Page 30 of To Seduce a Stranger

Yet another soul who could not be expected to remember, to say nothing of identify, the lost heir of Ravenswood.

“’Spect him back tonight or next day, latest. Summat I can do for you?”

Edward shook his head, stifling his frustration at the delay. He needed to order seeds and other materials if they were to get this crop in, but he could hardly begrudge Toomey his absence under the circumstances. What possible difference could another day or two make in the grand scheme of things?

“Nothing urgent,” he said, touching the brim of his hat as he turned to go. Then he remembered his promise to Charlotte. “When Mr. Toomey returns, could you ask him to send some cleaning supplies to the manor, and have the bill directed to me?” he asked over his shoulder.

Another quick bob signaled her agreement. “I hear it’s a frightful old mess,” she added, slowing his footsteps. “Haunted, they do say.”

From somewhere, Edward mustered a smile. “I wouldn’t doubt it.”

After all, almost everyone he remembered from his childhood there was now a ghost.

Himself included.

Chapter 8

Charlotte stopped on the landing and peered both ways down the dark corridor, wishing she had thought to bring a candle, although it was midday. Every door was closed. The creak of a floorboard made her heart leap into her throat, although only her own footstep could have made the sound. What was there to fear? Just empty rooms in an old, empty house.

Turning and walking to her left, she laid her hand on the knob of the first door to which she came. It yielded readily to her touch, revealing a sitting room with a large bow window flanked by faded velvet drapery. A place where the lady of the house had likely received callers, or gone over menus with the housekeeper. The feminine furnishings were modern beneath their layers of dust—a high-backed sofa, two chairs, a small escritoire. A bright room, despite the grime on the windows.

Which made the blood spattered across the walls quite impossible to miss.

Streaks and smears, rusty-brown with age but unmistakable, created a feathery pattern that looked for all the world like a macabre substitute for wallpaper. On a small oval table, the remains of a delicate glass lamp lay overturned, its crystal pendants smashed against the marble tabletop. A shattered and blood-stained mirror hung above the hearth, looking as if something had been thrown against it with violence.

Downstairs the rooms had been upended, but here it looked as if murder had been done.

What a ridiculous thought. Just her fertile imagination, that was all. Of course there was some rational explanation for the room’s condition.

In one corner, the decaying remains of the curtains stirred lazily. Squaring her shoulders, Charlotte smoothed her palms down her borrowed apron, steeling herself to investigate. As she crossed the dusty carpet, her foot settled on a small sharp object that pressed through the bottom of her shoe, into her tender sole, pushing a little yelp of pain past her lips.

Her fingertips sought and found a small metal object. A tiny figure of a man, formed in lead, its painted clothing long since worn away. A toy soldier, of the sort with which boys waged great wars in miniature. What on earth was it doing here? But of course there must have been children here once. Generations of them. It had not always been an old mausoleum of a house.

The curtains rustled again. Absently, she dropped the toy soldier into her apron pocket and stepped closer, reaching out to brush the rotten fabric aside. The soft spring breeze passed into the room through a jagged opening, a broken window pane.

Further exploration found what was left of the culprit behind the sofa: a bird, and not a small one, either. Perhaps one of the ravens for which the place was named. Its feathers had long since disintegrated, leaving only its hollow-boned skeleton.

“Oh, le pauvre!”

The sound of her own voice made her jump. What was it about this little room that sent a chill scuttling down her spine even on this sunny day? No grisly crime had been committed here. Just a bird, misdirected by its own reflection, trapped and struggling to escape, beating its head against the glass as it searched for liberty that seemed everywhere promised, always denied.

Intending to pick up the carcass and dispose of it, she bent closer. But her hands would not obey. What was wrong with her? She had never before been squeamish—had never had the luxury.

Colors spun before her eyes and her breath fluttered shallowly in her chest. She, too, had been lured into a bright and shining world—As my duchess, my dear Lottie, you’ll be free to do as you wish—mistaking it for something better than the one she left behind. Once Robert’s intentions had become clear, however, she had been as desperate as this bird to fly from what had turned out to be nothing more than a splendid-looking trap.

For now, she had found a place to rest, to recover her senses. But that didn’t mean she had found a way out—or that she would survive her attempt to escape.

Hurrying down the stairs, she soon found herself in the long gallery, and in another moment, she emerged into the sunshine, lifting her face to its warmth, feeling the spring air caress her cheeks. Gradually, her breathing returned to normal.

The cat nudged her ankle and wound his way between her feet, almost causing her to stumble. “Did you want something, Noir?” she asked, bending to stroke him. As if in answer to her question, he started off in the direction of the Rookery. With a frowning glance at her dust-streaked apron and dirty hands, she reluctantly followed; surely Edward was elsewhere at this time of day.

In the end, it did not matter if he was or not, for the cat bypassed the rear of the steward’s house to continue along an even less-traveled path, and she went after him, braving the grasping thorns and wayward branches. Once or twice, she thought he had led her astray only to abandon her, but then he would stop and wait, or meow, or appear out of nowhere, curling around her ankles. Curious behavior for a cat.

At last a clearing broke before them, and she spied a little stone hermitage with a thatched roof—a folly, intended only as a picturesque object. Upon closer inspection, however, she realized it was inhabited. Smoke rose from the chimney. From within came the sound of someone singing an unfamiliar, strangely mournful song about a bird. Charlotte shivered. Noir abandoned her and slipped past the rustic oak-plank door. The woman broke off her song and greeted him.

Wary of intruding, Charlotte hesitated at the edge of the trees until Noir reappeared, bringing the woman with him, apparently determined that she and Charlotte should meet. With bent shoulders, the old woman moved carefully, like one afflicted with rheumatism. A dark dress hung loosely on her frail figure; it might once have been fine, but now, many years out of fashion, the garment gave her an almost otherworldly appearance, as if she had been frozen in time.

“Who’s there?” When she turned her face toward the woods, Charlotte realized with a rush of compassion that the old woman was blind in one eye.