He was inside.
Ella drew to a stop before the open wooden doors. Her heart quickened painfully. He was so close, so unbearably close. She quenched the desire to flee, yet even so, her feet would not propel her forward.
“My heavens, whatever is the matter?” Dorthea waited until her parents had entered the ballroom, then touched Ella’s elbow. “If you are half as graceful as Lucy,” she whispered, “you have no need for qualms. I am certain you shall dance well enough.”
Ella barely heard the words, nor could she summon her voice. She stepped inside the ballroom. The colors, lights, and rising music fell around her as if a stifling shroud.
“Sir Charles Rutledge,” said Dorthea, nodding across the room. “He is most ravishing for his age, do you not think? I daresay white hair is rather becoming in a man—although I have heard it said that he uses wax due to his lack of volume. Myself, I would detest the solution. How would one run fingers through waxy hair?”
Ella’s gaze swept across the gentlemen present. She searched each face. She had never seen Lord Sedgewick before, not even a portrait of him, yet she felt as if she would know him. Would she not sense it somehow in her heart of hearts?
She would because at his hand she had suffered. Lucy had suffered. Her father, her mother, even her younger sister had suffered. They had been ripped away from the gracious palm of happiness and forced into an iron grasp of hate.
For that, she’d see him pay.
Lowering a glass of lemonade, Henry straightened from leaning against the wall. He nodded at Sir Rutledge, whose fine-cut features bore a good-natured grin.
“I am rather pacified to be home, I admit,” said Henry. “Yourself?”
The baronet waved his hand. “Fie. If I wished to talk of myself, I would have gone to Lady Rutledge, for she does enjoy telling me all the points in which I am lacking.” He chuckled and sipped at a glass of ratafia. “How goes Essex?”
“Fair. Major Sir Frederick Tilbury was in good spirits despite the leg.”
“Glad to hear it. Did you hear of Wellington’s latest battle?”
“At Toulouse?”
“Indeed. A British division and two Spanish divisions. Bloody, I hear—more for us than for the French. Would not stand in Wellington’s boots for the world.” A slight pause lingered, in which he chuckled. “Though I doubt he has a wife who takes pleasure in cutting him to shreds, eh?”
Before Henry could respond, the subject of the baronet’s jest approached them, two younger women in tow.
“Delighted to see you, Lord Sedgewick.” Lady Rutledge offered a civil nod of her head. With a hardening expression, she turned her eyes to her husband. “Do come, my dear. Have you no ear at all? The orchestra is playing ‘La Boulanger,’ and you know it to be my favorite.”
Sir Charles slid Henry a look, but schooled his features before he took his wife’s hand. “Might I have this dance, my beautiful?”
She scoffed. “Do not be nonsensical, dear.” She resisted when he tugged her toward the dance, saying hurriedly, “Lord Sedgewick, I neglected to introduce you to my two cousins. Miss Augusta Creassey and Miss Ann Creassey, both without partners.” Lady Rutledge flicked her hand toward the women. “You may have your pick, Lord Sedgewick, but do hurry or you shall miss the dance.” And thus, she hurried off with her husband into the forming line of couples.
Both women stared at him—the shorter lightly fanning her face, the taller raising her unnaturally thin eyebrows in expectation.
He recovered his voice, though the quality of his tone was deep, husky, “Forgive me, Miss Creassey … Miss Creassey.” His fingers tightened on the glass. “I must excuse myself. Good day.” He turned his back to them, but not quickly enough to miss the rounding of their eyes and the dropping of their dainty jaws.
How long before they spread harsh whispers of his incivility?
It didn’t matter. An uncivil reputation was better than repeating mistakes he’d already made.
Ella’s hands perspired beneath her elbow-length gloves, but she dared not remove them. If only the hostess would open more windows. A swim in the punch bowl was starting to sound appealing.
Dorthea did not seem to mind the heat—nor did she even seem to notice. She appeared solely conscious of the fact that Sir Charles Rutledge’s eldest son was asking her to dance.
“Oh my.” She tilted her head, blushed to a proper degree, then allowed him to escort her into the set.
Ella hid her grin with her fan. Perhaps Miss Fitzherbert found the younger Rutledge even more riveting than his father.
“Miss, do tell me promptly that you are without partner.” A gentleman appeared before her, dumpy and short but with rather pleasing features.
“It is a bit warm, sir. I do not think I feel much like dancing.”
