“She forgot her purse? Something is definitely wrong. You checked her room?”
“The closet was empty.”
“She left?” His voice rose two octaves, then he winced.
“I couldn’t say for certain. Come, let me drive you to Griston Hall. You need medical assistance. I’ll return and search for her.”
“She could be out back on the terrace,” Tarron said. “Sometimes she’ll sit out there to write.” They stepped outside the front door. Dark clouds swirled above their heads, the brooding cumulus kind.
They reached his motor, and Alistar opened the door and stepped aside, allowing Tarron room to move inside the space of the open door.
“Go check. Sorry.” One white-knuckled grip clutched the top of the door, the other rested heavily on the soft-covered top. “Please. I have a horrible feeling about this. Peyton would never forget her purse. Certainly not her phone. Ever.”
Alistar pierced him with a hard stare, then with a sharp nod turned back. He ran through the house for the mudroom. The path was familiar from his first visit. The door to the terrace was locked. He already knew she wasn’t out back, but he opened the door regardless. There was a streak of coolness besides the slight breeze that spoke to him loud and clear. She was gone.
Peyton woke the next morning disoriented. The room was all kinds of blue, starting with the faded silk-covered walls. It was suffocatingly old-fashioned. Cloying, almost. She crawled from the massive bed and found the adjoining bath and took a long, hot shower. She smoothed her wet hair back into a bun at the base of her neck and studied her eyes, so poufy that no amount of mascara would help. After slipping into a jersey print knit dress of white with tall grass sprouting up from the hem, tipped in flowers of a variety of primary colors, even a butterfly here and there, she zipped her suitcase and lugged it behind her. Once down the stairs, she left it sitting by the front door in a foyer of dark wood made gloomy by the lack of sun.
“Miss McKenzie?” A tall, handsome woman in her fifties entered the hall, dressed smartly in taupe trousers and a white silk blouse complete with a strand of pearls. She was pretty sure Tarron would not approve of the conservative attire. “I’m Lady Beck. My goodness, you are the very picture of Sarah Christine. Well, not her coloring, but you have her fey features. The tilt and color of her eyes. Her smile.” She took Peyton’s hand. “Please, you must call me Aunt Patricia.”
“Aunt Patricia?” she said faintly, suddenly wishing she’d insisted on staying at the Premier Inn. It was within a block of the Tate Modern.
“Come have breakfast, dear.”AuntPatricia’s clawlike grip tightened, and Peyton knew she’d never escape. “We have loads to talk about.” She pulled Peyton into an intimate dining room that boasted an oblong table that seated eight. Chafing dishes sat on top of a buffet at the far end of the room. “Will you have tea or coffee?”
“Coffee, please.”
“Good morning, my dear.”
Patricia turned her cheek for a peck from a distinguished man who gave a good indication of how Carson would look in twenty-five years. “This is Peyton McKenzie, darling.”
“Delighted to meet you,” he said. “You remind me of someone. Who does she remind you of, Patricia?”
“Sarah Christine,” Patricia said.
“Yes, of course. That’s it exactly. But she was blonde. Miss McKenzie is a brunette.”
“Her father was dark in coloring. Remember, my sweet?” Patricia turned to Peyton. “This is your Uncle Chad.”
“Right-oh.” Chad moved to the buffet and took up a plate, filling it to the brim.
Carson soon followed. “Mother, Father. Oh, good. I see you’ve met Peyton. Would you like coffee, Peyton?”
Peyton didn’t have time to answer. A cup was deposited in front of her. She sank into a chair and reached for the sugar and cream and doctored her coffee. She felt as if she’d been hung out to dry.
Patricia returned from the sideboard with a plate filled with hardly enough food to feed a bird. “What do you remember of your parents, dear?”
Carson set a plate in front of Peyton. Not only could she not possibly take a bite, but she couldn’t force her fingers to pick up a fork. “Nothing. I don’t remember anything. Frankly, I don’twantto remember anything.” Wait, yes. She did have things she wanted to know. “Why was I put into foster care?”
Silence bounded off the walls.
“We should probably start at the beginning,” Patricia said.
Alistar kept his arm about Tarron, getting him through the front door and to the stairs. “Pelz! Oh, there you are. This is Mr—”
“Tarron,” Tarron’s voice slurred. Not a good sign.
“Let’s get Mr. Tarron to the Green bedchamber. Did you reach the physician?”
“He is out on calls, my lord. He will be here within a couple of hours.”
