“Cassie!” She turned just as Olivia enveloped her in a hug. “What are you doing wandering round here? We’re over in the East Wing. Come on.” Olivia linked her arm through Cassie’s and steered her on. “Did you have a fun Christmas?” She was dressed in jeans and a silk shirt, her hair pulled back in a loose braid. “The drive down here is such a drag, I know, but I’m so happy you could make the party. Mother’s been planning it all year; it’s her crowning achievement.” She laughed as they crossed a hallway and turned into what Cassie guessed was the newer portion of the house. Here, the walls were white and airy, and although antiques abounded, there was an elegant, almost Mediterranean look to the rooms, rustic and faded. “We’re rather squeezed for space,” Olivia continued, “so I had to put you up in the Hartley suite. It overlooks the stables, so no view, I’m afraid, but at least you’re not near the chicken run.” She added in a confidential tone, “I saved that for Miles. He always sleeps until noon so I thought the rooster would be a nice wake-up call for him. Here we are!”
She led Cassie into a large kitchen lounge area. Paige, Miles, Hugo, and the rest were sprawled on cozy settees and around a rustic farm table, and French doors flooded the room with light. “Look who made it!” Olivia announced. Cassie gave a wave.
Hugo got to his feet, smiling. “Was the drive okay?” he asked, coming closer. In a flash, Cassie remembered their parting outside the college: the tension, and the almost kiss.
“Yes, fine.” She turned her head, accepting his welcome kiss on her cheek. His lips brushed her skin, and she felt a rush of sensation.
“Good.” Hugo looked satisfied. “I’m glad you changed your mind.”
“Well . . . Oxford is pretty dead right now,” she replied, awkwardly. “It sounded like fun.”
“The most fun,” Paige interrupted, joining them to hug Cassie hello. “The Mandeville New Year’s bash is the stuff of legends.”
“Literally,” Miles piped up. “I believe a certain Booker Prize–winning novelist set a crucial scene here in one of his last tomes.”
“That’s just rumor,” Olivia said, laughing.
“Sure, because how many original fifteenth-century mazes are there in the country?” he countered.
“There’s a maze?” Cassie asked, moving to sit with them at the huge farm table.
“Yes, and don’t go wandering out there alone,” Paige warned her. “It’s a bitch to navigate.”
Olivia squeezed Paige in a hug. “This one got drunk last year and stumbled around for an hour before she had the good sense to call me.”
“It was dark out!” Paige protested.
“Don’t worry,” Hugo said, meeting Cassie’s eyes with a smile. “We learned from our mistakes. This year, there’s a guide trail.”
“Which takes all the fun out of it,” Olivia said, pouting.
Cassie just smiled along. As the afternoon slipped past in a leisurely procession of food and gossip and laughter, she found herself looking around the room, studying her companions with a new scrutiny. Were they part of the mystery of the School of Night? It was hard to believe anything sinister was lurking behind their easy smiles as Cassie watched Olivia and Paige pore over fashion magazines, Miles idly read from his iPad. Their lives were ones of parties and play, through the clubs and exclusive bars of London and Oxford. What use would they have with murder and darkness? And more, could they really be capable of such things?
Hugo caught her eye. “Everything good?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. She nodded, again feeling a flush of awareness from his eyes on her, and she was relieved when Olivia declared it was time for the girls to go get ready for the party.
“At least try to make an effort,” she scolded Hugo affectionately as they exited. “A T-shirt is not allowed.”
Olivia took Cassie up to the room where she’d be staying. For all Olivia’s apologies about the squeeze, it was still a high-ceilinged, palatial room with a four-poster bed and ornate tapestries hung on the walls.
“The dress code tonight . . .” Cassie paused. She’d reluctantly packed the same black silk dress Evie had loaned her for the formal dinner at Merton College they’d attended, after finding it crumpled in a laundry hamper in her room. Now, seeing the flurry of activity downstairs and hearing the group’s tales of past excess, she wondered if she’d need something more dressy. “Is it going to be formal?”
