“Because we have been instructed,” Mrs. Hargreaves corrected. “For years.”
Eleanor’s brows rose. “Years.”
Mrs. Hargreaves’s gaze flicked toward the ceiling, as if the attic were not a space but a presence. “It is not locked, Your Grace.”
Eleanor’s pulse quickened. “Then why does no one enter?”
Mrs. Hargreaves met her gaze, her voice low. “Because when he goes there, he comes back… altered.”
“Altered,” Eleanor repeated.
“Angrier,” the housekeeper clarified. “As though the air up there has teeth.”
Eleanor’s throat tightened. “And you do not know why?”
Mrs. Hargreaves hesitated. “We know enough to keep our distance.”
Eleanor let the conversation end there, but the words followed her like a shadow.
Later that evening, she found herself in the library, running her fingers along the spines of books she did not intend to read, merely to keep her hands busy.
A footman entered, hesitated when he saw her, then bowed. “Your Grace.”
“Yes.”
“Lady Tamblyn has written again,” the footman said.
Eleanor turned. “Lady Tamblyn is the Duke’s aunt?”
“Yes, Your Grace. The Dowager Viscountess of Tamblyn.”
Eleanor’s mind flicked through the names she had been told in fragments. Frances Stapleton. Dowager Viscountess. Aunt.
“Does she live at Ashbourne Hall?” Eleanor asked.
“No, Your Grace. Lady Tamblyn keeps a house of her own, but she visits when invited.”
When invited. Eleanor understood the implication.
Another servant, emboldened perhaps by the quiet of the library, added softly, “Her Ladyship is family. The Duke does not welcome many.”
Eleanor nodded. “Thank you.”
The servants withdrew, leaving Eleanor alone with the books and the fire’s faint crackle.
She stared into the flames and tried to piece together the Duke she saw in fragments.
A man who could control a room with a glance.
A man who could kiss her with startling intensity, then step away as though desire were something to be disciplined.
A man whose own staff feared him, respected him, and kept their distance from an attic they would not name.
A man with an aunt who wrote and wrote, but did not arrive without permission.
And then there was Roderick Elkins.
Eleanor had heard his name more than once, spoken with a mixture of familiarity and relief, as though the household breathed easier when he was near.
