by Anna Bradley
She’d be returning to London with a wounded spirit and a shattered heart, but no good would come of her staying here any longer. Tomorrow, then. She’d give her notice tomorrow, and be on the stagecoach back to London before—
“Mrrarh.”
Cecilia jumped, her heart leaping into her throat. “Seraphina. Why must you creep up on me like that, you dreadful thing?”
Seraphina weaved around her legs, then darted over to the door leading into the marchioness’s bedchamber and sat, staring at Cecilia with imperious green eyes.
Cecilia pressed a weary hand to her forehead. “Not tonight, Seraphina.”
“Mrrarh.” Seraphina scratched a black paw on the wooden door, then turned back to Cecilia. “Mrrarh.”
“No, Seraphina.” Now that Cecilia had seen Cassandra’s face, snooping about her bedchamber felt like the worst kind of betrayal. “I promised Gideon I wouldn’t enter her room again, and I don’t intend to break—”
“Mrrarh.” Seraphina scrabbled frantically at the bottom edge of the door with both paws, as if trying to dig her way underneath it.
Cecilia frowned. “You’re insistent tonight. I’m certain the door must be locked.” She marched across the room and grabbed the latch. “See?”
But as it had every time before, the lock turned easily in her hand, and the door creaked open. Why was this door continually unlocked? It didn’t make any sense. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you had a key,” Cecilia said, watching as Seraphina slipped through the gap in the door and into the marchioness’s bedchamber.
Seraphina paused on the other side and waited for Cecilia to follow her. Once she was certain Cecilia was doing her bidding, Seraphina disappeared into the gloom on the opposite side of the room. Cecilia cast an apprehensive glance over her shoulder before creeping after Seraphina, her bottom lip caught between her teeth.
This is a terrible idea.
She half expected Gideon to leap out at her from the shadows, but all remained silent as Cecilia followed her feline guide past Lady Darlington’s bed to the dressing room at the back of the bedchamber.
Seraphina stopped when she reached the clothes press, and Cecilia huffed out a breath. “This again, Seraphina? What is your fascination with Lady Darlington’s clothes press? One would think you’d be more cautious of it after having been trapped inside.”
Seraphina didn’t appear to agree with this logic. She was alternately nuzzling the edge of the door and weaving between Cecilia’s legs, as if she was urging Cecilia to open the clothes press and peer inside. “Mrrarh.”
Cecilia hesitated, but Seraphina wouldn’t hear of a refusal. She gazed up at Cecilia with those glowing green eyes until at last Cecilia relented. “Oh, all right, but just a peek. What is it? Have the moths gotten into it, or—”
She went still, the words dying on her lips. The blue silk ball gown, that particular shade of blue…she snatched up a fold of the gown and held it up to the muted light.
She’d seen this gown before. Not the last time she’d peered into the clothes press, but tonight, less than an hour ago. She’d seen it on an exquisitely beautiful dark-haired lady with frigid blue eyes.
This gown didn’t belong to Lady Cassandra.
It belonged to Lady Leanora. She was wearing it in the portrait hanging in the small picture gallery, along with the sapphire hairpins Cecilia had found on the dressing table days earlier.
Cecilia fell back against the wall behind her, stunned. How had she not noticed before this was the same gown, and these the same sapphire pins tucked into those thick, dark curls? The embroidered slippers, as well. No doubt those were also Lady Leanora’s.
But how did Lady Leanora’s gown come to be in Lady Cassandra’s bedchamber?
Cecilia stared down at the fold of the gown caught between her fingers. It couldn’t be a coincidence the only gown now hanging inside the clothes press was the very gown Lady Leanora had worn in her portrait. It had been chosen purposefully, by someone who understood its significance.
Cecilia tapped her head against the wall at her back in an attempt to knock some sense into it. The most likely explanation was almost certainly the correct one, and the most likely explanation here was Lady Leanora had done it herself.
But when?
