“Sounds as if they love you very much,” he said.
“Yes.”
He drained his glass. “Now tell me. I’m all agog. What is this secret of Jess Aldis’s that you have?” The only secret that Jess Aldis had was his real name. And Alistar couldn’t very well share that, now could he?
She stood back up. “Come with me.”
Alistar followed Peyton from the intimate dining room into the foyer. Dark cherry wood walls absorbed the lighted sconces. The storm outside had subsided to a steady humming downpour that resonated deep within him. She went to a long skinny wall table and took a key from the drawer. He’d never been inside Leander Skerry’s home, and he found himself impressed. The outside of the home did not do its inside justice. She led him up a beautiful staircase with a carved open bannister with impressive spindles and down the hall past several bedrooms. She stopped at the last one on the left and slipped the key in the lock.
She glanced over her shoulder and grinned. His heart kicked up a notch. Pounded harder. She pushed open the door and stepped across the threshold.
“Why is the door locked?”
She shrugged. “I’m not sure. Tarron and I had a hell of a time trying to find the key.”
Alistar followed her in and almost stumbled again. The bedchamber had not seen a duster in fifty years. The double bed was covered with a homemade quilt and a canopy of faded emerald green. A Celtic design sat atop tall, wide spindly posts. The grimy windows showed through powder sheer curtains that had yellowed to the color of faded cornsilk.
He recognized this room. He’d seen it before—in a vision.
He surveyed the space and clearly saw the young woman from his vision perched on the chair at the secretary in the corner. An old-fashioned inkwell sat in the center toward the top edge of the desk. His heart sped up, beating at an erratic pace, stealing his breath. A feathered pen lay across a closed book. A journal.
The journal.
“Good heavens. Alistar, you are white as a ghost.” Peyton reached for his hand. It was clammy. Cold.
He didn’t answer; instead, he reached for the book on the desk. His hand trembled.
Peyton watched, fascinated, and a little alarmed, as he opened it.
He read aloud. “Journal of Lady Cecilia Madelina Ennis. The twenty-sixth of December 1828.This is the most excellent of gifts I could have received. Irene will be launched in society soon, and I shall be left behind with Thomas, unable to attend any of the exciting activities. Not that I don’t love my younger brother. But he is a baby. Irene is the one who is known for having the touch for quieting crying nippers. ’Tis so unfair.”
Peyton took the diary from him and studied the parchment. “It’s a girl’s diary. I wonder how old she was.”
Her eyes shot to his then dropped to the journal she held, a sudden shyness stealing through her. “It would be kind of fun to read this together.”
“I can’t think of anything I would enjoy more.” His voice was graveled and scratchy.
The husky tones sent a shiver over her, raising gooseflesh along her skin. She hurried out of the room, leaving him to follow.
She led him to the library. It was her favorite room in the old house, outside of the master bedroom. A light hung from a cathedral ceiling in the long, narrow room. The fireplace was flanked by filled bookcases that wrapped their adjacent walls another three feet or so. The rest of the walls were covered with windows. A long soft-gray sofa faced two winged-back chairs of royal blue with a round marble-top table encased in an iron frame.
Peyton set the journal on the coffee table and moved to the fireplace and set a match to the kindling the housekeeper kept ready. Mrs. Hansel came in three times a week, and Peyton was grateful for her.
Her grandfather had done extensive and exquisite work in the house. She’d learned the Tudor house had been built in the 1830s. Which explained why some of the drafts couldn’t be fixed. An old house was an old house.
A small throw lay folded over the back of the couch. She dragged it from its place and huddled, waiting for the room to warm. Something had shifted in that locked room Peyton didn’t understand. Something she couldn’t explain or lay her finger on. It frightened her.
“You’re cold.” Alistar stood in the archway, holding the bottle of wine and two glasses. He was so handsome, it made her chest hurt.
“A little. It’ll warm up soon.” She kicked off her shoes and curled her feet beneath her.
He settled across from her in one of the blue chairs, poured the wine, and handed her a glass.
She leaned forward and picked up the journal. Anticipation coursed through her.
“The third of March 1829. The rain has been relentless the last two months. The household has retired to the country until April or May. I’m very sad. James informed me he has taken up a position with a new lord in Colchester. He’s only ten and five. ’Tis not terribly far from us, but I shall miss him greatly. He has secured a post as a man of affairs with the sixth Earl of Griston—” Peyton gasped, her eyes meeting his. “But isn’t that your…”
“It is indeed,” Alistar said softly. “I should tell you something before we go on.”
