There was devilry in his eyes. “From you? More and more.Everything.”
“So that you can find other ways to use me for your own gain?”
His answering smirk was lazy. “Was there a doubt?”
Leena seethed silently. Just as he was siphoning her for precious information, she would do the same to him, until she bled him dry of every single fact about the Wake. Then she would find his ghost and be rid of him.
Whether fate or chance had intertwined their paths, onecertainty was growing with every passing minute: Mr. St. Silas would be the answer to finding her father—tosaving him,as her mother had begged Leena to do—just as Leena was the answer to the Saint’s missing ghost.
Mr. St. Silas stood and walked toward the canvas situated in the corner of the large study, deftly removing the oilcloth that had been covering it. “I had Lord Avon’s portrait sent for.”
Leena swallowed her anger, turning her attention toward the ghost she was indentured to find.
“Is the depiction accurate?” She rose to view the painting better.
“True enough, but he was significantly less holy,” Mr. St. Silas replied dryly.
Leena understood what he meant.
Lord Avon was divine—a fatal mix of power, vitality, and consequence. His aristocratic features, finely molded over sharp bones, were both remote and compelling. He sat in a wingback chair by a window, a hound by his feet, an easy athleticism to the set of his shoulders. He was unadorned with finery except for a wedding band on one hand and a silver ring on the other, carrying a red leather book in a relaxed hold. The scenery behind him was muted in the face of his glory; his fair hair muffled the sun; his blue eyes deadened the sky. All at once, he seemed to be both cradled by the world and superior toit.
Only death could claim such a man.
“What illness killed him?” Leena whispered, remembering his obituary in one of the old newspapers she’d found.
“None,” Mr. St. Silas responded, his voice carrying no deference to the departed. “He was murdered—a sword through the heart.”
Leena’s mouth dropped open in disbelief. “He wasmurdered? By whom?”
“Unknown.”
“Any guesses?”
Mr. St. Silas leaned back on the edge of his desk, his expression undisturbed. “It does not concern me.”
“I’ve done my own research.” Leena attempted to rearrange the tenuous image she’d built of Lord Avon with this new piece of unsettling information. “The cause of death in his obituary didn’t mentionmurder.It was far more tame than that:undisclosed illness.”
He didn’t answer her. Instead, he raised a brow. “What do you know about the aristos, Miss Al-Sayer?”
She shrugged. “I briefly interacted with a few of them while I worked in Hythe House.”
“Then you will know that Avon is an old name, with a line that can be traced back to the first families in the country.” A deliberate pause. “What is the one thing that the aristos value above everything else?”
“Power? Wealth?”
“Legacy.” Mr. St. Silas’s voice held an odd note. “If Percival Avon died in mysterious circumstances, then it’s not worth the scandal to investigate any further.”
Leena could only stare at him in astonishment. That sort of ideology—a loyalty to an intangible concept—was far beyond her world of drudgery.
Seeing the incomprehension on her face, Mr. St. Silas smiled grimly. “For the aristos, the endurance of their legacy must be protected above all else. Very likely, Lord Avon would rather his death certificate be written with lies than have his family name tarnished with the truth.”
Leena’s face reflected a sharp bitterness. There was a certain privilege to having the resources to seek justice, butchoosingnot to, while the Al-Sayers—unmoored in this country, a fragmented family without influence and without power—would never have the chance to find justice for their father…
Mr. St. Silas didn’t miss her disgust.
“And he left no heirs,” Leena said after a long moment.
Mr. St. Silas regarded the portrait impassively. “By that point, there was no one left in this world to inquire after him.”
