Page 20 of A Legacy of Lies

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He stood at the window, a fresh ledger open in his hands. He hadn’t turned a page in ten minutes. Clara’s face hovered in his thoughts. Not the one from the breakfast room, calm, composed, but the one from the courtyard. Pale. Guarded. Frightened.

She was not a woman who lied. Of that he was certain. But she was hiding something.

He moved to the desk and looked down at the folded page on his desk. The one he’d picked up from the gravel near Hollis’s door. No seal. No name. No address. But the creases were sharp. The fold, familiar. The ink smudged where fingers had clutched too tightly.

He hadn’t meant to keep it. Hadn’t meant to bring it back to his study, to set it down, unopened, and stare at it like a blasted confession. But there it lay.

If it’s her, why hasn’t she asked? Because she knows I found it.

His fingers hovered over it.

He could toss it into the fire and let it all go. Let her keep her secrets. Let the Hall keep its ghosts.

But that bruise. That look in her eyes. That wasn’t something he could ignore. Not now.

“And I will uncover it,” he murmured.

The fire cracked softly in the grate. Outside, the wind answered with a low groan across the stone.

Chapter Eight

The corridor to the Dowager Duchess’s rooms stretched long and narrow, its sconces guttering in the draft. Clara walked beside Edith, their arms linked more for comfort than need. Rain threaded the windows like fine silver cord, a soft percussion that filled each pause in their steps.

“Do you know what she wants with me?” Clara’s voice barely rose above their steps.

Edith glanced ahead, then gave a single, subtle shake of her head. “She didn’t say. Only that you were to come after supper.”

They passed the old wall clock, the one that had ticked through births, deaths, and silences. Edith’s grip tightened slightly.

“She never calls for you at night,” she said. “Not since…” She trailed off.

Clara swallowed. “I know.”

As they reached the carved door, Edith paused and turned to her. “Then mind your words. And more than that,” she paused, “listen.”

Clara nodded, though her breath snagged in her chest. As Edith retreated, her footsteps softening into the distance, Clara stood alone before the carved door.

She drew in a slow breath. Counted to three. The cool wood beneath her fingers felt older than it should, as if every confession made before it still clung to the grain. The air smelled faintly of wax and damp velvet, of secrets kept too long.

What did she know? What did she want?

Her heart thudded once. Then again. She pressed her palm flat against her skirts, willing stillness into her spine, and knocked.

“Come in, child,” said Eleanor, her voice calm, measured, as if she had been waiting all her life to speak these next few sentences.

Clara turned the latch and stepped inside.

The Dowager Duchess’s sitting room glowed with restrained warmth. Firelight danced in the hearth, casting long shadows across tall bookshelves and aged velvet. The rain’s dull rhythm outside made the room feel sealed, it’s quiet thick enough to touch. A porcelain tea service rested untouched beside Eleanor’s elbow. Her cane lay on the floor within reach, though her posture was upright, her hands folded loosely in her lap. She did not smile. But her gaze was steady.

“Sit with me,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from hers. “The house is quiet now.”

Clara moved to obey, the chill of the corridor still clinging to her skin. She lowered herself into the seat with care, conscious of every movement, as if this were not a conversation but a summons.

Eleanor waited until the silence had settled fully between them, her gaze steady in the firelight. “You wonder if Hartleigh has room for shadows.” Her voice carried the gravity of old truth. “I tell you, it has always been full of them.”

Clara’s breath caught.