Lady Leanora had remained at Darlington Castle for several months after Lady Cassandra died. Perhaps Lady Leanora considered herself the closest thing the Darlington family had to a marchioness, and had decided to seize the marchioness’s apartments as her due.
Yes, that had to be it. Nothing else made sense, unless…
The way they tell it, Lord Darlington is madly in love with Lady Leanora.
Was it possible Gideon had put these things here?
It would explain why he insisted Lady Cassandra’s bedchamber remained locked at all times. If he was readying the bedchamber in eager anticipation of Lady Leanora’s return, he wouldn’t want anyone to know of it.
But everyone would know soon enough, because who was the White Lady, if not Lady Leanora? Gideon must know it was her. How could he not? Had he been chasing her all these weeks only to see the ghostly rumors laid to rest, or did he have a more tender reason for wanting to find her?
Nausea swelled in the pit of Cecilia’s stomach, but before she could give in to the urge to flee this cursed bedchamber, Seraphina darted through the door of the clothes press and disappeared inside. “Seraphina! Come out of there at once!” Cecilia reached inside to snatch the cat out, but instead of soft fur, her knuckles nudged into something hard. Not shoes—it wasn’t the right shape, and too heavy. It felt like…a box?
She crouched down, grasped one corner of it and tugged it out from under the flowing skirts of the blue silk ball gown. She drew the object out and stared down at the dusty cover, her chest fluttering with a strange anticipation. It was a book, bound in leather and covered with a thick film of dust.
A diary. The Marchioness of Darlington’s personal diary.
Cecilia looked from Seraphina to the diary, which had been tucked into a corner at the back of the clothes press, as if it had been hidden there, waiting for her to find it. “I can’t read this. It’s a dreadful invasion of the marchioness’s privacy.”
Seraphina yawned, as if privacy were a matter far beneath her notice.
Cecilia fell back on her heels in front of the clothes press with the heavy book on her lap, hesitating. What good would it do anyone for her to pry into Lady Darlington’s secrets? Now she’d made up her mind to leave Darlington Castle, it should be left to someone else to reveal the remaining mysteries, or keep them secret, if they chose.
Yes, yes, that was the only logical, rational response here.
But Cecilia seemed to have abandoned rational thinking, because she snatched up the diary and scrambled to her feet. She glanced down at Seraphina, who was now rubbing against her shins, as if thanking her. “Do you always get your way, you wicked thing?”
A foolish question, really, given that Cecilia was already creeping from Lady Darlington’s bedchamber to her own with the diary tucked under her arm. She took care to close the connecting door behind her, then hurried for her bed, and opened the diary to the first page.
Diary of Cassandra Elizabeth Belmore, October 1792.
It began three years ago, just after Nathanial had drowned in Darlington Lake, the year Gideon returned to Darlington Castle to see his brother laid to rest. He must have begun courting Cassandra soon after he arrived, because by February of the following year, Cassandra Belmore became Lady Darlington.
Cecilia ran a finger across the single line, admiring the elegance of Lady Darlington’s handwriting—or more properly, Cassandra Belmore’s handwriting—but she hesitated before turning the page, an odd foreboding gathering like a dark cloud in her breast.
Once she turned that page, there would be no going back.
> She turned it anyway, her gaze searching out the first line at the top.
My dear friend, it began, in the manner of a letter rather than a diary entry.
Entry dated October 1792.
My dear friend,
My heart, my sweet friend, is heavy today. The Marquess of Darlington has been found this morning, drowned at the bottom of Darlington Lake. Such a young, healthy man to have met such a sudden and tragic end. Nathanial’s brother has arrived from London, overwhelmed with shock and grief. I’ve never seen a man more devastated. Lady Leanora has been taken to her bed in hysterics…
Another tragedy at Darlington Castle, another sudden, unexpected death. If Cecilia believed in such things, she would have said the Marquesses of Darlington were cursed.
Then, several months later, in a much different tone:
Entry dated December 1792.