“Hugo didn’t mention it? God, men can be so oblivious sometimes.” Olivia rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry, you can borrow something of mine.”
Cassie flushed. “You don’t have to—” she began to object, but Olivia cut her off.
“Nonsense. I’ve got tons of dresses; Daddy is always dragging me to some fund-raiser or another. And we’re about the same size.” She scrutinized Cassie with a practiced eye. “I know just the thing. I’ll have Perkins bring it over, don’t even think about it.”
“Thank you,” Cassie said. She seemed to be accepting favors from Olivia and Hugo an awful lot recently, but they offered them so easily, as if it was nothing at all. And, Cassie supposed, as she showered and got ready for the big event, it really wasn’t. They’d lived their lives so full of privilege, every need always met. They didn’t know the panic of poverty, or how tightly one held on to things when there was so little to hold at all. When she’d first met them, she’d resented them for it. Cassie remembered her prickly detachment when she’d first arrived at Raleigh, and the way she’d viewed everyone with the same jaded, bitter eyes. But if she was truly honest with herself, she’d misjudged them, Hugo and Olivia most of all. They’d welcomed her so readily into their world, she felt almost guilty coming into their home under false pretenses.
After taking a long shower, Cassie emerged from the bathroom to find a dry-cleaning bag on the bed. Inside was a floor-length gown in the palest of blush pink silk. It was unlike anything she’d ever worn before, so flowing and feminine, but when she slid the soft fabric over her head and saw it settle over the slim curves of her body, Cassie had to catch her breath. She looked like somebody else. Someone refined, elegant, innocent.
Somebody who would be able to wander the halls of Gravestone without a whisper of suspicion, just as she’d planned.
Cassie slipped on her heels and fastened her hair back in a simple twisted knot, then headed lightly down the stairs. She could hear the sounds of music and conversation drifting from the other side of the house, but instead of moving toward it, Cassie carefully veered away and headed deeper into the long series of passageways and rooms. There were libraries and formal lounges, a portrait gallery, and more. In each room, Cassie carefully checked the paintings and furniture, looking for the background she’d memorized from the photo of her mother.
At last, she stepped into a dining room in the far corner of the main house and felt a jolt of recognition. The dark green walls, the ornate picture frames. . . . This was it. Cassie walked slowly to the spot just in front of an imposing portrait. This was where the photographer had stood, and her mother . . . her mother had sat right there, in the throne-like carved wooden chair. Cassie rounded the table and slid into the seat, running her fingertips lightly over the whorls and rosettes carved into the wood. She tried to imagine the scene from the day the photograph was taken: Rose sitting beside her, glasses raised in a toast. Who else had been in the room with them? What had been the event? Another wild party like this one, the house crammed full of strangers? Or something smaller, intimate? A dinner with a purpose. A meeting of like minds and coconspirators . . .
“Comfortable?”
Cassie startled. An older man stood in the doorway watching her, and when he stepped out of the shadows, she realized he was the man she’d met on the very first day of term at Raleigh—the one who’d caught her sneaking into the master’s office. This time, he was dressed in an immaculate tuxedo, his shock of white hair smoothed back from his deeply lined face, but his eyes were just as chilling as she remembered: coal black, and staring straight through her.
&nbs
p; Cassie jolted to her feet. “I’m sorry,” she stuttered, her heart racing. “I didn’t—”
“Please, don’t get up.” The man gestured her to sit. His words were polite, but the tone was an order.
Cassie awkwardly slid back down in the seat again, trying to collect herself. She was an invited guest, she reminded herself. He couldn’t possibly know what she was doing there.
The man moved closer, his movements surprisingly lithe for someone of his age. He traced the tabletop and regarded her with undisguised curiosity. “Many great men have sat in that chair.”
“What about the great women?” Cassie couldn’t help but reply.
The man blinked, then his lips creased in a smile. “Women too.” He paused, those black eyes still raking across her. Cassie tried to hide her unease. “We haven’t been introduced,” he said at last. “Henry Mandeville.” He didn’t hold out a hand to shake.
“Hugo’s grandfather?” Cassie asked.
