The butler smiled down at Eliza. “Good evening, miss. We don’t have much in the way of all that, I’m afraid, but we’ve a splendid whisky that will warm you right up. Bit of a chill in the air for June. Shall I wake Mrs.Duncan to chaperone?”
“That won’t be necessary, Mr.Turner,” Eliza answered. “Although a dram of your Scotch sounds perfectly delightful.”
The butler ushered them inside, and Eliza’s eyes widened in covetous wonder. They stood in an elegant foyer, three stories high, punctuated by a skylight that shone like a great eye, spilling moonlight instead of tears. A grand staircase dominated the room and broke into two galleries over the yellow-veined marble floor. The plasterwork ceiling was as magnificent as any cathedral—vaulted arches curved from each corner and leapt with seraphim. The wood-paneled walls and dentil molding harkened back to the last century, and while there was a faint hint of must and dampness in the air, the front drawing room glowed welcoming and warm. A fire crackled in the hearth while an unseen gramophone played Puccini from another room. Eliza felt as if she’d entered a dream in which every fantastic thought of the house she’d imagined had manifested. As if she’d cast a spell and made it her own.
The butler brought their Scotch, and Malcolm poured a tumbler of the whisky for Eliza, his lips curving into a smile. “Welcome to Havenwood Manor, Miss Sullivan. I do hope it won’t disappoint.”
CHAPTER 7
As Malcolm led her through the house, pausing to describe the renovations his predecessors had made through the years, Eliza’s curiosity was piqued at every turn. Each room felt like opening a treasure chest, each discovery more extraordinary than the last.
First there was a magnificent library with books shelved neatly to the ceiling and the gramophone she’d heard from the hall. Beyond, she glimpsed a cozy study with a handsome desk and leaded windows. The dining room boasted a long, polished table with high-backed, thronelike chairs. Eliza imagined men with devilish, pointed beards sitting around it, clutching tankards of ale. “It’s been in my family since the Reformation, when my father’s ancestors lived in Yorkshire,” Malcolm said, brushing its shining surface with his fingertips. “We hid Catholic priests in the foundation of that house, as it’s rumored, all while pledging support for our Protestant king. The Winfields have ever played both sides of the coin.”
He led her up the curving staircase, its newel post illuminated by an angel holding a lantern aloft. High above the landing, elaborate stained glass windows winked promisingly. Eliza could only imagine the brilliance of their tableaus spilling across the stairs in the light of day.
Malcolm opened a set of ornate carved doors on the landing and, apologizing for the lack of electricity, turned a key set into the wall.He produced a long match from his pocket and raised it to a sconce on the wall. With a pop, it ignited, and light crept into every corner of the long, narrow room. Eliza’s imagination did not go unrewarded. As Malcolm lit the candelabras one by one, the portraits of his ancestors emerged from carved niches. He introduced them all, from the bewigged Scottish lord who had survived the Jacobite rebellion by selling secrets to the English, to the known counterfeiter who had won his earlship from Henry VIII during a card game. “Philanders, fools, and unrepentant thieves—the very lot of us,” he said playfully.
“And deadly charming, I daresay.” In the corner, half-shrouded by shadow, Eliza caught a glimpse of a portrait. In it, a striking woman wore a dress the color of emeralds. She was a sylph—tall and regal, with luminous skin and dark hair. Her pale-green eyes stared back at Eliza. It was as if the painter had captured her in the midst of some unknowable secret. “And who is this ravishing beauty?”
“Ah,” Malcolm said, stopping before the portrait, his hands clasped behind his back. “Thatis my lady mother.”
“You favor her. She’s lovely.”
“She was beautiful, wasn’t she? But very sad, I’m afraid.” Malcolm grew quiet, his countenance falling. It was a look Eliza recognized—one she’d worn for years—her hollow eyes peering out from mirrors veiled in black.
After turning down the lights, Malcolm led her through a set of doors at one end of the ballroom. They emerged onto a wrought iron balcony. They were in the two-story conservatory she’d seen from her room at Sherbourne House. Eliza tilted her head back, unable to restrain the gasp of delight that escaped her lips. Stars glittered through the glass ceiling, and the moon shone above them, round as a Chinese lantern. It was enchanting.
Malcolm offered his arm, and they walked down the spiral staircase to the brick-paved floor. They trailed along the hothouse path until they came to a wicker settee where he invited her to sit. He took thechair facing her, removing the globe from a garden lantern and lighting it with a match. The smell of sulfur bloomed as the flame leapt about wildly, illuminating his eyes with tiny pinpoints of light. His features were sharper in the flickering glow—wolfish and feral.
“Your home is every bit as lovely as I’d imagined, Lord Havenwood.”
“I’ve only shown you the best of it, I’m afraid. I would show you the rest, but it’s far too dangerous to go into the south wing. After the fire, the structure was compromised.”
“I saw the burned rafters from my room. What happened?”
Malcolm gave a contemptuous sniff. “You mean to say no one has told you about our fire? It’s the favored story to be tossed about over brandy.”
“Polly Whitby told me a little, but she seemed reluctant to say much,” Eliza lied.
“That was kind of her.”
“She did tell me that your father and your brother died that night. I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose your family—my parents died of yellow fever a few years ago. It was gut-wrenching. I don’t think I shall ever recover from the memory of it.”
Malcolm nodded. “Wretched, isn’t it? Our fire was horrific. It started suddenly, at midwinter, in the wee hours of morning. By the time I woke, Father had already died trying to save my brother, whose chambers were in the south wing. The balcony gave way as he ran to wake Gabriel, and the roof collapsed in on them.”
“And your mother?”
“She made it out of the house with me, and we went to an inn in the village while the fire crew and our staff worked to salvage as much of the house as possible. When I woke the following morning, she was gone. I believe it was all too much for her. She has—had—a fragile constitution.”
“They’ve never found her?”
“No, but that isn’t unusual in these parts. She could have fallen into a ravine. Drowned in the river. There are wild animals about ...” Malcolm looked away, shifting in his chair. “Quite the bubbling conversation for our first outing.”
“Forgive me,” Eliza said. She reached for his hand, and he gave it, his fingers warm in her own. His vulnerability touched her, made her long to offer the kinds of comforting words she’d never received. “I only wanted to hear what happened from you, not someone else.”
“I do appreciate that. The vilest rumor, which you will hear soon enough if you haven’t already, is that I started the fire on purpose to secure my position as viscount.”
“Whyever would anyone think that?”
