It was a rumor, nothing more.
Cecilia liked theideaof ghosts as much as any avid reader of gothic romance, but she was skeptical as to their actual existence. Mrs. Briggs had stoutly declared the ghostly gossip utter nonsense, and dismissed it with a scornful wave of her hand. But now here was this peculiar scratching sound, coming from the marchioness’s abandoned bedchamber. If it wasn’t a ghost, what was it?
Mrs. Briggs had mentioned poachers were wandering about the castle grounds, but surely they wouldn’t dare venture inside the castle? Even if they were bold enough, how would they get into Lady Darlington’s bedchamber?
But if they had somehow managedto get inside…
Some say as he smothered her with a pillow…buried her poor bones in the castle walls…he’s the Murderous Marquess, sure as I’mstanding here.
Cecilia’s stomach lurched as she recalled the hateful things the villagers had said about Lord Darlington, that first day she’d arrived in Edenbridge. If one of themdidmanage to sneak into the castle, there was no telling what they might do, or how far they might go to see his lordship punished.
She thought of the pretty pink bed with its silk hangings just two doors down, of Isabella sleeping with her little hand curled under her cheek, and Cecilia’sthroat closed.
She turned back to the door with her teeth caught in her lower lip. Perhaps she’d just try it, so she could reassure herself it was indeed locked. She grasped the door latch, the wrought iron slick against her damp palms.
It wasn’t locked. It gave way under her hand, and opened with a creak almost as if someone had tugged on the latch from the other side, encouraging her to enter. Cecilia hesitated, herknuckles white.
This wasn’t like the accident with the coal scuttle this morning. Lord Darlington had chosen to overlook that, but if she entered the marchioness’s bedchamber, it wouldn’t be an accident. She would be intentionally disobeying his direct order. He’d dismiss her for that, and for good reason.
Ifhe caught her.
He and Lord Haslemere had gone out tonight. A peek inside Lady Darlington’s bedchamber was the work of a moment only. She’d be in and out beforethey returned.
Wasn’t this, after all, why Lady Clifford had sent her here? To sneak into locked bedchambers, peer into dark corners, and uncover Lord Darlington’s secrets? She wouldn’t get another chance like this one. Whatever oversight had led to the door being unlocked would doubtless be corrected by tomorrow.
Cecilia pushed the door wider, wincing as the iron hinges squealed in rusty protest. She took a cautious step into the room, her heart beating madly, Lord Darlington’s warning never to enter his late wife’s bedchamber echoing in her head.
A blast of freezing cold air sliced through her as she paused on the threshold, and she gathered her night rail closer, shivering. She hadn’t thought the bedchamber would be warm—a fire hadn’t been laid here in months—but it was much colder than she’d expected. Cold enough she could see her breath freeze in the air as soon as itleft her lips.
Had someone inadvertently left a window open? Cecilia peered at the row of windows on the other side of the room, but the heavy silk drapes drawn across them were still, not a breath of fresh air stirring them. The room smelled stale as well, in a way it wouldn’t if the windows hadbeen left ajar.
As her eyes adjusted to the gloom, she noticed the room didn’t look quite as abandoned as she would have expected. The furniture wasn’t draped with dust cloths, for one, and there wasn’t the musty, stale scent in the air one would expect from a chamber that had been sealed for so long.It was…strange.
Gooseflesh that had nothing to do with the cold made Cecilia’s skin prickle. Her shoulders instinctively jerked up to her ears to protect her neck, because God knew if ever a ghostly, skeletal hand were going to choke the life out of her it would happenhere, and now—
Scratch, scratch, scratch…
“Oh!” Cecilia gasped, all thoughts of cold and ghosts and skeletons fleeing her head. That haunting sound was back, much louder this time, and it was coming from an alcove in one corner of the room. It looked like a dressing room. The door was slightly ajar, and she could just make out a massive clothes press situated against one wall. She eyed it warily, her instincts urging her to turn and flee back to the safety of her bed.
Well, how absurd. Was she really so fainthearted as that? No, she wouldn’t give into such shameful cowardice. What did she suppose was inside there? A ghost, or a dead marchioness’s moldering skeleton? It was a clothes press, for pity’s sake, not a crypt.
She steeled her spine, crept forward, and eased the door of the clothes press open a crack with one finger. A little wider,then a little—
“Heaven and earth!” Cecilia stumbled backward, a scream rising to her lips as something darted out the door. It scrambled over her bare feet and vanished into the bedchamber beyond, its claws scrabbling over the floorboards.
“What in the world?” Cecilia patted her chest to calm her frantic breathing. Her first horrified thought was that ithad been a rat—
No, that wasn’t true. Herfirstthought was it had been a ghost, a very small one with four clawed feet. Her second was it was a rat, but if itwasa rat, it was a giant one, indeed. That wasn’t precisely a comforting thought, giant rats not being the sort of thing she wished to encounter in a dark room, but before she could fall into a panic over it, another thought occurred to her.
She tiptoed back into the bedchamber. There could only be one explanation for scratching claws and a dark, furry,darting thing—
“Ah, ha. Just as I thought. Where didyou come from?”
A black cat was sitting right in the center of the thick Aubusson carpet spread across the floor, calmly licking its paw. It looked up when Cecilia spoke, regarded her for a moment with disinterested green eyes, then went back to its grooming, as coolas you please.
Cecilia couldn’t recall ever having been so summarily dismissed in her entire life. “I beg your pardon, madam, but if it weren’t for me, you’d still be trapped inside that clothes press.” Because of course, that’s what the noise had been—the cat scratching on the door to escape. “I believe I deserve your gratitude. At the very least, you could introduce yourself.”
The cat lowered its paw to the floor, abandoning its toilette to consider Cecilia. This mollified her somewhat, as the cat’s sleek, shiny black fur indicated a preoccupation with cleanliness.