He raised an eyebrow, and in an instant her assumption was confirmed. It was the same wry arch she’d seen so many times on Hugo’s face, the same jawline under Henry’s cheeks, sagging a little with age.
The same deep unease shivered through her body as when she’d first encountered Hugo that night.
“You know my grandson?” Henry asked.
“I’m at Raleigh,” Cassie replied quickly. “With Olivia too.”
Henry gave a small nod, but his scrutiny didn’t stop. “And you decided to take a look around the place.”
Cassie felt herself wilting under his stare. “I’m sorry, I was curious.”
“You should be careful with that.” Henry’s gaze didn’t falter. “You know what they say about curiosity . . .”
It struck Cassie how alone they were, how far from the party. This wing of the house was empty and still, and they were the only two people around. “Of course,” she apologized again. “I’m sorry. I should get back to the party. They’ll be wondering where I am.” She scurried from the seat. Henry didn’t move as she approached the doorway, his head tilted slightly in thought.
“What did you say your name was?” he asked as she passed him.
Cassie froze. “Cassandra,” she managed to reply, thanking her mother for the first time for the new identity. “Cassandra Blackwell.”
“Hmm.” Henry Mandeville stared at her for another long moment, the seconds ticking past as Cassie’s panic fluttered in her chest under those cold black eyes. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Blackwell.”
Cassie nodded quickly and then fled toward the burst of noise and laughter now echoing from the front of the house. Toward safety.
The countdown to midnight spun on in a whirl of champagne and music, glittered jewels and a crush of tuxedos and silk. The grand ballroom at Gravestone lived up to its name: the huge room stretched the length of the house, its polished floors packed with hundreds of drunken revelers. Cassie drank everything in, overwhelmed by the cacophony of colors and sounds. Everywhere there was a mounting sense of anticipation, the hours slipping past too quickly to hold on to, the minutes dissolving in another flute of fine champagne. She tried to stay alert and watchful, but soon Olivia and Paige pulled her into the whirlwind, dancing through the night in the center of the crush, their shoes long since kicked off and forgotten, a parade of dance partners spinning them across the room. Cassie gasped for air, giddy, the brief burst of celebration lifting her out of the heavy numbness she’d been living in for so long.
“Having fun?” Olivia yelled over the music, gripping both of Cassie’s hand tightly. She was grinning ear to ear, spinning them in the middle of the crush.
“Yes!” Cassie laughed, her heart racing with the dancing and bubble of champagne fizzling in her blood. And she was, the last threads of guilt and grief chased away under the sparkling chandeliers and glitter of confetti, a kaleidoscope of elation she wished could last forever.
They whirled on until Cassie’s head was spinning and her stomach lurched with a dangerous pull. “I’m going to take a break,” she called through the din, but Olivia and Paige were already onto new partners, tuxedo-clad men who swirled them off the floor.
Cassie struggled through the crowd, emerging at the edge of the crush. She asked a waiter for directions, then headed down the hallway towards the bathroom. Inside there was a brief moment of peace, the cool white marble steady under her hands, cold water a relief on her flushed cheeks. Cassie caught her breath, gazing at her own reflection in the ornate gilded mirror. Her eyes were bright, her features alive and joyful. A stab of guilt ricocheted through her chest. She wasn’t here for partying and drunken fun. She was here for a purpose, and all this was just a distraction from her true cause. Evie. Rose. Dozens of dead bodies.
The doors flung open, and a crowd of women tumbled into the room, gossiping loudly with drunken shrieks. Feeling sobered, Cassie smoothed her hair and tugged her dress back into place before slipping back toward the party. It was almost midnight, and she could hear the revelry in the ballroom rising to a fever pitch. Couples and partygoers spilled out into the lounge rooms and hallways, clutching bottles of champagne and calling out their celebrations. Cassie ducked aside, narrowly avoiding a knot of red-faced young men in white tails who came charging through the house with a yell.
She was so busy recovering her balance she almost missed Hugo’s grandfather weaving determinedly through the knot of people, trailed by another man in a badly fitting suit. Tremain.
