Lucien frowned. "I don't know."
"Did you ever see his diary?"
"No." Lucien looked at her. "But I know where he would have kept it."
Chapter Eleven
'Sometimes seeing the future is a gift; sometimes it is not.'
- Lady Rathbourne
* * *
Miss Cleo Sinclair, the Earl of Tremayne's daughter, became aware that she was being watched.
It started as a prickle down her spine. He was quiet, whoever he was, and trying not to let her sense him. That was vexing. She would have been frightened, but she was quite certain she wasn't going to be kidnapped today.
Or murdered.
Oh, she'd woken with the feeling that something was going to happen. Premonition kept itching along her skin at odd moments, and she kept getting this breathless sensation as though something enormous lurked on the horizon, but she was fairly certain it wasn't going to be dangerous. Those sorts of premonitions always hit her like a downpour, sweeping her out of the monotony of everyday life and into the current of foretelling, regardless of whether she wished it or not.
Could this be what she'd been sensing all day?
Not danger, but something else? She didn't think so. Nothing ever happened to her, nothing exciting anyway. She was her father's Golden Goose, more precious than a solid-gold statue of Buddha. Her purpose in life was to while away her time here at Tremayne Manor until she was called to come predict something for her father or do a foretelling for one of the lords and ladies who paid him a small fortune for them.
Four steps to the rose arch in her father's gardens, and then she'd be downwind. She let the gravel crunch beneath her feet, counting silently.
A curl of cologne drifted past, all bay rum and bergamot with a hint of rosewood and lemon. A gentleman then. One that was well in hand, for that was a special blend she'd only smelt rarely, and only on the richest of her father's acquaintances. Those who spoke with crisp Eton vowels and went hur-hur-hur when they laughed.
Cleo lifted her head, the ends of her blindfold brushing against her throat as she paused by the rose trellis. She chewed on her lip, then made a decision. "Are you following me, sir?"
There came a choked silence. He hadn't expected her to be aware of him.
"Unless, of course, it is mere coincidence that you are going to feed the ducks in my father's locked and walled garden too?" Her basket brushed against her skirts as she turned. There was nothing but stillness in front of her, though she could still scent his cologne. "Now you're making me feel a little silly. I know you're there." She touched her blindfold. Nothing like adding a little mysticism, a little drama. "You cannot sneak up upon the Cassandra, did you know?"
"My apologies." The voice was deep. Not very old, she thought, though older than she. He sounded slightly French, and a little out of his depth, as though he were searching for words to say. "I did not mean to disturb you."
"Well, clearly. You were sneaking so quietly behind me."
An awkward silence ensued. "I'm sorry."
"For being caught, or for creeping around after me in the first place?" She'd long since learned that blunt questions often startled truthful answers out of people, or she could pick up little truths out of their reactions, anyway.
"I did not know you were a diviner." This fact sounded rueful, as though, had he known, he might have stayed away.
"I'm not. I'm the diviner. The current one, anyway."
"Are they all blindfolded? I had thought..." He trailed off. He was aware of rude enquiries, even if she considered them minor inconveniences.
"It helps to make the visions clearer. My father blindfolded me when I was five. I had a foretelling saying that if I ever saw the world again, I would lose the Gift." And so she'd never dared take the blindfold off. It was the only thing that made her valuable to her father. She didn't want to lose that.
"You haven't seen a single thing since you were five?"
"Oh, I've seen a lot of things, some of them not very nice. Sometimes it's quite interesting. If I had my vision what would I see but roses and grass and trees? Whereas, without it, I can see all manner of things, sometimes even the world." She didn't give him time to gain his balance; instead, she stretched out her hand, gesturing for his arm. "Are you going to walk with me? Take a poor, blind girl safely to the water's edge?"
"I'm certain you were managing quite well enough without me." Movement whispered, as though he laced his hands behind his back. It was a subtle withdrawing, told in a gentle murmur of fabrics.
Cleo tilted her head on its side. "Don't you like touching people?"
