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Then he remembered. When he’d put pomade in his hair before the reading, the mirror had been clean. Even in an ancient building like Ashveil Manor, dust that thick wouldn’t accumulate in a matter of hours.
He dragged his finger through the dust and brought it to his nose. Rice powder, with the faintest scent of sandalwood. The same scent he’d noticed when Bridget had leaned close in the tavern.
The foreboding in his chest didn’t lift so much as shift, hardening into something colder and more familiar—suspicion. He didn’t have an explanation yet, but he had a thread to pull, and Phineas Cavendish did not let go of threads.
She wanted him gone. That, if nothing else tonight, told him he was already too close to something damning. He would find out exactly what Madame Bridgette Moreau was hiding in this house.
He swiped his hand across the message, obliterating it entirely. He wasn’t going anywhere.
CHAPTER 7
Bridget set down the tray of saffron cakes and Cornish splits on the trestle table in the main hall with a sigh of relief. Her arms still ached from carrying the chunk of ice and the bellows from the kitchen into the hidden passage beside the blue room—Lord Valebrook’s bedchamber. While his fearful reaction, visible through the tiny slit in the wood of the armoire, was delightful to witness, the effort had exhausted her.
She yawned, and the sound echoed off the surrounding walls. The main hall at the center of the original castle—with its polished porphyry and thirteenth-century fireplace mantel twice as tall as she—was far too grand for a half-dozen guests to break their fast. But sharing a meal in the hall had been her grandparents’ tradition, so Bridget would dutifully follow it, as she did every other tradition they’d put in place, despite their not being present to witness it.
Mrs. Keenan set the plate of kippers, smoked haddock, and hog’s pudding beside the pastries. “Did you not sleep well?”
“I was… occupied.” When Mrs. Keenan leveled her with a look, Bridget rolled her eyes and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Thank you again for the, um, message in the blue room.”
“Did you see I put your powder back on your vanity?”
“I did.” She shimmied her shoulders in glee. “He definitely was scared.”
Mrs. Keenan hummed as she arranged the china beside the fresh pot of tea. “Why are you tormenting the poor man?”
“Because he’s a liar, and he’s up to something.” She slapped the jar of jam on the table harder than necessary and winced. “He’s an earl, which means he’s in Parliament.”
“Ahhh. That dratted law.”
“I suspect he’s behind it.” She blotted the spilled jam up with the corner of her apron. “My best option is to scare him away before he discovers something he shouldn’t.”
“If that’s the case, fix yourself some tea before the guests descend. You need to be alert.”
The great door opened, sending a gust of wind rattling down the passage. Mr. Keenan snuck inside and slammed the door shut behind him.
“Where have you been?” his wife asked.
“I left the Whiting sisters at the train station in Truro.”
Mrs. Keenan slapped her tea towel against her thigh. “What did you do that for?”
“There’s a storm coming.” He bobbed up and down like a child eager to escape a church service. “I can feel it in my knees.”
Bridget pressed her fingers to her temples. “But why did you take the sisters to the train station?”
Mr. Keenan opened his mouth to respond, but the spread on the table waylaid him. “Are those saffron cakes?”
His wife slapped his hand away. “Explain, husband.”
“Seems they were rather put out you didn’t read their tarot cards last night.”
Bridget’s jaw dropped. “It was the first night! They barely gave me a chance.”
Mr. Keenan stuffed an entire saffron cake into his mouth and ignored Bridget’s response.
“It’s all right, love.” Mrs. Keenan patted her on the arm, though she kept a close eye on her husband in case he started choking. “You still have other guests. What’s your plan for today?”
Fresh nerves rattled along Bridget’s spine. “A tour of the property. Mrs. Bunton-Talmadge is interested in our herb garden.”
