelace again. She might have quipped that anything was preferable to peacocks, but the sadness in his tone stilled her tongue.
“And now you have a new houseguest to contend with,” she said gently.
His mouth curved, though without humour. “I want you tofeel at home, though this is the last place a person might find peace.”
“Which is why you keep to a select few rooms?”
He surprised her with his answer. “Yes. Rooms my parents seldom entered.”
She knew not to press him. That truth had not come easily.
They reached the east wing at last. He unlocked the door and held it for her. She moved past, close enough to feel the warmth of him, and the air seemed to tighten in the space between them.
The valise sat on the desk beside a dark glass bottle and two delicate stemmed glasses, yet it was not the promise of answers that drew her. The room itself held her gaze: dark wood panelling, gold damask curtains, shelves heavy with books, and above the mantel a vast painting of the Scottish Highlands, its sweeping landscape oddly peaceful.
His familiar scent lingered in the room, and hope rose in her chest, for she felt instantly at home.
He closed the door, locked it behind them, then shrugged out of his coat and draped it over the leather wing chair. “I took the liberty of opening a bottle of Madeira. A gift from the King. I’ve been waiting for a memorable time to uncork it.”
“What’s more memorable than one’s wedding day?”
“Indeed.”
She watched his hands as he poured, strong and elegant, the gold seal ring bearing the family crest: a dragon soaring above crossed swords, a fitting emblem for a man who lived in constant battle with his past. Her eyes traced the fine lawn of his shirt, pulled tight over powerful biceps. It was hard to believe this man was her husband.
“To answers,” he said, handing her a drink.
“To fate and solving confounding puzzles.” She raised hers and sipped. The taste was dark and mellow, as though summer fruit had been steeped in fire and sealed in glass. “Is there anything you want to ask me before we look inside the valise?”
He studied her over the rim of the glass. “What makes you think your father was a spy? To dare even mention it, you must have proof.”
She took a fortifying sip of Madeira and set her glass on the desk. “My mother was killed in an arson attack on our home when I was fourteen.” She spoke as if telling someone else’s story, not as the daughter who had wept until no tears remained. “I remember my father sobbing, saying it was his fault, that he should never have joined the wretched fraternity.”
His expression softened. “I’m sorry. No child should carry such a memory.” He tossed back the Madeira in one swallow. “What fraternity?”
“I don’t know. But we were given a house near Cambridge. Men visited often and spent hours in the study with my father.”
“Do you know their names?”
“No. When the countess hosted her balls, I made a point of studying every guest, measuring their faces against my memory. Not one seemed familiar.”
“Did they speak French?”
“No. Always English.” Keen to prove her point, she added, “I peered through the keyhole once and saw maps spread across my father’s desk. One man said they risked the noose if caught with them.”
“What about accents?”
She shrugged. “It was years ago. My father spent more and more time away from home.” One lie had followed another until she scarcely knew what was true. “He behaved like a man with secrets. Burning his clothes in the garden, saying he had spilt lamp oil on them. The cuts and bruises on his hands, he claimed, came from chopping wood.”
He gave a cynical snort. “Better than being caught rutting the maid and claiming he tripped. But yes, it’s often the ordinary things that rouse suspicion.”
“He’d leave the house at odd hours, insisting it was parish business that couldn’t wait, and stayed away for days.”
He shifted his attention to the valise. “And you think the answer to the mystery lies in there?”
