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A shudder wracked the vertebrae of Rafe’s spine, one at a time, as he wondered if her eight years here might have been spent behind these bolted shutters.

“Mr. Balfour.” The voice was quiet, but echoed like a dropped pin.

He jerked his gaze down from the encroaching walls and tore his hands from his pockets. The same woman who had met him at the door stood before him now, her hands folded tightly in front of her. Had she been this pale before?

“Yes, ma’am?” Curse it, his voice betrayed every ounce of the anxious expectation he felt.

“Mrs. Langworthy will see you now.”

She showed him through a windowless door attached to the gatehouse, fitted with heavy hinges and four different bolts, all done up in iron. One step inside informed him these were Locks Heath’s private lodgings. Turkish carpets covered the ancient stone floors, a strange flood of new color against time-worn darkness. The wall sconces had been converted into gaslight fixtures, and the low-ceilinged parlor he was shown into, which surely should have smelled like medieval mustiness, reeked of cleanliness. Lye, tallow, kerosene—a melding of noxious remedies that singed the inside of his nose when he drew breath. As if there was some awful stain upon this place that refused to lift to the ordinary treatments.

“If you would wait here, sir,” the woman said, already backing out and closing the door on him, “the missus will be in straightaway.”

Rafe nodded; there wasn’t time to thank her, and the stench had all but taken his voice.

The parlor must have been left over from the old monastery. A faded fresco was impressed upon the ceiling. He twisted his neck, tilted his head back.

“The cardinal virtues,” he muttered, huffing a laugh that fast turned into a cough. A common inspiration, it would seem. If he ever found the time and peace to pick up a paintbrush, he vowed to focus on the tangible. The human.

Sophie. He would paint Sophie.

A heavy feeling settled in his chest, and he studied the art with more scrutiny. There were only three of the virtues here—fortitude, prudence, and temperance. Astute ladies, all of them.

Unlike the Painted Hall, there was no representation of justice. Like the Painted Hall, there was no representation of hope. A perfect pairing for the acerbic taste in the air.

It’s just a set of faded lines, Rafe told himself, looking away and settling into one of the chairs that faced the door. It means nothing. Not a convincing argument to a man who loved art.

The door opened and Mrs. Langworthy entered. He recognized her instantly. The years had been kind; even mourning black did not age her, but enhanced her dark authority. Her walk was more of a glide, a seamless movement beneath the billow of crape skirts. He rose at once and bowed. When he lifted his head, she was but a few paces from him.

“Mr. Balfour.” Her dark eyes stared frankly into his.

The hollowness of her gaze forced him to look away and clear his throat. “Forgive me, for calling during your time of mourning,” he said. God, there were clumps of mud clinging to the edges of his boots. He would soil this whole damned place. “I know it is unseemly of me—”

“Mother?”

The interjecting adolescent voice drew Rafe’s eyes upward. By the door stood a boy in a neat suit of black. His hair was not so dark or coarse as Mrs. Langworthy’s, but there was no denying the relation. It was in the puckered top lip and round, pale face.

“Yes, my love, come along and meet Mr. Balfour.”

The boy came to stand under his mother’s protective arm and offered Rafe a weak smile. “How do you do, sir.”

“Very well, thank you. You’ve grown into a fine young man. I say, you probably don’t remember me— Well, no, I don’t suppose you could. The last time I saw you, you scarce reached your mother’s knee.”

The child began blinking and flushing.

“You may go along, dear,” Mrs. Langworthy said quietly in his ear, just loud enough for Rafe to hear.

“Pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir,” the boy said, stepping out of his mother’s embrace.

“And yours.” Rafe watched him go.

“Do sit.” Mrs. Langworthy made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I am surprised you remember my son, after just the one meeting, Mr. Balfour. You were practically a boy yourself.”

Rafe smiled dimly. “It is a stronger memory than most. I told you then I would never forget your charity. That is what brings me—”

“How old were you at the time?” The widow was staring at him again. Perfectly recognizable, and yet, utterly foreign. Memory had made her seem less of a stranger to him than she truly was.

He shifted on the lumpy seat cushion. “I was five and ten. And your son?”