Page 101 of A Heart So Haunted
“Can I ask you a question, Bertie?” Hadrian stepped forward. Slow. Methodical.
Bertie exhaled through his nose. Then nodded.
Hadrian’s coattails fell delicately over his hips; his sleeves were an inch too short for his wrists. “Do you suspect that I should be away from my betrothed so soon on my wedding day?”
Outside, as if on cue, a howl of laughter split the air.
“I am not sure I follow, Mr. Hadrian.” Bertie’s jaw tightened.
Hadrian chewed his bottom lip.
“Very well. Have a drink, then. I have more than I could need.” Hadrian turned his back to Bertie, quick to retrieve an extra glass from the writing desk. He held his sleeve over the lip—a dusting of powder fell to the bottom. Then he poured from a decanter atop the liquor cabinet, which hung open in welcome. Extended it. “Take a moment with me.”
“I assure you, the offer is appreciated, however I truly need to return to duties—”
“My wedding day, Bertie. After all we have been through? You helped guide me so much as a boy.” Hadrian’s words, now that I’d heard him speak before, sharpened like blades. If Bertie was smart, he would have heard it, too.
Bertie eyed the glass.
“You are worth your weight in gold, are you not? Don’t deny me the privilege of having a drink with you, man,” Hadrian crooned. His words were thick with Lowcountry, of a fine upbringing. Sultry.
Like a prized jockey, Bertie preened a bit but held his tongue and back stiff. “Never, never. Very much a success. To you and Mrs. Cora, both.”
As soon as Bertie took the glass, Hadrian threw his back. He licked his teeth against the burn. When Bertie took a tentative sip, he cawed, “All of it, Bertie! You’ve snuck enough of my father’s liquor before.”
Bertie coughed half of it down. “I assure you, Hadrian—”
“Mr. Belfaunte,” Hadrian corrected, deadly soft.
Bertie blinked hard. His crow’s feet deepened, then spread to his hairline. His brow rose. Sunspots decorated his skin there. “Yes. Of course.” Sarcasm lined his words.
Hadrian eased around the chair. Steps echoed like gunshots.
Another step.
Then another.
The grandfather clock pattered like a heartbeat. From the foyer, no doubt. I whisked closer, and sure enough—there it was. The same grandfather clock, shadows circling it like fingers.
A choked gasp made me turn.
Bertie stumbled backward, clutched at the closest shelf. It rattled against the wall. Books shook, shoe soles scuffed. His lapels fell open. Red bubbled around his pressed, white pointed collar, the tailored suit that framed it, and his wobbling chin.
Faint as a whisper—the back door clicked shut.
The sound of a key tumbling into place.
I glanced to Hadrian. He watched Bertie with feigned earnest, his forehead and brow a mess of concern, then turned his attention out the window to the lawn. In the midst of guests, one single man stood still. Carefully placed waves and sharp as sin blue eyes. He might have been an inch shorter than Hadrian, and I knew without a doubt that he was looking into this parlor.
The man brushed a finger under his eye. Stole a glimpse over his shoulder. Nodded to no one in particular.
Then turned away.
This reaction seemed to satisfy Hadrian. He stuffed his hands in his pockets.
“You—you—” Bertie struggled.
“Enlighten me.”
