Nate frowned as he watched her go. What right did she have to be upset with him? What did she want from him? She was a married woman, for goodness’ sake. Why couldn’t she leave him be?
*
Bridget awoke toa barrage of thunder. Despite it still being dark, she threw back her covers and padded barefoot across her room to watch the war raging in the heavens. She had always been fascinated by storms. As a little girl, she’d loved to watch the drama unfold in the sky from the safety of her room, knowing that her papa was next door, ready to protect her.
Tonight, menacing clouds barreled across the sky, roaring like Titans in battle, hurling bolts of lightning at each other and striking the earth below. Windermere’s mercurial weather was on full display for their guests. Yesterday evening had been calm and balmy, with a full moon shining over the lake.
What had the humans done to displease the gods? As if in answer to her thoughts, Bridget heard what sounded like a chilling wail from the hallway.
She paused, trying to blink her exhaustion away as she listened over the storm. Had she imagined it? Or was there going to be a repeat performance of last week’s drama? Lightning struck again, and the wind shrieked, rattling the glass panes on her windows. An icy draft seeped through into the room, chilling Bridget to the bone.
She stumbled back to her bed, deciding that the wail must have come from the wind, which sometimes sounded like an Irish Banshee. She sank back into her bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, grateful for their warmth and comfort as the rain came down in full force, pounding the panes. She snuggled under the blankets and driftedback to sleep, forgetting all about the faraway cry.
When it came again—a terrifying shriek, competing for attention with the tempest outside—it woke Bridget from her slumber. She sat up with a start. It was different from Lady Eamont’s overly dramatic cry for attention. This scream came from a place of fear, and it sent a quiver down Bridget’s spine. Heart pounding, she jumped out of bed. And Bijou, who had been a shivering mound under the blankets at the foot of Bridget’s bed as he always was during a storm, started wrangling his way from under the covers. Bridget grabbed her dressing gown and raced out of her room, taking care to close the door behind her, leaving Bijou safely inside.
She hurried across the hallway to the staircase and, passing the walnut grandfather clock on the landing, saw it was half-five. What an ungodly hour to be howling. This had better not be one of Lady Eamont’s antics again, Bridget thought as she peered over the railing down into the main hall.
What she saw made her blood run cold.
A woman’s twisted body lay at the foot of the stairs, her right leg bent at an unnatural angle and her head resting on a pool of blood.
Chapter Twelve
It’s Madam Bouffant!Bridget realized, a shock wave zipping through her. The actress wore the same cherry-red evening dress she’d worn at dinner, and for a second, the absurd thought that blood had ruined the gown passed through Bridget’s mind.
“Good Lord!” Bridget cried, snapping out of her motionless state. She raced down the stairs but slowed midway, not wanting to approach the body. She’d never seen a dead person before—let alone a person she knew and had spoken with just hours earlier. She covered her mouth with her hand to stifle the scream that sat in her throat and was about to turn her face away when she felt an arm encircle her. She jumped back in fright, not knowing anyone else was there.
“It’s only me, Bridget.” Nate reached for her again. “Come here. Don’t look.”
She folded into Nate’s arms and pressed her face against his chest, grateful for the shield his warm, masculine body provided against the cold horror at the foot of the stairs. The heat of his skin through his thin nightshirt and the power of his muscular arms around her—holding her tightly—made her feel safe.
“What is going on?” Lady Darby’s shrill voice sounded above. “I heard shouting. And why is that dog making such a racket at this ungodly hour? Has someone’s jewelry been stolen again?”
The guests, in various states of undress and in dressing gowns, began to gather at the railing, peering over to the horrific scene below.
“Good heavens!” Adelia and Lydia shrieked simultaneously. “She’sdead!”
“My God! Clarissa! No!” Lord Eamont came barreling down the stairs in his nightshirt, his feet bare and his salt-and-pepper hair disheveled from sleep. “No!”
Nate let go of Bridget and stopped Lord Eamont as he made to pass them on the stairs. “Don’t look at her. Turn around and go back upstairs. Comfort your wife and daughters,” he said in a low voice.
Lord Eamont blinked at Nate like a confused child, and Bridget’s heart broke for him, despite his treachery. She’d seen the same pain in her father’s eyes countless times after her mama had died. Lord Eamont had truly loved Madam Bouffant.
“Clarissa,” he said weakly. “Why? Oh, why?”
“Look away,” Nate said again, somewhat sternly. “Turn around and go upstairs to yourwifeand daughters.”
But Lord Eamont could not look away. He flicked his eyes back to Madam Bouffant’s lifeless body, breaking whatever spell Nate had cast over him. He even attempted to push Nate aside but could not compete with Nate’s youth and strength. He sagged against the younger man then, limp and visibly trembling as a sob escaped him.
To Bridget’s surprise, Frederick came down the stairs and took Lord Eamont gently by the arm.
“Come with me,” he said softly. “Don’t look. You don’t want to remember her this way.”
Lord Eamont clutched onto Frederick’s arm like a lost little boy and allowed himself to be led back up the stairs.
Bridget couldn’t take her eyes off them. Lord Eamont, a powerful viscount, was like a broken man, clinging to one who’d not long ago been at his mercy.
But not everyone was as sympathetic as Frederick. As they reached the top of the stairs, Lady Eamont approached her husband, and even from where Bridget was standing, she could see the anger in the woman’s expression.
