She dashed over, clearing away the brush. To her surprise, the arch wasn’t a natural formation of rock but stone that had been worked by hand and embedded with…shells. A tingle tiptoed up her spine, and with dawning wonder, she passed under the arch and into a chamber the size of a church’s apse. No more than a dozen feet in any direction, the cave had a niche in the entryway and, on the other side, a stone bench in a recessed alcove. There was a little hearth, with a pile of kindling that someone had left behind. The scents of decay and growth reminded her of her greenhouse, another solitary retreat.
I wonder how long this hermit’s grotto has been here?
Wealthy landowners oft constructed such dwellings on their estates, and some even hired hermits to occupy them. The hermits often wore robes like monks, with long hair and beards, and dispensed advice or philosophy. Their presence was intended to give the estate a fashionably romantic ambiance.
As Evie examined the grotto, her tingling sensation grew. Her breath quickening, she traced her fingertip along the familiar pattern in the wall. A single shell at the center, its rings spiraling outward in such fluid circles that the entire design seemed to have no beginning or end.
“The spiral of shells,” she whispered. “I saw this in my dream.”
She gazed at the pattern for a long time, trying to puzzle out its meaning before she noticed the markings carved into the adjacent wall. Moving closer, she saw they were words. Squinting in the dim light, she read them aloud: “You are mine, and I am yours. Not only for ease, but for every trial. This is the way of love: to stay, to forgive, to begin again.”
A lover’s vow—was it Rosalinda and Thomas’s? Or had it been added by others who had visited this place in the intervening years? Evie didn’t know, but the sentiment stirred something deep in her…something she was not yet ready to examine.
Was my dream of Rose actually a vision? Did she find refuge here in her time of need? Am I standing where she once stood…did she bring me here for a purpose?
Trembling, Evie pressed a hand against her thumping heart.
As soon as the rain let up, Evie left behind the hidden hollow and returned to the manor. She felt shaken…and exhilarated. A part of her had attributed her dreams to an overactive imagination—and, perhaps, a desire to be part of the romantic legend like Xenia and Gigi. But Rose’s visions had led her to the grotto, which meant they were real. Evie knew she had to share this with the others so that they could put their heads together and figure out what it all meant.
Exhaling, she climbed up the front steps. First things first: she wanted to rebuild the intimacy between her and James. He would be dressing for supper now, and instead of avoiding him, she could waltz into their shared chamber and ask him how his day had gone. She could make pleasant small talk while making wifely adjustments to his cravat and lapel.
Her splendid plan and gathered courage came to naught when the butler informed her that the earl had gone out. He hadn’t left word of his whereabouts, only that he would not be taking supper. Deflated, Evie trudged to her room alone. When she was greeted by the lingering scent of James’s cologne, longing and frustration welled inside her. Tossing aside her bonnet and gloves, she wandered listlessly to the sitting room that James had taken over.
Seeing the papers scattered across the escritoire, she went over with a faint smile. A messy desk was one of James’s foibles, which she secretly found endearing. She tidied up newspapers, correspondence, and notes he’d jotted down for his speech. She found a cream-colored envelope with a broken seal; the paper was smooth, with a luxurious heft, and she turned it over. A pulse throbbed at the side of her throat when she saw the unmistakably feminine hand that had addressed the note to her husband.
She paused, debating the merits of what she was about to do. Her sensible side argued that this was James’s private correspondence: she had no right to pry. Her primal side drove her shaking hands to extract the note. Attar of Roses, which she’d always found cloying, wafted from the paper. Unfolding it, she read the lushly penned message:
My dearest Lord Manderly,
* * *
I hope you will join me for a private supper at my home this evening. I wish for us to become better acquainted and to discuss our future plans without interruption. Too many cooks can spoil a dish—or a campaign, don’t you agree?
* * *
I eagerly await your reply.
* * *
Yours,
Morgana Vernon
Better acquainted? Our future plans?
Was the woman hinting that she and James had started a liaison…or that she wished to?
An image blazoned in Evie’s head: James alone with the ravishing widow, drinking champagne and dining by intimate candlelight. This very moment, they could be laughing, flirting, and doing heavens knew what else.
Not if I have any say in it. Loretta was right. I must protect what is mine.
Crumpling the note in her fist, Evie stalked off to find her husband.
Chapter Eighteen
The journey to Lady Vernon’s estate took over an hour. The rain was a steady thump on the carriage roof, fat drops pelting the windows and making muck of the roads. Halfway there, Jeffries, the driver, inquired if Evie wanted to continue; she gave him a decisive yes. Having set her course, she had no intention of turning back.
What if I am too late? What will I discover when I get there?
