Page 49 of The Last Heir to Blackwood Library

Heat climbed her neck, and she swiftly looked away. “Don’t be ridiculous. You must be imagining things.”

“If only I was imagining it,” he said. He was leaning against the mantel now, making a show of nonchalantly inspecting his fingernails, but there was a tightness in his jaw.

He’s jealous. Ivy stared at Arthur, the man who seemingly had everything and was happy with none of it. He shot a sidelong glance at her, as if waiting for her to deny it.

“Does that mean that Ralph is alive? That all the servants are alive and safe?”

“For now,” he said, affecting a careless tone. “Though that depends on your conduct.”

When she didn’t say anything, he gave a sigh. “Knowing you, you would fold if I so much as threatened to harm a dog. So I think all in all, you will be a good girl and cooperate.”

He was right, damn him. She had already lost so many people she held dear; Ralph might not have numbered among the few people she loved in her life, but she would not have his blood on her hands. And she had no doubt that Arthur would make good on his threat. He was a soldier without a war, a man hungry to prove himself to his father and peers.

“I’ll leave you to dress and then come back to show you down.” Arthur threw a glance at the untouched tray of food on the table before unlocking the door. Lingering with his hand on the knob, he gave her a look that almost passed for concern. “Please do eat something, darling. I would hate to see you waste away.”

Rain was falling soft and steady, a gentle rhythm that should have been comforting but heralded only a deeper sense of despair. From somewhere on the grounds, a raven crowed into the misty afternoon. If only Ivy possessed wings and fairtrade winds, she would fly away, never to return.

Dressing with lightning speed, she surveyed the tray of kippers and porridge, with toast and marmalade on the side. There would be tea downstairs, but she was hungry. More than hungry—ravenous. She would have to trust that Arthur had not tampered with her food; it wouldn’t look very good if Ivy was foaming at the mouth.

No sooner had she finished her food than there was a knock at the door, and one of Arthur’s servants came to escort her downstairs.

Susan was pacing in front of a window in the parlor, her fingers flicking her cigarette lighter open and closed over and over. The rain was letting let up, and a weak ray of sun filtered into the room, illuminating her dark hair and the stubborn set of her chin. Relief instantly unfurled in Ivy’s chest.

At Ivy’s entrance, Susan left off her pacing and spun around. Her face was tight with worry, her finely-drawn brows gathered in a frown. “Ivy, my God.” Susan closed the distance between them, throwing her arms around her.

Closing her eyes, Ivy allowed herself to breathe in her friend’s familiar scent of rosewater and cigarettes, bringing with it buried memories of their time together in London.

“Ladies,” Arthur said from the doorway as they drew apart. “I’ve arranged for tea to be brought in shortly. I’ll give you your privacy, but Mercer here will be on hand if needed. Ivy,” he said, turning eyes deep with concern on her, “if you become overwrought or feel at all unwell, just let him know and I’ll come at once. There’s no need to overexert yourself simply to prove a point to someone.” He shot Susan a caustic look.

A table had been set near the fireplace, laid out with dainty china and lace napkins. It was all so ordinary, as if she were a lady receiving morning callers. It was the first time Ivy had been out of her room since the night of the party, and she had expected to see shattered windows and other signs of chaos, figures in black hoods chanting around the manuscript. But the abbey looked much the same except for some wilting flower arrangements and abandoned champagne flutes, remnants of the party.

Arthur pulled out a chair for her, but as she sat down, she momentarily lost her balance, her legs wobbling beneath her. She shot a questioning look at Arthur, and he gave her the ghost of a smile. The bastard had put something in her food after all. Probably a light sedative, but it was enough to make her foggy and a little unsteady. It seemed he was taking no chances.

Susan was watching them with needle-sharp eyes, sitting straight as a board with her hands clenched around her silver lighter. After Arthur had left, an unfamiliar maid scurried in with tea, hastily poured, then curtsied and left.

“Is he going to watch us the entire time?” Susan jutted her chin to the door where the guard was standing with arms crossed.

“Just pretend he’s not here,” Ivy said, forcing a smile. “It’s so good to see you. I’m glad you were able to come for a visit.”

Susan pursed her lips, and she fingered her cigarette lighter on the table,tap tap tap.There was a drawn-out moment of silence, and then, “Ivy, what on earth is going on? You completely disappear—no telephone calls, no letters, nothing—and then I come and find out that you’re engaged? To this prig Sir Arthur?”

“It all happened so fast. I didn’t have time to write or—” Ivy stopped at the incredulous look on Susan’s face.

“And what is this rubbish about you being ill? Why were you locked up? Sir Arthur said you had some sort of nervous episode. You may live with your head in the clouds, but you’ve never showed any signs of hysterics or nerves, or whatever it is the doctors are diagnosing ladies with these days.”

“Oh, that.” Ivy worked her cup around in her hands, wondering if the tea had been tampered with as well. “I—I’ve been having some terrible headaches, and disorientation. The medication the doctor gave me makes me foggy, and Arthur was worried that I would hurt myself if I was up and about.”

Susan’s eyes ran over her, taking careful inventory of her friend and leaving Ivy’s cheeks hot. “I don’t like this, Ivy. Why don’t you come home with me? It’s no grand house, but you’ll be with someone who actually cares about you, doesn’t lock you in a room when you’re unwell.” She glanced around at the parlor, and Ivy saw it through her friend’s eyes: the high ceilings, the overly formal furnishings and dark paintings. “This is no place to be by yourself without friends. Do you know, I couldn’t even find a cab willing to take me up here?”

Nothing sounded better than going back to London with Susan. They could make a go of it together again, start fresh. Ivy would be free of this wretched house and the curse of the library. But if she left, people would die. And besides, Arthur would never let her leave.

She shook her head and forced what must have looked like the world’s least convincing smile. “I’m in good hands here, truly. You know me, if something was wrong, I would be the first to sound the alarm.”

“Idoknow you, and you would carry on as if nothing was the matter, all the while letting whatever it is chew you up from the inside.”

“Please, just leave it.”

“Is that supposed to convince me?”

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