“I say, you’re in quite the wrong place then, are you not?” He chuckled. “We have all come to dance and make merry. I can’t think what else there could be to do.” And with a shake of his head, he bowed and walked away.
Make merry. His words echoed. Any other day, she would have taken the gentleman’s hand and eagerly danced into the night. With great pleasure, she would have strolled throughout the room, laughing and sipping lemonade to her heart’s content.
But it was not any other night, and she had no more desire for laughter than she did for lemonade or dancing.
As another song began to fill the room with a lively tune, Dorthea appeared at Ella’s side. “I came as soon as I could,” she whispered. “There he is. I have only just spotted him.” Her eyes darted to the westerly wall.
Ella could not look. Her throat constricted.
“There is one more thing I must tell you of him—news I heard only tonight. I think you shall find it most interesting.” Dorthea patted her curls as if to assure their placement. “But there is not time to relate it now. I have already promised this dance.” She turned on her heels and dashed away.
Ella was left to herself. The blood ran hot in her veins, yet still, she could not look at him. She hadn’t the strength. He had so long been a faceless monster, a shadowy demon that loomed in every nightmare, every dark corner of her soul.
Oh, Father. She clenched her hands, lifted her eyes.
There was nothing to obstruct her view, nor was there any question as to which gentleman.
Lord Sedgewick stood along the wall with the last shafts of light streaming from the window behind him. He was flesh and bone indeed.
Dressed in tan pantaloons and waistcoat, with a black tailcoat and white cravat, his appearance was pompous and seemed to boast of his superior position. He stood in much the same manner, straight and rigid, coldly casting his gaze about the room.
His lips were firm and tight, and he appeared ready to escape the inconvenience of his present circumstance. Hair—the deepest brown—was tousled on the top and shorter on the sides. Sideburns invaded either side of his face. His brows were dark and concentrated. If he had looked upon her, she might have frozen.
Yet he never did.
A knot ascended Ella’s throat. She whirled and fled the room, escaping into the quiet, empty corridor. She covered her mouth with her hands, squeezing her eyes shut. Oh, Lucy. She shook with cold, unbearable passion.
He shall not get away with what he has done to you, Lucy. Her pulse hammered. Upon your grave, I promise.
Henry listened to the soft, disturbing sound of his own footfalls in Wyckhorn’s corridor. They echoed in his mind until he was empty, bereft.
But it was better than the silence.
In those first few days, perhaps even weeks, he had not noticed the silence. There had been other things to distract his attention. Ridding the manor of her body had taken preeminence. Anything so he did not have to look at her.
A nanny had been assigned, as if any woman could restore what was lost, as if any woman could replace the touch of a mother.
The blood had been scrubbed away. There were no more stains. The constable had come and gone, the body buried at last.
That was when, to the most penetrating degree, the curse had settled upon the house.
In dim and haunting fog, this silence had woven its cold fingers through every window and down every corridor. It had inhabited every room, every stairwell. It had managed its way to the garden, touching every bursting bloom, until the petals dried and withered. After a time, the curse had reached as far as the cliffside, where the breeze suddenly lacked warmth and the horizon lost beauty.
Perhaps he might have borne it well if it had stayed within the confines of his own house and land. After all, such a fate was merited. It was his duty, his punishment, to bear whatever God laid to his charge.
But the cursed silence had not merely hovered over Wyckhorn Manor. It had crept through the very portals of his soul and lodged therein. He was forced to carry it day upon day, night upon night—until the silence festered into hate, and the hate into fear, and the fear into torture.
Tugging at his cravat, Henry opened the whining door to his bedchamber.
“M’lord.” His valet jumped from a chair across the room, a book in one hand, a candlestick in the other. “You are home earlier than expected.”
“There was very little to detain me.”
His valet nodded, and his lips pinched in a frown of empathy.
“How was the house?” Henry asked.
“Quiet and sound.”
Relief eased through him. “And Peter?”
“In bed asleep, to my knowledge.”
Henry remained quiet as his valet undressed him and helped him into his banyan. Moving to a chair by the unlit hearth, Henry said over his shoulder, “Thank you, Collin. You may go now.”
“Yes, m’lord.” He reached for his book and started across the room.
“And Collin?”
“M’lord?”
“Do try to sleep.” A grin played at Henry’s lips. “Reading in the dark can be most detrimental to one’s eyesight. I should not like to acquire another valet in my search for a governess.”
Collin’s eyes brightened with fondness. “Yes, m’lord.” He shut the door soundlessly behind him.
