Page 84 of Lessons for Marquesses
She gathered the reins and urged Wild Squire forward. The laugh he had been holding burst from his chest but there was pain there, too. He had warned her but had she heeded him? He would protect her. Somehow.
They retired to their rooms for an hour before the tour of the home where Edmund had drawn his last breath. Nicholas could never find rest in this place, and to his relief, the yearning for Georgiana dwindled to a dull irritation before he had climbed the massive staircase to the Green Chamber.
Through the tour of the west wing, Charlotte walked a vigil over Georgiana’s heart, a silent deterrent to Nicholas who trailed behind with Oliver.
The rain had relieved Georgiana from having to point out the leaks. Water dripped like a fitful spigot from the antique strapwork ceilings and trickled from the pilastered corners. With the furnishings removed, the plunks and plinks upon the marquetry floors, their footsteps, the rain sheeting at the windows, all of it lent the cavernous rooms a sinister air.
Nicholas leaned over Georgiana’s shoulder, in complete violation of Charlotte’s unspoken terms. “This must be the home of the Evil Leprechaun.”
“The Green Chamber,” Oliver grumbled. “That’s where the little bugger is.”
Nicholas swiveled on his heel. “You’ve seen this leprechaun?”
Oliver’s mouth opened in insult. “Of course not. But Julian carried on about it. Swore it followed him home. Slept in my bed for weeks.”
Georgiana vowed to use that bit of information someday.
Returning toward the reception hall, Nicholas paused under one of the massive arches of the arcade spanning each wall. Though he had seen it before, he caressed a polished, carved pillar. Cocking his head, he peered at the gallery circling above. “This is quite remarkable, George.”
Bristling at his familiarity, Charlotte led the way to the great front parlor. Beyond was the dining room and the other rooms that led deep into the east wing. The library, the study, the solarium, the chapel. In the middle of it: the billiard room.
In the great front parlor, Georgiana went to a chest and opening it, brushed her hand over a woman’s sewing items. After a wary look at the soaring mullioned windows that lit the room less than the smallest at Farendon, she led the tour beneath the imposing wood screen and into the dining room. But therewas only one room Nicholas wished to see. He bided his time through the library with few books. The study where Nicholas imagined William St. Clair, nine years past, plotting to steal Farendon.
He looked to Georgiana slowing as they approached the billiard room. Nicholas walked faster while Georgiana halted before reaching the door.
“Coming?” Nicholas asked, annoyed at the delay.
She squared her shoulders. Urgency lit her face. Men did this before a battle, he knew. It was fear and the drive to rush into it, get it over with.
Charlotte looped her arm in Georgiana’s and patted her niece’s hand. “Gentlemen, please proceed. I fear Georgiana needs rest. The past days have been”—she didn’t glare at Nicholasper se—“arduous.”
Georgiana was led away, and if he hadn’t been burning to see the scene of his brother’s murder, he might have delved deeper into her obvious fear. She had said there were ghosts. She had shivered more than once upon mention of Chedworth.
Nicholas opened the billiard room door and planted a sideways fist to the threshold. The silence was here. But there was no gasp. No cigar burning. No shattered glass of brandy. No legs sprawled out from beneath the marble console table.
“Damn place,” Oliver muttered.
Nicholas tread around the billiard table, his ribs threatening to crack from the force of his heart. Crouching down to the carpet, he searched for bloodstains. There was no trace that Edmund had ever been.
Edmund. Wayward, irresponsible, always smiling. God, how he had worshiped his brother as a boy.
If Edmund hadn’t found wagering irresistible, if his set hadn’t thought it amusing to mock one another when they lost, and then met William St. Clair who hated losing, Edmund wouldbe alive. If this room didn’t exist, Edmund might be alive. The men Nicholas had killed might be enjoying the coming summer instead of reduced to bones on colonial soil. René Durand would be in Lisieux with his wife and his daughter, Angelique. René’s daughter—how old would she be? Seven.
He remembered Edmund’s blood. In war, he had seen it splash and seep and spill. Like water it took the path of least resistance. And no two men bled the same.
He walked the perimeter, running his hand over the paneled walls, pausing to consider the few paintings remaining and the bleak outlines of those removed. His fingers grazed over a seam where the paneling split. He remembered the home’s hidden passageways. Caroline had used one to depart his room after they had made love and she had pledged to be his wife.
That day he had heard laughter floating from the darkness as Caroline had opened the secret door. A pattering of steps had followed. Ghosts, he had thought.
Nicholas tried to pry the door open, and when unsuccessful, pressed along the seam for a release.
Oliver strapped a hand over his shoulder. “Nick, you’ll have a damnable time fitting inside. The walkways are made for children and tiny Catholic priests.”
The passageway was of no importance. Edmund’s death had been close fought, and Nicholas already knew who had killed his brother.
Oliver went on with forced joviality, “I’ll show you to Georgiana’s room and you can take her for a walk. She appeared to need fresh air as well.”
How could his friend believe he could fix this with matchmaking? Regardless of his ill-placed desire, there was one thing that had brought him and kept him here. Georgiana had sent off the furnishings from fourteen rooms that his agent was going to have to outbid at auction. The desk she had sold forforty-two pounds was costing him two hundred more thanks to an amateur historian who pegged the piece for what it was: priceless.
