Page 7 of A Legacy of Lies

She was acutely aware of his stillness. His hands rested easily on the table, broad and steady, so unlike her father’s restless, careless gestures at the gaming tables. Nathaniel’s intensity unsettled her, yet some part of her could not look away.

A flicker passed between them, awareness, swift and sharp. She caught her breath, and he narrowed his eyes. Then both covered it at once.

“You may tell Her Ladyship I shall attend directly,” Nathaniel said, his tone clipped.

Clara inclined her head, her own voice cool. “Very well, Your Grace. Though I see the ledgers earn quicker obedience than people.”

He blinked, a flicker of surprise cutting through his restraint before it vanished.

She turned toward the door she had entered, expecting him to follow. Instead, his stride carried him elsewhere, through the archway at the far side of the library. The gallery stretched ahead, lamps burning low and leaving more shadow than light. Against her better judgment, Clara found her feet following, curiosity wrapped in propriety.

The portrait gallery stretched beyond, lamps burning low, the storm pressing against the tall windows, rain striking like thrown gravel.

“At least the ancestors glare in silence,” Clara murmured under her breath.

Nathaniel slowed as he entered, surrounded by the stern faces of Hartleigh ancestors. Oil-painted eyes stared down from their gilt frames, each face severe, meant to last for eternity.

Did he belong among those painted eyes, or was he only another mask, like her father had worn?

Clara followed a few steps behind, her skirts whispering against the stone floor. She saw the frown etched between his brows. Was that contempt for the line he had inherited, or doubt?

She saw his shoulders tightened beneath their gaze. Every ancestor seemed to demand something of him, a debt he could not name but felt bound to pay.

He paused before a portrait of Adrian Hartleigh, who rested with his father in the crypt. The brush strokes had captured a warmth in his eyes, rare among the other rigid family faces.

“He was kind,” Nathaniel murmured.

Clara blinked. “Then paint should be trusted more readily than reputation.” She had expected disdain, but his tone carried something else, wistfulness, perhaps envy.

Nathaniel moved on, halting again before a woman’s portrait. Clara recognized it instantly. It was Beatrice, Eleanor’s sister, with her son. She stared at the picture and then at him. The likeness between them was unmistakable, the same mouth, the same guarded eyes. Whispers stirred at the edges of her mind. The servants’ talk of the codicil, of Beatrice’s line, and its claim should no direct heir remain. For the first time, Clara wondered if Nathaniel stood here as an intruder or as Hartleigh’s rightful heir.

Then he smiled, and she drew in a quiet gasp. He was a striking man, but when he smiled…She couldn’t find the words. The warmth of it unsettled her, dangerous in its gentleness.

The storm growled beyond the windows. A draft swept the gallery, and one lamp hissed, guttered, and went out. Clara started, her hand flying to her throat. Nathaniel struck a Lucifer from his pocket, the sharp sulfur tang cutting the air as he coaxed the flame back to life, his calm movements at odds with the sudden gloom.

A sound followed, the distinct fall of a footstep behind them. Clara gasped and turned. Shadows stretched across the corridor, but no figure moved.

“Did you hear it?” she whispered.

Nathaniel’s expression remained guarded. “Only the storm,” he said.

If it was only the storm, why did his gaze sweep the corners? And why did his jaw tighten?

She shivered. The portraits seemed to lean closer, their eyes alive with judgment.

At the corridor’s end, a heavy oak door stood closed. Its iron banding gleamed faintly in the lantern light. Nathaniel’s attention fixed on it at once.

He stepped forward. “What lies beyond?”

Clara stiffened. “That way is kept shut.”

“Why?” His voice was even, but probing. He glanced at her.

Her breath caught. He would not leave her answer unchallenged. And if he pressed, if he pried open the crypt secrets Eleanor had entrusted her to guard, her father’s disgrace would seem small beside such revelations.

“It is not my place to say,” she answered, too quickly.

Clara, cheeks hot, lowered her gaze. He will dig until all is exposed.