There was nothing innocent about a murdered marchioness and a missing portrait, and Cecilia would do well to remember that, instead of mooning over how handsome Lord Darlington looked in the firelight. Silly romantic notions were all very well in novels, but despite the crumbling castle and the White Lady, this was noGothic fiction.
Cecilia was no swooning virgin, and Lord Darlington nobrooding hero.
If there’d ever been a time to put sentiment aside in favor of facts and evidence, it was now. So, here she was, in the last place she should be, poking about among centuries of Darlington family secrets. If she didn’t quite like it—if being here left a bitter, guilty taste in her mouth—she’d just have to choke it back, wouldn’t she?
This was what Lady Clifford had sent her here to do, and she was running out of time to get it done. Each day that passed brought Fanny Honeywell ever closer to Darlington Castle, and marriage to Lord Darlington.
A man who might, or might not,be a murderer.
Cecilia had taken a cursory turn through the schoolroom and found a few books and some sheets of pretty marbled paper that would do for a crown and scepter for Isabella, but she’d come up to the attics in search of something else. Something she hoped she’d find here, buried somewhere among a castle’s worth of discarded furnishings, each hulking piece covered with a sheet turned gray from years of accumulated grime.
All but the portraits, that is. Cecilia wasn’t certain why they’d escaped without shrouds, unless it was there were simply too many of them. Whatever the reason, the portraits had long since been abandoned to their dusty fates, propped up against the walls and each other, what little light there was glinting off their dulled gilt frames. Dozens upon dozens of past marquesses and their wives and children, one dead Darlington ancestor after another, reaching back generations.
All except one.
Lady Cassandra, the seventh Marchioness of Darlington, was missing.
She wasn’t in the small picture gallery, or among the row of unsmiling aristocrats lining the hallway outside Lord Darlington’s study. Nor was her portrait hanging in the formal portrait gallery that stretched from one end of the castle to the other, along the east wall on the second floor.
She wasn’t…anywhere.
Cecilia leaned the portrait she’d been examining back against the wall, her heart plummeting. She’d thought…she’d hoped she’d find LadyCassandra here.
It wasn’t until Cecilia discovered the portrait appeared to be truly gone that she realized how badly she’d wanted to see Lady Cassandra’s face, how desperately she’d wanted her…notto be missing. Because surely, surely an absence such as this bespoke a guilty conscience? A husband who couldn’t bear to look upon his late wife’s likeness, couldn’t bear to stare into the eyes ofthe wife he’d—
“Mrrar.”
“God in heaven!” Cecilia jumped back as something scurried under the hem of her skirts. She didn’t panic, as she recognized the dark, furry body at once, but she did scold the cat when it darted back out again. “Seraphina, you wicked beast! You nearly frightened the life of out of me! How in the world did you get into the attic?”
Seraphina wasn’t ever much inclined to explain herself, and this time was no different. She didn’t deign to offer another mew, but padded over to a trunk in a corner of the attic and, with one graceful leap, settled herself on top of it like a queen before turning her expectant green gaze on Cecilia.
“A royal summons, Seraphina? You truly are the haughtiest creature I’ve ever…” Cecilia frowned, her voice trailing off as she noticed something strange. Pale light peeked through a cracked window shutter, casting an eerie glow over that corner of the room, and it looked as if…
Cecilia drew closer.
Yes, it was.
It was subtle, just the faintest outline of a pathway through the dust. If the light hadn’t fallen on the floor just right, she wouldn’t have even noticed the bare patch. Cecilia met Seraphina’s glowing eyes, and a tremor passed through her. “If I didn’t know better, Seraphina, I’d think you came here to lure meto that trunk.”
It was impossible. Of course, it was just mere coincidence Seraphina should be here, and have leapt on top of that particular trunk. But as Cecilia drew closer still, she saw something else thatmade her pause.
The lock on the front of the trunk was broken. It had nothing to do with the trunk’s age—the lock wasn’t just cracked, or hanging by a rusty hinge. It had been struck with something heavy. The bits of wood and splintered iron scattered on the floor caught in the hem of Cecilia’s skirts as she knelt in front of the trunk.
Seraphina hopped down, winding herself around Cecilia as she raised the lid. A length of white sheet had been folded on top to protect the contents, but it had been disturbed, revealing some of whatwas underneath.
Kid gloves, painted fans, a fashionable blue silk parasol, a comb with a pretty vine pattern etched into the silver handle, a handful of jeweled hairpins, what looked like dozens of pairs of flocked silk stockings, a crystal scent bottle…the items inside were too fashionable and costly to belong to anyone other thana marchioness.
Cecilia lowered the lid again and ran her hands over the top. The Darlington crest had been carved into the wood. The trunk must have belonged to Lady Cassandra, then, but who had been so eager to get inside it they’d broken the lock?
She sat back on her heels, her mind turning over the possibilities. Hadn’t Amy said Isabella’s previous nursemaid, Mrs. Vernon had been banished from the castle for theft. She might have known where to find Lady Darlington’s trunk, seen her chance to fetch a pretty bit of coin, and taken something.
But that had been months ago, hadn’t it? Surely the dust would have settled again by now. It looked as if someone had been here more recently than that, but Cecilia couldn’t imagine who.
She closed the lid and rose to her feet, but she stood over the trunk for some time, hands braced on her hips, thinking. Amy had said Lord Darlington closed the third floor a year ago, right after Lady Darlington’s death. Had Mrs. Briggs been up here since then, searchingfor something?
Or had it been Lord Darlington? Had he come up here and snatched something from his late wife’s trunk? It seemed unlikely a man who couldn’t even bear to look at his dead wife’s portrait would want her fans and stockings, and in any case, why would he break the lock? Surely, he’d have a key to the trunk—
“This isn’t the schoolroom, Cecilia,” said a deep voice behind her. “Are you lost again?”
