Page 31 of Wolfsbane Hall
Celestine turned through them.
One article was dated 1760 and read,The Duke of Breython’s maid found on Christmas Eve, dead of an apparent suicide. The Marquess and his brother are heartbroken by Miss Marguerite’s death.
Celestine flipped the papers and continued reading headline after headline.
1893:Business tycoon embroiled in scandal at the railroads. Should he be charged with murder in the train crash?
1758:Another fiancée of the Beast of Winter, Marquess Winterly, mysteriously disappears.
1761:The Duke of Breython and his family were mysteriously poisoned during the annual house party on Christmas Eve. Thought to be dead, the family made a miraculous recovery and are all in good health and spirits. It is still unclear who might be responsible for the poisonings, but some believe Marguerite’s vengeful spirit came back to haunt the family, as it has been precisely one year since her demise.
1810:Young Lady Breython is caught scandalously with a dead man in her bed.
And so on and so forth. Piles of newspaper clippings about rich, powerful families doing bad, bad things. Then there was a pile of love letters. One started:My Dearest M, it feels like ages since we’ve been together…
Sappy, terrible stuff.
While Celestine read, Dean hovered behind her and grunted, judging the letters the same way.
“What are they supposed to mean?” Celestine asked, looking up at him.
Dean shrugged.
“They were hidden away in a book, so they must be important, right?”
He shrugged again. Frustrating. The man was utterly maddening and unhelpful, like all men, really.
Celestine sucked in a breath and decided to do something brazen. “So, Dean Ashbrook, are these your rooms? Are you the Specter?”
Dean raised a single, manicured eyebrow as if it were a sport.
“Oh, I know you won’t say.” She stood and took a step toward him, cornering him like a doe in headlights, intentionally getting close enough to make him uncomfortable. Celestine wasn’t brazen, but she had played enough characters in her time at Wolfsbane to fake it. “I wanted to see how you would respond.”
“And?” he asked, standing his ground.
She inched closer, her gaze raking over his form. Frustratingly, he didn’t give anything away. But he never had. The man was talented with his masks, wearing them like a crown of indifference and loathing. Always.
“You couldn’t possibly be.”
“Oh.” The corner of his lips drew up.
“You’re more likely to be the Phantom.”
“Hmm…” His eyes pinned her in place, and he closed the distance between them, daring her to retreat and calling her bluff. “An interesting conclusion.”
Every muscle in her body shook, and she gulped. “You hate me just enough to poison me.”
“Do I?” He flashed a dimple, and desire trickled down her spine.
Dimples surely should be outlawed.
Warmth spread over her body, and red painted her cheeks as the articles slipped through her fingers. Proximityto devils was always dangerous, especially this one, because he caused unwanted, terrible sensations in her body.
And she was so hot. Too hot, painfully hot. The hairs on her arms were singed, and her lungs were filling with toxic smoke.
She shook her head, coughing.
It wasn’t just runaway lust. The room was literally on fire.
