“Curran. Is that withi-nora-n?”
“A-n.”
“Ah, good. Do you have an education, Curran?”
“I attended Faircote.” Lord Middlebury had paid for it. He did not seem to recognize the school even as he wrote it down, saying aloud, “Fair-cote.” Curious.
Lord Middlebury blew on the paper.
A valet appeared at the door. “Are you wishing to go to bed soon, my lord?”
“I am. Had to catch this Curran fellow and document him.” He nodded to Beck. “Glad to have a moment of your time, sir. Good of you.” He stood.
Beck realized he was being dismissed. He rose to his feet. “I am happy to be of service, my lord.”
“See your way out on your own, will you? I am tired. Too tired.” A second ago, he’d been energetic, even forceful. Now, in a blink, his shoulders sagged.
Beck gave a bow. One of the valets led him out of the marquess’s rooms.
Out in the hallway, Beck said, “His research seems intense.”
“It is, sir,” the impassive servant answered.
“Does he go afield?”
“He has in the past, back when Winstead was with us.”
Beck kept his voice carefully neutral. “Winstead?”
“Yes, sir. He was Lord Middlebury’s personal servant. He went with the marquess on each of his endeavors.”
“Where is Winstead now?”
“He went to visit his family. He did that from time to time. He has not yet returned.”
“Has he been gone long?” Beck had to ask, curious as to the answer. His confrontation with Winstead had been close to ten months ago.
Instead of answering the question, the servant said, “I believe the musicale has ended. However, the young lords are in the billiards room. You may wish to join them?”
Beck had no desire to spend time drinking, especially with Ellisfield. Besides, he, too, was tired. It had been a long day. “I can see myself to my room from here.”
The valet bowed and returned to the marquess.
Beck took the main stairs to the next floor,where his bedroom was. He thought of taking another look at the portrait, but there was a small group in the library, talking among themselves. He could hear Lady Orpington complaining about having all card games banned in between ordering Magpie to stop “snapping at Lord Killenhall.”
Lord Killenhall’s deep rumble of a voice said he was ready for his bed, and Beck hastened his step to avoid being pulled into a conversation with Lady Orpington.
He wondered what was truly behind Lady Middlebury’s edict. This was a question to puzzle over in the morning. He went to his room further down the hall. He was glad he didn’t need to fuss with a valet. However, because he didn’t have a personal servant, and because he forgot to ask the porter for a lit taper, his room was dark.
Beck didn’t mind. Moonlight streamed through the window, throwing silver panes across the bedclothes. He shut the door and began tugging at his neckcloth, wanting to at last be free of it—when he realized he was not alone. A person dressed in white sat in the shadows. He thought of Jem’s ghostie story, although he recognized the silhouette.
“Violet?”
The moon highlighted her reddish-blond hair flowing over her shoulders. She stood so she was silhouetted against the window. “Beck,” she whispered. There had been a time he had dreamed of such a moment. Of her coming to him. Of her being his.
Now he was too damned tired to care.
Orwashe that tired?
