Across from the foot of the bed was a lovely escritoire. All in all, except for the imperfection of the bed, it looked as if no one had occupied the room for some time. He went to the closet. Hangers hung at odd angles… He leaned down and scooped up an abandoned garment. Put it to his nose, breathing deep. Peyton.
Alistar backed out of the wardrobe, tossed the dress on the bed, and stalked from the room. Tarron’s door was open as well. He didn’t go in, but he could see the unmade bed.
He stood in the hall a minute, thoughts careening through him.Wasthere another journal? Only one way to find out. Bugger intrusion. Alistar advanced down the hall to the last room on the left and found the door closed but not locked.
The chamber was as dusty as he recalled. He went to the secretary and rifled through the drawer’s contents and found nothing resembling another journal. Instinct, and perhaps a bit of wishful thinking, said his rationale had merit. He straightened and circled. “Where would a young woman hide her most private thoughts?” he said to the empty room.
He had no sisters. No brothers. Not even cousins. He checked both bedside tables. Nothing. Nothing in the wardrobe, the dresser. He even went so far as to check beneath the bed. Dust balls.
The only thing left in the room, short of a hidden hole in the wall or floor, was the vanity. It had two drawers on each side and a long center one at the top. There were various antique glass containers on the tabletop that reflected back in a fly-dotted, tri-fold mirror. He got lucky on the first pullout. Blue leather fastened with a soft yellow tie.
Alistar lifted the old book and opened at random, his fingers shaking.
1 January 1868
Forrest, my love. I am heartbroken at what I witnessed when I last visited. It has taken me time to recover. But I am resolved. While there is nothing I can do for you, perhaps there is one gift I can offer: ’tis for your descendants. That is what I offer. I’ve decided to decipher the curse. Yes, ’tis real. I’d heard of it, of course. One cannot live in my clan and not have, my darling.
There was a smudge as if she’d dabbed away a fallen tear.
The closer to the current Earl of Griston’s thirty-third year, the clearer the words will become. That is the way of the curse, you see. It could take years to fully comprehend, my love. But it is my vow to you. The upside, my dearest? T’will be a privilege to watch after your son. From a distance. Lady Caroline does not care for me, as you know. I shall only be able to hear the chants when Rube is about. It is the only way. The words, they are quite subtle. Rube is a lovely boy, Forrest. You would be so proud.
Alistar thumbed through page after page of words in a language he didn’t have time to identify. Except one:7-lea fiu.Seventh… son, if he had to guess.
The atmosphere in the room shimmered. It could have been the dust motes. A given, but he felt a strange energy too. He stilled, letting it resonate. He felt as if he were wrapped in the essence of a spiritual hug. Peyton needed to see this. Feel this.
Alistar stepped back in the hall, meeting a long, brittle silence that set his nerve endings afire.Where the devil are you?
He started down the hall, reaching the room he’d slept in several doors down, across from Peyton’s friend’s chamber, when he heard the anguished, chilling groan. The hair raised on his arms, and he pushed the partly open door wider. “Good God.” The white rug the man lay on was saturated with blood.
“I recognize you,” he croaked out. “From the museum. You caught my friend.”
“Don’t move.” Alistar pulled out his cell and dialed home. “Can you tell me what happened? Wait—Pelz, call the physician. Summon him to Griston Hall. Someone’s hurt. I’ll be there shortly.” He clicked off. “You’re Tarron, right?”
“I’m Tarron,” he bit out. “Help me up.”
“I’m going to take you home. I mean, to my home. Where is Peyton?”
“I don’t know. I can’t really remember what happened. She handed me a piece of paper she’d found and said she was late meeting with…” Tarron squinted up at him. “With you, I think. She never came home.”
“Actually, she left my house late yesterday.”
“How late?” His questions were an encouraging sign.
“Late. I didn’t find her in the house, but then I didn’t check everywhere—” He paused. “That I know of,” he amended.
“Call her cell. She always answers her cell.”
That was true enough.
Tarron rattled off her number. It rang then went to voice mail. “Peyton, this is Alistar. Please call when you receive this message. My thanks.”
“Touching,” her friend said.
Alistar slipped the phone in his shirt pocket. “Let me help you. You have a head wound. My butler is an amazing man. He’ll be able to assist us.” He stuffed the journal in his jeans at his hip to keep it in place and helped the younger man to his feet but kept hold of him lest he take a tumble down the stairs. They were both breathing hard by the time they reached the bottom.
“She hasn’t called back,” Tarron rasped. “Something’s wrong.” They moved to the portico. “The car is here.”
“Yes. Oh, I forgot. Her clutch is on the front seat.”
