Page 41 of The Secret of the Three Fates
“Miss Vaughn!” Andrew’s eyes lit up and he reached out to embrace me. I kissed his cheek in greeting, feeling his father’s barely tethered rage radiating beside him. “How is my uncle this morning?”
The silence that fell on the bridge was deafening. The ill blood between Mr. Owen and Malachi was clearly no surprise to the duke, nor to Mr. Sharpe who wandered on ahead of the group away from my line of sight.
Malachi grumbled to himself as he followed after the hotelier.
“You shouldn’t goad your father.”
“I am genuinely inquiring. Their quarrel is between the two of them. My affection for my uncle is yet another in a litany of things about my life that my father disapproves of.” Andrew paused, turning to look at Genevieve, who was seated on the bench behind me. Had I not known it was her, I would scarcely believe it to be the same woman. The slump of her shoulders, her downcast eyes—she appeared every inch a beleaguered servant and not the sparkling woman who had been speaking with me moments before. It was a remarkable trick.
“Captain Lennox, have you met Miss Demidov?” I asked hesitantly.
She scrambled to her feet, reminding me of an animal that had grown used to being mistreated. Who or what had caused such a reaction in her? I turned quickly to see where Mr. Sharpe had gone, but he was no longer anywhere to be found. Neither was Malachi.
Andrew furrowed his brow and shifted his weight on his cane as he watched her. “Have we met?”
She shook her head, eyes fixed on her shoes. “I must go back…” Her accent had shifted again, to one far thicker than before. She made a polite bow before hurrying back in the direction of Manhurst. Andrew and I watched after her, waiting until she was out of earshot before speaking.
“Do you truly think you know her?”
Andrew frowned. “Apparently not. She looks deuced familiar, that’s all. Though I’m sure it’s nothing. It’s only… Ah, Ruby, where are my manners?” He straightened, holding out his arm to me. “Have you met the duke?”
I hadn’t. Not officially, at least, unless one counted colliding with him in a hallway.
“So we meet again,” the duke said, a faint smile spread across his affable face. “You seem recovered from when we last met.” He tapped his ornately carved walking stick gently on his palm. The carved jade pommel bore a distinct insignia with a stylized thistle, the rich green color catching my eye.
“I hope the inspector didn’t keep you too long for questioning.”
He smiled at me. “An hour at most. It appears my duchess had informed him where I’d been the previous evening. I had no idea she’d already spoken to him, it was simply confirming what he knew. I do not mind. Not if it helps find who harmed that poor old woman.” He looked out over the water. “It was here, where the woman was killed, wasn’t it?”
I nodded. “Yes, Your Grace.”
He made a sound of sympathy and shook his head. “Dreadful business. Tell Hawick I hope to see him at supper, will you?”
“Hawick?” I started to ask, before I remembered that that was Mr. Owen’s name. He was not Mr. Owen at all—he was known to these people as Lord Hawick. “He mentioned he knew you as a boy.”
He smiled, tapping his walking stick. “He had some business dealings with my father. Whenever he’d come out to Rivenly, I’d always be underfoot. I think my father, the previous duke, hoped that Hawick’s more studious habits would rub off. I confess, I did not expect to see him here, but I am glad of it. It has been too long since I’ve had such fine company.”
He glanced over his shoulder, having noticed half the party had moved on. “Ah. It seems they have left us. Shall we, Andy?”
Andrew nodded, staring off in the direction Genevieve had disappeared.
And with that the two men disappeared back over the bridge and out of my line of sight.
IGREW MOREand more confused by the interplay between Mr. Sharpe and Genevieve on the bridge. Combined with what I’d overheard this morning between Mr. Owen and his brother, and Genevieve’s suspicions about Abigail’s fate, I began to wonder exactly how gnarled this knot had become. Perhaps Lucy’s death was the culmination of events, not the beginning of them as I’d initially believed.
Genevieve said the other medium—this Abigail woman—had been packed as Lucy had been. If that was the case, then we now had three presumably dead women, not two. Mariah, then Abigail, now Lucy. I grew ill at the thought.
I checked my pin watch before snapping it shut. It was nearlynine in the morning, as reasonable a time as any to seek out Ruan to see if he’d come to any conclusions in the handful of hours since we’d last spoken. I rounded the corner at the bottom of the back stair and hurried past a legion of uniformed staff, starched and polished to within an inch of their lives and made my way up to the east wing of the castle. I counted the doors, my fingers absently tracing the smooth paper, a geometric treat of jet, emerald, and gold, until I found myself outside Ruan’s. I could get used to relying on him—seeking him out like this.
From down the hall, I heard some of the other guests making their way back to their rooms after breakfast, the voices growing marginally closer. I knocked again, waiting patiently—as the last time I’d gone in without asking I’d embarrassed the both of us.
He didn’t answer. I huffed out a breath. The irritating man was likely holed up with a grimoire. Subtle rustling came from the other side of the door.
I knocked again.
It still didn’t open.
The footsteps behind me grew nearer and I dared not wait any longer, I didn’t need the horrid constable or the inspector to come across me lurking outside a man’s bedroom. They already thought I was Mr. Owen’s mistress, I could only imagine what they’d make of this. I tried the handle and the door opened inward.
