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The remark filled him with swelling pride. He remembered her penchant for gothic style. If he had to be sincere to himself, he needed to confess that preserving this eerie castle always had her and her passion for this in the background. He never tired of putting up maintenance to this old pile.
He fought a slight side smile and lost. “Thank you.” The footman served the wine, the candles flicked with the movement, dancing on her face, her beauty so dazzling, it would stir a marble statue. And then she lifted the crystal glass to her sin-inducing lips, nearly defeating his defences. Could he survive this attack on his wits?
His focused murky eyes on her caused her stomach to swirl and fighting it was proving to be apocalyptic. She placed her glass on the white table cloth and fumbled with her napkin to escape from his scrutiny.
Tonight, he wore black, just like earlier. Black trousers, black coat, and black shirt. She never saw any man dress this colour of shirt. They used to wear white under their suit. He must have had them made to his exacting tastes. The composition made him forbidden, brooding,
a panther ready to pounce. But the clothes only emphasised a man to whom the years were beneficial, in an astronomical scale. He became more muscular, more massive, there was a depth to his stance, bottomless and fathomless. A man not to trifle with, not to cross. Especially, a man not to forget.
“I wonder, though,” he started in those grave tones, “what brings you on this long journey from London.” Of course, he heard she lived in town; no secret there.
The question put her on alert straightaway though she thought of an answer, in case anyone asked. “It has always been my dream to visit Tintagel Castle.” She said with a feigned casualness.
“Indeed,” his expression took on a clearly fake nostalgia, “you have always had this fascination for the Arthurian Cycle, have you not?”
That he remembered was surprising. In truth, he recollected a lot of things about her, she realised. She could not decide if to think it scary or flattering, the former, maybe… “I have, in fact, but not so much as when I was younger.” She admitted. At that time, she read every book on the Arthurian tales she found in the library, either in the estate or in town.
“You used to quote Troyes, Mallory, Marie de France and the likes.” He waved his hand dismissive, as his stare bore into hers and his thin, sensuous lips stretched in what might have been a smile, but came out as a smirk. The man could not hate her more than he did already.
He had been the one to help her read Chretien de Troyes in the original mediaeval French as he grew up speaking the language with his mother. A mother that no doubt influenced his political choices at present. A mother whose death circumstances he never disclosed.
Silence fell between them, filled by the murmur of rain on the trees outside and the crack of the fire in the hall. More than that, it swelled with unsaid words, denied emotions and washed down reactions.
The meal continued in this tense mood and they measured forces in the lightest of subjects. His loathing of her ever more apparent as if he was the only wronged part in all of this. She did not think so and the actual scenario spoke loads of it.
As soon as she finished, she stood up to retire. He followed suit, as a flawless gentleman, even if in a cynical manner. “Allow me to escort you, Lady Winchester.” Her name dripped of contempt. Regardless, it caused goose bumps on her skin with its deep timbre.
It would be unladylike to refuse, thus her only option being to accept his arm and let him lead her. As earlier, she felt the hard muscles under his sleeve. He had been strong and well-shaped those years ago. He magnetised her now though, the heat of him seeping through her glove.
They reached her rooms and stopped in front of each other, their stares fixed together in the dimness of the hall. Chilly here without the fire, something she did not perceive due to her skin being flushed and downright hot.
Romulus took her hand and bowed over it, the touch disconcerting. “I bid you good night, my lady.” His attention never wavered as he straightened. Their gazes remained locked for an uncomfortable length of time, playing havoc with her breathing. When he finally turned and left, she had a distinctive lack of oxygen in her lungs.
She consciously closed her door with a smooth click, so as not to bang it with frustration. She had no place feeling these treacherous… things for the man. The high spheres of the government were quite certain he was working for the French though the war itself came to an end the previous year.
According to some reports, the disappearance of Romulus had parallels to his connections with the French and an effort to free Napoleon from Saint Helena. Her superiors convinced her that previous investigations proved it. If Napoleon escaped now as he did two years ago, the chaos in Europe would restart. Since the emperor rose to power seventeen years earlier, the continent saw intermittent campaigns. Only now with him in prison, did Europe experience a semblance of peace. It was vital he did not have the chance to re-establish his rule. For that, they must stop Romulus’s operations by taking him to Court Martial. Obtaining proof of his treason became essential.
Annabel sucked in a deep breath and walked to her bed. She would rest a couple of hours and start investigating.
CHAPTER THREE
Armed with a candle, Annabel opened her room’s door to a deserted and dimly lit hall. A black cloak on her back would help her mingle with the darkness and her slippers would make her slide on the carpets without noise. Nerves on an alertness the quietude of the stone walls made no better.
The solar-turned-study had to be the first place to search for suspicious papers. She hoped he already retired. Those government people in London must have good reasons to send her to this faraway castle to rummage about it. In private, she reckoned the obvious place to go would be his town house. If the Duke was committing treason, it would be easier to articulate it from London.
Reaching the study, she touched the closed door with her ear. No sound came from there. She gyrated to door-knob in slow, very slow movements, peeking through the crack. In a quick twist, she dived into the utter masculine room and shut the door with delicate care. The massive centenary desk lined with papers. She would have to read through every single one and remember to leave them in their exact original position.
Account books, letters from his stewards in his various estates, piles of ledgers, notations on ideas for refurbishing, repairs of tenants’ houses, plans for the estates’ production. A myriad of other technical writings pertaining his ducal duties, but not a line on any kind of operation. Either the man was not involved in anything untoward or he was the smartest architect of treason. She must bet on the latter, for the information she got pointed at him as the leader of it all.
The castle displayed other rooms that could contain hidden niches, boxes or some such. This massive stone pile had been refurbished for modern needs, so it contained more rooms than the original fortress. She walked inside of every and each one, avoiding his. Which she knew because the door to it exhibited elaborate carvings and it seemed to occupy a whole wing. Together with the lady of the manor’s chambers. She had to be stupid to consider entering them now. Apart from that, Annabel did not spare even the great hall.
Not a single paper. Not a single object. Not a single fragment.
Just the man and his mysterious dealings.
That left her with his own chambers and the question of when and how to investigate them. He showed no inclination to extend his hospitality, which meant she would have to leave in a few hours. Blast!
She returned to her rooms exhausted and frustrated. Her bartered body toppled on the fluffy mattress, her mind’s engines worked in a furious rhythm.
