Page 5 of A Legacy of Lies

A prickle ran along Clara’s skin. The door had always been there, she supposed, hidden, forgotten, as though the Hall itself had chosen secrecy over sight. Now exposed, it yawned in silence, and she felt sure the house was watching, waiting to see what the new duke would do.

At the hearth, he paused, the weak firelight flaring across portraits of stern ancestors staring down from gilded frames. The blaze was weak, hardly more than a glow against the damp. He thought fleetingly of winters endured elsewhere, long, unyielding seasons, but he said nothing. He felt their eyes on him, the burden of lineage pressing, judging. He didn’t belong among them.

From the shadows, Clara watched. The new duke stood like a man carved from the same stone as the house itself, unyielding, silent, withholding his thoughts. She brushed her palm against her skirt to steady herself, yet the chill clung. He carried secrets, of that she was certain, and secrets in Hartleigh Hall were never safe.

“My lord,” Eleanor began.

“Please, Aunt,” Nathaniel said, and for the first time a small smile softened his face. “You say that, and I look for Uncle Charles. You always called me Nathaniel.”

“Very well, Nathaniel.” She glanced toward Percival, who stepped into the room with a tray, brandy for Nathaniel, sherry for herself.

Nathaniel slipped out of his wet cloak and placed it in Clara’s hands, the burden of it cold and sodden. “See to this, if you please.”

Eleanor lifted her glass, her veil trembling with the motion. “To Hartleigh, and to its new master.”

Their glasses touched with a quiet chime. She watched him as he drank his brandy and wished she knew what thoughts moved behind those steady eyes. Even as a young boy, his thoughts had been difficult to read.

“You must be tired. Percival has seen to your things. He will show you to your room.”

“Thank you, Aunt Eleanor. I am sorry about Uncle Charles.”

She smiled, knowing he was sincere. “Off with you. I’ll see you at dinner. It will be served at seven.”

He set the glass down and turned toward Percival.

“This way, Your Grace.”

Clara watched him leave, his stride precise, his presence still carrying the storm’s authority. She remained where she stood, the sodden cloak dragging heavily in her arms. Thunder rolled again, rattling the windows. Edith’s words whispered back to her, the house knows. A chill she could not shake told her the Hall had already judged him.

Chapter Three

Nathaniel mounted the broad staircase slowly, his hand brushing the polished oak of the banister. The surface felt warmer than the air, as though it remembered every hand before his. It was as if he were climbing through memories. Above him, the vaulted ceiling disappeared into shadow, and portraits crowded the walls as though drawing close with each step.

He remembered racing up these steps as a boy, Adrian beside him, laughter echoing until Eleanor’s sharp voice called them to order. The faces on the walls had glared even then. Now, in the shifting lamplight, they looked sterner still, watching each footfall as though judging his right to pass.

A crack of thunder shook the glass in the leaded panes. Nathaniel paused, his gaze caught by one portrait larger than the rest. Uncle Charles, the late Duke of Hartleigh. The painter had softened the lines of his mouth, granting an illusion of warmth to features otherwise severe. Nathaniel’s throat tightened. Charles had been kind on those childhood visits, distant, yes, but not unfeeling. Now his likeness gazed down like an accusation.

Percival’s tread was steady behind him, allowing no pause for hesitation. “Your chambers are ready, Your Grace.”

They passed into the long gallery that spanned the south wing. Lamps sputtered at intervals, their glow breaking unevenly through long corridors of gloom. The air was cold here, faintly scented with damp stone and wax. Shadows stretched along the floor, climbing the walls like living things.

At the gallery’s end, Percival opened a door and bowed him through. “The duke’s apartments, sir.”

The words struck with finality. The title fit uneasily on his shoulders, borrowed from another man. These were his uncle’s rooms, and now they were his.

Inside, a fire leapt in the grate, throwing warmth against the chill. A small table had been set with decanters and cut glass. On a sideboard, a tray of bread, cheese, and cold meat waited. Curtains, drawn heavy against the storm, muffled the rain yet could not silence the groan of the wind.

A man waited there, tall and spare, his hair touched with gray at the temples. He bowed with quiet precision.

“Your Grace.”

The name surfaced in Nathaniel’s memory even before Percival spoke it. Chillingworth. His uncle’s valet. The same man who had once fastened his cuffs before a family dinner when his fingers fumbled with the buttons.

“Mr. Chillingworth,” Percival confirmed. “He will attend you.”

Nathaniel inclined his head. “Thank you, Percival.”

The butler withdrew, leaving Nathaniel alone with the valet and the storm pressing at the walls.