Henry settled into the chair more comfortably, crossing his arms across his chest. Again, he was left alone with his curse.
Forgive me, God.
Tonight, he had blundered again. He had refused a simple act. A chivalrous duty, doubtless. Why had he not chosen between the sisters and honorably taken them into the dance?
Only he knew why. He’d had no wish to take their hand, to catch the familiar maidenly scents, to feel the warmth of their touch upon him. He knew what they wanted, what they all wanted. How easy it was for them to feign love for the advantage of a profitable marriage.
But he was no fool. There was danger in doting smiles—a lesson his mother had taught without mercy.
Ella appeared in the doorway of the breakfast room, dismayed to find Mr. and Mrs. Fitzherbert, as well as their daughter, already partaking of their meal.
Dorthea spotted her first. With eyes still soft with sleep, she motioned Ella toward the table. “Miss Pemberton, do hurry and join us. Father shall eat everything if you do not make haste.”
Ella glanced at the older gentleman, whose lips curved slightly at his daughter’s jesting. He did nothing to defend himself, however, and resumed forking a sausage from his plate.
“I trust you slept well, my dear?” Mrs. Fitzherbert said.
“Perhaps too well. I simply could not awaken this morning.”
A footman supplied another plate, which Ella filled with one slice of honey cake and a sausage. She was also given a cup of tea.
Mr. Fitzherbert engaged his wife in conversation of politics, a matter which he spoke of in deep and serious tones. Periodically, he read aloud from the newspaper.
His wife—whether absorbed or indifferent, Ella could not tell—nodded dutifully and made relevant remarks to all of his points.
Dorthea, however, feigned no such interest in her parents’ colloquy. Her gaze slid eagerly to Ella’s face every so often. Once she mouthed in silence, “We must talk after breakfast.”
Ella nodded lightly, though she had no desire to finish the food. Nightmares of last night resurfaced until her flesh raised in goosebumps. She had been plagued with them for five years, ever since the letter arrived of her sister’s death. Shouldn’t she be accustomed to the terrors by now? Could anyone grow accustomed to terror?
Last night had been far worse. Perhaps seeing him had made the difference and given the nightmares a new level of reality and form.
Whatever the case, she had awakened in cold sweat, with her legs tangled in her bedclothes. Many hours passed before sleep claimed her again.
Dorthea nudged her knee beneath the table. “Do hurry. I simply cannot bear another minute in silence.”
Ella dabbed her napkin at her mouth. “I am finished.”
Dorthea excused them both from the table, took Ella’s arm, and hurried her up the flight of stairs. “Into your bedchamber.” She flung open the door and slammed it behind her before facing Ella with animation. “I wanted to tell you last night, but we arrived home at such a late hour that I did not wish to burden you before bed.”
“Do not keep me in suspense. What have you discovered?”
“I cannot tell until you vow you shall not repeat this to a soul. If you ever say a word to Father and Mother, I shall deny the whole thing and call you a liar.”
Ella’s hand crossed her heart. “I vow it.”
“And mind you, I am not suggesting you do such a thing … such an immensely ludicrous thing. I daresay, I would probably not have mentioned it at all had Lucy not spoken so very often of your mischief.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, it was mentioned last night that Miss Morton—though I don’t suppose you know who that is—has returned to the village with all of her luggage. She had been at Wyckhorn for no longer than a year, I am certain. No one stays longer than that.”
“Who is she?”
“The governess, Miss Pemberton. And there is more.” Dorthea leaned in closer, taking Ella’s hands in her own. “Lord Sedgewick is seeking a new governess … to bring to his home.”
“Whatever are you so clumsily trying to say?”
“It means that if you wish to observe Lord Sedgewick more closely, you may do so at your leisure.” She paused. “Without the faintest worry of being discovered, Miss Woodhart.“
“I am not a governess. Surely you cannot mean that I should—”
“I do not mean anything.” Dorthea shuffled backward with a daring grin. She flung open the door with one hand. “And remember, you did not hear it from me.” With nothing more, she hurled herself from the room.
His home. Ella tried to breathe. A governess. Curled her fists. No, no, no.
Because she wasn’t ready to face such a monstrous murderer.
And she had no intentions of caring for his child. True, the little one belonged to Lucy. Her own flesh and blood. At the least, the child surely needed protection.
But he was also just another reminder that Lucy was dead. Would Ella be able to bear even the sight of him?