The most wonderful thing has happened! Gideon has asked me to marry him.
Cecilia flipped through until she arrived at a page dated in 1793, the last year of Cassandra Belmore’s life. She skimmed through the entries, pausing on one dated in March of that year.
My dearest friend,
Never did I imagine I could be as happy as I am. Gideon has shown me such love, such affection, such tender care in these first months of our marriage, my heart, my body, and my soul are forever his…
Forever his. Cecilia’s gaze lingered on the word forever, written in Cassandra’s elegant, flowing hand, her chest aching for the young lady who’d written that word with such happiness, such hope. In the end, forever had been an unbearably short time for the Marchioness of Darlington.
Six months after writing these words, she was dead.
But oh, how happy she’d been, in the brief time she’d been Gideon’s wife! His devotion to her was written into every entry, breathed into every line of those few short months. Every word Cassandra had written, every page of her diary swelled with love and adoration for her husband.
A love and adoration that was generously returned. Gideon had loved his wife. No one who read these pages could ever doubt it. His love for her was right there, page after page of it, in his late wife’s own words.
April 1793. My dear friend, such a delightful morning! Gideon has surprised me with a new rose garden on the south lawn. He calls it “Cassandra’s Rose Walk,” in my honor, he says, and there are ever so many of my favorite white roses planted there…
May 1793. My beloved friend, the most wonderful news! I am with child. My heart is overflowing with gratitude and joy, and Gideon is ecstatic…
June 1793. I woke this morning to Gideon’s lips pressed to my belly, a good morning kiss for our child, he says.
July 1793. Isabella’s birthday has arrived! She is two years old today. Gideon intends to give her the new foal as a birthday gift. He spoils her dreadfully…
Cecilia couldn’t help but smile at the joy in Cassandra’s words, the love flowing from her pen, but it wasn’t long after this delighted entry that things took a darker turn.
July 1793. Dreadfully ill today. Mrs. Briggs bids me not to fret, and says it means the baby is strong. Gideon ordered me to bed, and stayed with me until I fell asleep.
July 1793. I remain ill. The sickness grows worse with each passing day.
August 1793. I am too weak to leave my bed. My stomach revolts against all food but broth, and a painful red rash has appeared around my mouth and on my hands…
And, only a week before Cassandra’s death, this final entry, written in a feeble hand.
September 1793. Gideon weeps, and begs me not to leave him…
Cecilia closed the diary, slid it under the coverlet, and pressed her damp cheek to her pillow. She’d opened it hoping it would soothe her to sleep, but her chest had been aching since she read the first passage.
She rolled onto her back and stared up at the darkened ceiling above, her fist resting on her forehead, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes. Gideon had never been in love with Lady Leanora. That was nothing but another ugly rumor invented by the gossips in Edenbridge. Cecilia was ashamed she’d ever believed it to be true.
What a terrible wrong she would have done him if she hadn’t read these pages, not to have read in Cassandra’s own words how much Gideon had loved her, only to lose her and their son less than a year into their marriage—
Cecilia went still, Cassandra’s written words circling through her head, then she jerked upright in the bed and snatched the diary out from under her pillow. She paged backward to reread the passages written near the time of Cassandra’s death, wondering if she’d misread the dates.
May 1793. The most wonderful news! I am with child…
Then, in early July, barely a month after that, dreadfully ill today…
And again, later in July, the sickness grows worse with each passing day…
Finally, after more than a month of silence, in that shaky hand—
September 1793. Gideon weeps, and begs me not to leave him…
Cecilia let the diary fall into her lap, her head spinning.
She’d read it right the first time. There were only a few weeks between the time Cassandra discovered she was with child and when the first symptoms of her illness began. Then another three months had passed between the start of her illness and her death.
Three months, with the illness growing progressively worse over that time. Certainly, a lady might experience delicate health during a pregnancy, but such an extreme illness as this, that continued to worsen over a prolonged period of time?
It seemed…strange.
