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SOMETHING SOUNDED OUTSIDE Cora’s balcony, and she snapped open her eyes.
Footsteps?
She remembered the murder and clutched her blanket, as if mistaking it for a shield.
Perhaps the murderer was sneaking away...
Or perhaps it was the sound of some local madman...
Cora inhaled, trying to evoke some sense of calm.
She was probably wrong. Weren’t there animals in the countryside?
A fox? A deer? Or an owl? Hmm...
Perhaps an owl had jumped off the balcony above to eat some innocent rabbit. Were there rabbits in the winter? She frowned, uncertain. The countryside was a mystery.
Cora moved her hand to her chest, as if to calm her heart.
But it was no use.
She kept hearing the scream, the powerful, brutal scream.
The sound would remain with her for the rest of her life.
It had been a howl, not just of surprise, not just of pain, but of fear.
One would have thought the duke had been facing the reaper himself—and that the grim reaper was threatening to use his scythe to dismember him.
Memories of the dead body, of the blood, of the crystal, reflecting like some macabre scene flooded her mind, followed by the unwelcome certainty that someone was outside.
She imagined the murderer sneaking up to the bed and cutting the chandelier over a sleeping octogenarian until it was too late.
The whole idea seemed absurd.
Yet, wasn’t murder something absurd? That life, something so precious yet so taken for granted, could be snatched away, not by disease or failure of the heart, but by the simple misfortune of having encountered someone with an evil mind.
The thought of closing her eyes, of sleeping, when there was a chance someone could be standing on the other side of the balcony door—
No.
She was not remaining here.
No way.
Cora had left her book downstairs. Most likely it was still splayed open where she’d left it after hearing that horrible scream.
She grabbed her robe and swept it over her nightdress. Her movements were clumsy in the dark, and her legs hit the wall.
No matter.
She hurried down the stairs, reassured the corridor remained the same as before. The same old-fashioned portraits hung from gilt frames, the people in them staring with aristocratic disapproval. The same ornate mirrors dotted the corridor at intervals, allowing her to see the contrasts between herself and the duke’s past ancestors.
The modern cut of her satin nightdress seemed flimsy, as if she were missing the frills and pomp of the ancestors of this place.
No one wanted to murder her, she told herself.
She was quite certain that she hadn’t insulted anyone irreparably, though Edmund had seemed quite perturbed that she’d dared to suggest his father’s death might not be strictly accidental.
She entered the drawing room and turned on the light. The room looked completely innocent, if colder than she remembered. How had she ever managed to think it foreboding? It seemed to possess an innocence she was eager to regain.
She crossed the room and grabbed the Shakespeare volume.
“Can’t you sleep, cowgirl?” An amused voice drifted from the corner of the room.
Cora froze.
It wasn’t the voice of Edmund or Signor Palombi.
It wasn’t the voice of either Mr. or Mrs. Ardingley.
Nor was it, of course, the sound of the duchess or Veronica or Lady Audrey.
Perhaps it was a servant who’d taken it upon himself to relax in the drawing room in what she was sure would be termed a flagrant breach of protocol.
Except...
The voice sounded familiar.
But it was impossible
It couldn’t be the person in Veronica’s garden. That had been in Bel Air, and they were nowhere near there.
But he was here, thousands of miles away from California.
She thought again of the dowager duchess’s comment about strange madmen.
Perhaps the man was a stalker.
Perhaps he adored Veronica and desired her to be even wealthier than before.
Perhaps the next person he would kill would be Edmund.
Or me.
A shiver rushed through her, and she stepped away.
Cora kept her eyes on him, as if he were some tiger on the verge of attack.
Or was eye contact what she wasn’t supposed to do?
She frowned, uncertain about appropriate wild animal dodging protocol.
“You’re the photographer!” Cora exclaimed finally.
His smile wobbled. “I’m not one, actually.”
Cora frowned. Most photographers didn’t deny their occupations. She glanced behind him. Something that looked awfully like a camera case, along with a bag, sat on the sideboard.
The man was clothed in a not particularly stylish overcoat. The fact did not seem to negate his overall attractiveness.
Sadly.
She was certain this was not a moment for strange butterflies to be coursing through her chest.
Not with a corpse one floor above.
And not when she wasn’t exactly sure how this man had gotten in, and who he was, and...
Her breath quickened, and her legs seemed less capable of holding her up than normal.
His eyes filled with sympathy, and he narrowed the gap between them. “I didn’t think you would be so taken aback by my presence.”
Cora was conscious of the size difference between them.
“But what are you doing here?” Cora sputtered. “You’re supposed to be in America.”
“My home is in Britain,” he said.
“But not this manor house.”
“Perhaps not,” he admitted. “But you didn’t give me a chance to outline my holiday plans.”
“You would have told me?”
“If I’d known it involved staying at the same place.”
“Who are you?”
“Randolph Hall,” he said. “And I believe you’re Cora Clarke.”
She nodded.
Randolph tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and tilted her face up. His eyes were soft and warm, and he smoothed her no doubt far too frizzy hair. Concern seemed to flicker over his face. “I’m sorry I scared you. Did I wake you up? I tried to be quiet, but...”
She was absolutely certain his voice wasn’t supposed to sound so warm and comforting.
She was conscious of broad shoulders and a firm chest.
But perhaps he’d murdered the duke and then been hindered from escaping by the snow. Perhaps he’d already robbed the house, and had been so dazzled by his loot, he’d returned in an optimistic attempt to get more. Or perhaps she was being woefully unfair to him.
He didn’t seem like a murderer.
He didn’t place his hands in a frightening manner around her collar, nor did he mention any regret she hadn’t decided to put on a scarf.
Tears prickled her eyes, and his eyes widened.
“I didn’t want to frighten you.” His hands stroked her hair, and he murmured reassurances to her in such a calming voice she could almost imagine everything really would be all right.
“You broke in!”
“I wouldn’t phrase it so bluntly. I did try at the servants’ door first, but—”
“No one answered?”
He nodded. “I suppose no one expects a visitor at this time of the night.”
“That’s not the reason,” she said.
“Then what is?”
The question was said so casually.
He didn’t know.
In his world, it was still unknown that someone had killed someone.
“I’m afraid the duke died,” she said.
“What?” His eyes widened. “That’s horrible!”
She nodded. It was.
“I suppose... He was an older man, though, and those things are bound to happen.”
Cora gave a tight smile, unsure whether to say more.
But it didn’t matter.
He was inside the house.
He would learn soon enough.
“A chandelier fell on top of him,” she blurted.
“Truly?” A contemplative expression appeared on his face.
“Yes.”
“Well. Dashed older houses.”
“Yes.” Tears once again threatened Cora’s vision. Talking it over with someone, someone who was so kind and caring, was enough for her to relax, and if she relaxed the fortitude with which she was forcing herself to not cry might completely give way.