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CORA HAD NO DESIRE to make strained conversation and she headed toward her room. The floorboards might only be fifty years old, but they creaked beneath her, as if warning others of her path.
Or perhaps...perhaps some creaks derived from another person?
Yes.
Someone was following her, and she inched instinctively closer to the wall. She’d experienced sufficient forced chit chat at dinner, and she was not in the mood for further awkwardness. She darted between two marble busts, perched on similarly grand columns. Thank goodness for art. The statues must be of Victorian ancestors of the duke: Cora was certain no Roman god would have been depicted with sideburns and a balding head.
She almost smiled.
If Mr. Bellomo were here, he would have adored to be portrayed in such carefully chiseled stone and would have taken to hiring sculptors instead of actors.
The footsteps sounded nearer, and she shrank farther back. Her back touched the ledge of the window. The glass was icy and wet, and she shivered.
The footsteps continued to patter against the floor, and Cora turned her head. The marble gentleman beside her, despite his significant facial hair, did not succeed entirely in blocking her view.
It was Signor Palombi.
And Archibald.
Well. Cora’s shoulders relaxed.
Signor Palombi was at least pleasant.
She was being silly. She couldn’t expect to successfully hide her presence.
Given the thick condensation on the windows, she couldn’t even claim to be admiring the view. Her lips twitched.
Besides, she wouldn’t mind interacting with Archibald. The dog was adorable.
She stepped onto the carpet and glanced down the corridor, prepared to greet them.
No one was there.
Where had they gone? The bedrooms weren’t on this level. The only room on this floor was the duke’s library. Surely Signor Palombi wouldn’t have ventured there.
The duke couldn’t desire a man he had such contempt for to have access to his private sanctuary and any papers within.
Perhaps Signor Palombi was lost?
Cora approached the library door.
It would be natural to call out his name. But a shiver coursed through her, and she hesitated.
The air in England had felt harsh ever since she’d landed. The icy wind seemed to rush toward her with a never-ending force, whipping against her skin. It wouldn’t be long before her skin was dry and weathered. Her hair already felt less silky away from the Californian climate.
But the air in the manor house felt different still. It seemed heavy, as if the statues and paintings, gilded furniture and suits of armor might weigh down on her. Unease prickled through her spine.
Dim light illuminated the hallway, its strength marred by the crystals that adorned the chandeliers. If the crystals were intended to make the light more magnificent, they succeeded only in making it cloudy.
She poked her head through the door.
The room seemed empty, and she frowned.
Could she have imagined Signor Palombi and Archibald’s presence?
The room was dark, but she could make out shapes: an armchair, most likely leather and luxurious, and a kidney desk that curved on two sides, like Mr. Bellomo’s.
She walked past the library door, and it was only when she reached the end of the corridor that she remembered she’d wanted to go to her room.
Voices drifted from the drawing room, and she was just about to turn around when she heard her name.
“Miss Clarke!” Lord Holt greeted her. “Come join us.”
“You can call me Cora,” she told him.
For a moment, he looked uneasy, but he soon smiled. “Splendid. And—er—Lord Holt is unnecessarily formal. Edmund will do just fine.”
Edmund and his older half-brother were sitting in the drawing room.
“You can call him, Ed,” Mr. Ardingley said.
“No!” Edmund protested.
“Eddie?” Cora asked, and Mr. Ardingley’s eyes twinkled.
A dark rose hue seeped into Edmund’s cheeks. “That’s—er—not preferable either.”
“Don’t worry,” Cora said.
It was refreshing to be in the presence of someone who was not suave and convinced of the veracity of his every statement.
“Have you seen my wife?” Edmund asked.
“I thought she was planning to join you in the drawing room,” Cora said.
“Good.”
“Should I go find her?”
“Oh, no,” Edmund said hastily. “Don’t want to make a big deal about it. Why don’t you have a seat?”
Cora hesitated. It would be nice to get to know Veronica’s husband better. “Very well.”
Perhaps it might distract her from thinking of what exactly Signor Palombi was doing in the duke’s library. She had the faint feeling that the proper etiquette might be to mention the fact to one of the hosts. But she’d found the duke so unappealing that she was reluctant to get Signor Palombi into trouble.
She picked up a thick book on the coffee table.
Edmund glanced at the book. “Shakespeare. The only fiction Father permits. Are you a fan?”
“I haven’t read much,” Cora admitted.
“Oh, that’s fine,” Mr. Ardingley said. “I don’t believe Father has either. Otherwise he would be sure to disapprove of all the vile jokes and grizzly deaths.”
Cora widened her eyes, and the brothers laughed.
“I don’t mean to put you off,” Mr. Ardingley said. “It is entertaining, and since you’re in England...”
“Perhaps I should read England’s greatest author,” Cora finished.
“Exactly,” Edmund said. “Though you needn’t start with Macbeth. Shakespeare would have given a much truer depiction of the British Isles if he’d devoted his life to writing on foxhunting and degrees of blusteriness.”
Cora smiled and flicked to the table of contents, reading titles of plays she’d heard of but never seen. She settled into the armchair. The fire’s orange and red flames danced merrily in the fireplace, and she absorbed some of its warmth.
She felt foolish for having desired to retire early. She turned to the first page and began to read, losing herself in the elegant language.
And then a scream sounded.
A chill stampeded down Cora’s spine and made her heart smash against her ribs.