Cecilia flipped through the pages once again, searching each entry for a description of symptoms. Cassandra hadn’t recorded much aside from nausea, dizziness, and stomach pains. By the end of July, the entries had grown shorter, with many days passing between them, but there’d been one in August.
Painful red rash…
Rash? Cecilia had never heard of a rash being a symptom of pregnancy.
She closed the diary again, her hands shaking as she slid it back under the coverlet, her heart giving a sickening lurch inside her chest as she considered every word, every sentence the late marchioness had written. It was the cruelest twist of fate her life should have been cut so short, her joy in her unborn child stolen from her, and Gideon left alone.
A pregnancy, an illness that lasted for months, a red rash…
Or maybe it hadn’t been fate, at all. Maybe Cassandra had been sent to her grave by something far more sinister than fate.
Because it didn’t sound as if Cassandra had succumbed to a mysterious illness.
It sounded as if she’d been poisoned.
Chapter Twenty
Gideon couldn’t determine when it had happened, but sometime between Cecilia Gilchrist’s arrival at Darlington Castle and this moment, he’d turned into a drooling, pathetic, lovestruck fool.
Well, he wasn’t drooling, thankfully, but it was bad enough, even so. What sort of marquess hovered at the door of his bedchamber, his breath held and his ear pressed to the wood, listening for the sound of a woman’s voice?
This was his castle, his bedchamber, his door. He had every right to go through it. Every right in the world, yet his stomach was in nervous knots and his palms damp, as if he were some sort of spellbound adolescent.
He wasn’t even going in there to see Cecilia, for God’s sake. It was his niece’s bedchamber. The niece he’d bid a good morning every day since her birth. He always saw Isabella before he went about the business of the day, but now he was frozen in place, and for no better reason than Cecilia was on the other side of that door.
He rested his forehead against it with a groan. Their kiss last night, those delirious moments when he’d taken her lips, pressed her curves against him, heard her soft sighs and whimpers in his ear…
Since then, he’d t
hought of nothing but that kiss. He’d dreamed of it, of her, and had woken with a pounding heart and a cock as rigid as an iron spike. This from a man who purported to be a gentleman, and one who heartily disapproved of noblemen who debauched their servants.
The trouble was, it had been weeks since he’d thought of Cecilia as a servant. He wasn’t certain he ever had, but she was in fact his niece’s nursemaid, and now, after a lifetime of restraint, he’d done the unthinkable.
What was he meant to say to her this morning, after such a kiss as that? Worse, what if he lost his wits and swept her into his arms as soon as he laid eyes on her, with Isabella as witness? She’d grow up and fall victim to a rogue, and it would be all Gideon’s fault.
But he’d simply have to take the risk. He’d be away from the castle all day with Haslemere, and he didn’t like to leave without bidding them goodbye. He could hear them on the other side of the door— Isabella’s cheerful chatter, and Cecilia’s sweet answering laugh—and knew they’d be leaving their bedchamber in a matter of moments.
Gideon drew in a breath, flexed his fingers, and after a brief knock, opened the connecting door.
“Good morning, Uncle!” Isabella, always delighted to see him, flew across the room and into his waiting arms.
“Good morning, Isabella. You’re energetic today.” Gideon swept her up with a grin and kissed her cheek. “Good morning, Cecilia,” he added, the back of his neck heating as he met her gaze over the top of Isabella’s head.
“Good morning, Lord Darlington,” she murmured, her own cheeks coloring.
“You, ah…you look pretty this morning.”
Dear God. Gideon cringed as soon as the words were out of his mouth, but even as he fumbled to correct his gaffe, Isabella said matter-of-factly, “Miss Cecilia looks pretty every day.”
“She does, yes.” Gideon’s gaze held Cecilia’s. She was dressed much as she was every day, in a plain gray gown with a white apron over it, her dark hair pulled severely back from her face, but he could no more tear his gaze from her than he could a miracle unfolding before his eyes.
