She simply straightened her shoulders, her chin lifting upward with a stubborn tilt. “I am prepared for anything the Denworthys may do—as prepared as anyone can be when dealing with the lot of them.”
*
Caris was stillpuzzling over exactly what the viscount might have meant by all that he had said, following their very fraught and uncomfortable tea. She understood, of course, that the Denworthys would fight whatever bequest Mrs. Denworthy hadleft for her. It was in their nature to snap and snarl over every scrap. They were worse than jackals in that regard.
Still, she wasn’t certain what she would do. She couldn’t afford to obtain a solicitor to represent her interests if they did challenge the will, and she wasn’t even certain she wanted to do so after all. How entitled was she to any of Mrs. Denworthy’s fortune when she had only worked for her for three months?
Caris was equally puzzled over his wording—that Mrs. Denworthy had had great plans for her and was attempting to secure her future. Why would a woman so desperately ill, a woman whose entire life had been shrunk down to existing only within a small set of rooms in her very large home, her world growing smaller every day—why would a woman in such a condition be thinking about her? It made no sense.
Of course, Mrs. Denworthy had been fond of her. They had spent every waking moment together for three months. But did that really outshine the decades she had spent with her stepchildren? Caris answered her own question. In most instances, no. But given the identity of Mrs. Denworthy’s stepchildren—most definitely, yes.
Grace was standing at the end of the hall with Mr. Fitzsimmons, watching Caris very curiously. When Mr. Fitzsimmons departed with a curt nod, leaving them alone, Grace immediately whirled on her.
“What did he say to you?”
Caris shrugged. “Not very much, really—just that Mrs. Denworthy had wanted to secure my future, and that it was very likely the Denworthys would be most displeased with the contents of the will.”
Grace’s eyes widened. “She’s left you a bloody fortune.”
“Grace,” Caris said, “your language.”
Grace simply shuddered. “If ever there was a time to let loose with a few curses, Caris, this is certainly it. We are standing inthe middle of enemy territory. You know as well as I do that those three reprobates she called stepchildren are only waiting for an opportunity to do something horrendous to you—or to me, or to both of us. We cannot afford to be alone. We cannot afford to be taken off guard. We must stay vigilant. Not just now, but once the will is read. Depending on what the contents are, Caris, you could be in more danger than ever.”
Caris shuddered, a shiver of fear racing through her at the very thought. She had never liked being in the house when Archibald or Alistair were present, and had always felt rather like a fox with the baying hounds in pursuit. She had managed to avoid them for the most part, encountering only a few uncomfortable moments in the corridors—until, luckily for her, a loyal servant of Mrs. Denworthy would pass by.
Now, she no longer had that luxury, that safety in the house. It appeared that all the servants here were loyal only to themselves—and perhaps to Hayton House—but certainly not to any of its inhabitants.
Grace preceded her up the stairs, Caris following slowly behind. As she reached the landing, she heard a faint whisper. She glanced around, searching for the source, but there was no one—only the stairs behind them, empty, and the stairs above.
Then, from the corner of her eye, she caught the suggestion of movement. Turning quickly in that direction, she saw only the swish of gray skirts—long and sweeping, brushing against the stone floor—and then they were gone, along with whoever had been wearing them.
She wanted to stop Grace, to ask if she had seen it, but she did not. Caris feared that perhaps she hadn’t seen it herself—that it was merely a product of her own overactive imagination and the strain she was under. Yet there was something about that wisp of a vision that felt distinctly otherworldly, in a wayshe could not explain, and in a way that made her feel she might possibly be losing her mind.
There were no ghosts; they didn’t exist. Such things were nonsense—fairy tales for children. And if they did exist, she certainly wasn’t seeing them in the bright light of day. It was utter foolishness. But even as she uttered those harsh reprimands to herself, she quickened her steps.
Chapter Three
Felix made theshort trek from his chamber to the main staircase, and from there down to the dining room. And the entire time, he looked neither right nor left. He kept his gaze focused firmly ahead of him. He had learned long ago that to glance from the corner of one’s eye or to peer into the shadows at Hayton House posed its own unique kind of danger.
It was a house that tortured one’s imagination. It offered glimpses of things that could not and should not be. And he was a man of reason. If he were anywhere else in all of England, and you asked him if he believed in spirits or hauntings or specters or any other fantastical thing, he would say—quite firmly—no. But if he were standing on the grounds, or God help him, inside Hayton House, and you asked that same question, he would not be so quick to answer.
All he wanted was to get this weekend over with—to get through the reading of the will, to get through the service, and to find out what Miss Fortune’s decision would be regarding the contingencies of his aunt’s will. Because her choice would ultimately dictate his future.
As he reached the dining room, he heard voices from within and knew that the Denworthys had already gathered. He hoped, for their sake, that neither Miss Fortune nor Miss Burnham had already arrived. He didn’t like the way Alistair had looked at either of the young women, but Miss Burnham especiallyseemed to have caught his eye—and his attention was almost never wanted or welcomed.
In fact, there had been numerous occasions in his younger days when it had been left to Felix to clean up some scandal or other that one of the Denworthy boys had created. And he had done so for the love of his aunt, to spare her the scandal her wretched stepchildren would bring to their name. He had wanted to spare her those indignities. A well-placed bribe, a strategic offer of restitution, aid in getting someone a job or a new place to live—all of those things had been done in order to keep Alistair and Archibald from facing the consequences of their own actions. And those sins were now on his head.
Opening the door, he stepped inside and saw that it was only the Denworthys. Neither of the young ladies had joined them just yet. He breathed a sigh of relief.
It was Amaris who spoke to him first. “Good evening, my lord. You seem quite pleased with yourself, now that you’re lord of this desolate manor. Tell me, do you intend to live at Hayton House, or will you return to your country estate when all is said and done?”
Felix seated himself at the head of the table, as was his due by right of his title, and when he answered, it was not in the way she had imagined. “I believe that is really none of your concern. Whether I choose to live here, or whether I choose to return to Essex, has no bearing on you. In fact, once Aunt Edith’s will is read, I will consider myself quite pleased to be firmly shed of all three of you.”
It was as if he had thrown down a gauntlet. All of them turned on him then.
“You’ve no right to speak to us that way,” Archibald said.
Alistair just stared quietly, with the menace he always seemed to project.