Cassie startled with recognition. She hadn’t known he moved in these circles, but she supposed it made sense, the way he’d supported Sebastian through their meeting. As she watched, Tremain followed Henry Mandeville into the ballroom, a fearful look on his face. Cassie picked up her skirts and hurried after them.
It was hard to keep up in the crowd, the whirl of color and distraction, but Cassie snaked after them, following them across the room. They didn’t stop to take a drink, or even acknowledge the party at all; they just moved with determination out the French doors at the far end of the room.
Cassie slowed, edging closer to the door. She peeked out, not wanting to be seen, but the long stone balcony was empty, save for a couple busily groping in a grab of passion at the far end. She stepped out, confused, and looked around. There was no sign of Henry and Tremain at all, but as she moved closer to the balustrade, she heard voices drift up from the dark garden below.
“You’re busy with the party. I shouldn’t keep you.”
“I called you for an update. Now talk.”
Cassie couldn’t see the men on the steps below, but she recognized the voices. Tremain sounding uncharacteristically hesitant, and Henry Mandeville, cold and authoritative. Their voices were faint, snatches on the cold night breeze, so she leaned out farther, straining to hear.
“There’s nothing new to report. The case is closed; the coroner ruled a suicide.”
“What about the officer who was poking around? What was his name?”
“Charles Day,” Tremain’s voice came.
Cassie’s heart stopped. They were talking about Charlie.
“He won’t be a problem,” Tremain continued. “Our man at the station says he dropped the request; it was just a routine media inquiry. You know, tragic history of the storied college.”
“Hmm.” Mandeville’s response was chillingly low. “Do you know who he was talking to? My source in the data department says someone has been searching the university records too. I don’t like it, Matthew,” he added grimly. “The Genevieve girl is one thing, but pulling records for Rose too? Somebody’s talking.”
“I’m sure it’s nothing.” Tremain sounded desperate.
“I told you at the time, boy, it was badly done.” Mandeville’s voice was threatening. “I left Rose to you, and I’ve been regretting that choice ever since. We can’t tolerate mistakes, not now. The rising is in a matter of weeks. There’s no place for error.” He paused. “Perhaps we should have this Charles taken care of.”
“That w
on’t be necessary,” Tremain replied hurriedly. “Everything’s settled down now. No reports, nothing. I promise there’s nothing to worry about.”
“There better not be.” There was a long pause, and then Mandeville spoke up again. “You serve at the school’s pleasure. Don’t disappoint me again.”
The sound of footsteps came, heading back toward her. Cassie lurched away. She quickly crossed the balcony, slipping into a shadowy alcove, and held her breath, hoping she was out of sight.
Henry and Mandeville climbed the stairs. Mandeville disappeared into the ballroom, but Tremain paused a moment, looking out across the gardens. The lights cast a shadow across his face, his expression tense. Then he turned back to the house and headed inside.
Cassie stepped out of the alcove, her mind racing and her heart beating fast in her chest. Evie, Rose . . . The Mandevilles were responsible for the deaths; there was no other explanation for what she’d heard. But how?
Cassie fumbled her phone from her slim clutch purse and quickly tapped out a text.
Don’t ask any more questions until I get back. Will explain later.
“Who are you talking to?”
Cassie whirled around with a gasp. Hugo. “You’ve got to stop doing that!” She quickly hit send and tucked the phone away. “Just a friend,” she added. “Wishing her happy new year.”
“You’re early.” Hugo grinned. He made a show of checking his watch. “You’ve got another sixty seconds by my reckoning.”
“In America, I’ve got another few hours,” Cassie told him with a hurried smile. Her heart was still racing in her chest, but something about the way Hugo was looking at her in the dark made it skip even faster. “Where have you been?” she asked. “I haven’t seen you all night.”
He shrugged. “Parties aren’t really my thing.”
She made a noise of disbelief. “Please, you guys make it an art. I remember Evie would stumble back at five or six in the morning almost every night.”
There was a pause. A shadow slipped across Hugo’s face at the name.
The Oxford Inheritance Page 22
