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“Cameron,” Henry called softly after him.
“Just need a moment.”
Henry ultimately respected his wishes, but Cameron cursed himself for running away.
Rain sluiced down his neck as he stormed down the side of the mansion, gargoyles staring at him. Stine’s gaze seemed to follow him more than the others’. He stared back. The sprawling tree framing Stine hit Cameron with the shivery memory of crouching next to it and finding Henry.
His shoulders slumped as he trudged through the thinning rain toward the chapel.
This side of the mansion was beautiful, all vines and budding white roses. Up there, the attic he’d danced in with Henry. Rain sluiced over his cheeks as he gazed up, remembering the warmth of Henry dancing with him, Henry’s truly horrible singing, Henry quoting with him. He’d been so disappointed not to uncover a big mystery in that trunk, but the bigger mystery—the one between him and Henry—was just unfolding . . .
He moved toward the chapel, drenched in memories as surely as he was drenched in rain.
The chapel loomed before him, the door, ajar; a single sequin-trimmed ballet flat, strewn onto the ground.
Cameron’s heart stalled.
“Isabella?” he called, throat sticking on the hope he hadn’t just heard a debauched-sounding moan. Sickness coursed through him.
Praying he’d misunderstood, Cameron moved with shaky limbs into the chapel, listening for their whereabouts. A scrape of furniture, ruffling fabric, creaking floorboards.
Please don’t let this be happening.
He pressed his hand against the inner doors. They yawned loudly in greeting.
“Isabella. Fred.” His voice was strained.
His stomach took a dive when he noticed two coats tossed over the picnic basket at the end of a pew.
“Up here,” Isabella called out, pitch too light.
He looked up at the choir gallery above. Isabella pressed her wild hair into shape. Fred faced the wall, elbows moving.
He turned. “Just in time for the picnic.”
Cameron’s heart hammered. “Isabella—”
“Actually, Fred, it’s way too damp in here. We should head back to the house after all.”
Back inside, Isabella flashed looks at Fred over the dining table, where they spread their ‘picnic.’ Alicia, Georgie, and Henry were presumably helping Alicia set up in the east wing.
Every other minute, he thought he heard echoing laughter. Their absolute joy. Jealousy caught in Cameron’s chest and tangled with the hope he and Henry might be something.
He forced his focus on the table, the picnic. Fred shrugged at another of Isabella’s questions, looking bored. He’d lost his vigor now the chase to get Isabella had ended. He’d had his way. Only needed to be rid of her now.
Did she even notice the chill that emanated from him?
“Want to make a coffee run?” she suggested.
He smiled tightly. “I’m meeting old mates in an hour, at the pub.”
Cameron grabbed Isabella’s elbow, stopping her from following Fred out of the room. They needed to talk. But not here, not with Henry and Alicia’s lingering laughter. “Let’s bond,” he said to her. “Book shopping.”
Cracked Spine felt stuffy with a suffocating odor. Isabella tugged her fur-hooded coat tighter and made for their usual corner. They’d barely spoken on the ride here. Cameron still buzzed with adrenalin, his imagination leaping from one terrible conclusion to another, his wits trying to reason this away.
“Have you finally finished The Orchard Mausoleum?” Isabella asked.
He’d put it down when he started The Charioteer. Her question, though, wasn’t kind. Cameron felt an underlying insult.
He smiled coolly. “Likely further than you are with The Prince’s Choice.”
“Isn’t it such a great twist, when Jackie turns up very much not dead?”
Jackie wasn’t—
He straightened. “As great as when the prince declares his love not for Sophia but for her brother.”
“I hoped as much. In fact, I read the last page first.”
“Of course you’d spoil a romance.”
She glared at him. “I’m a modern reader. Sue me.”
“Do you even love my brother? Or is making people fall for—”
She slapped him.
The sting bloomed over his cheek, the curve of his jaw. Were her eyes watering? Or just his own?
“Was it worth it?” he asked.
“Is flirting with Henry, while John’s out of town?”
“I’m not with John.”
She laughed. “That again?”
“I’m not.”
She rolled her eyes. “You have no idea how hard this week has been for me.”
He never thought he’d have sympathy for John, but he did. “You seem to be suffering a lot.”
She stepped up to him and he refused to step back. Her voice feathered over him like velvet. “We all have our ways of coping.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re good for us.”
She stared at him long and hard, then turned on her heel. “Find your own way home.”
Cameron kept hanging up before leaving a message after the beep.
His brother would return on Monday. Wasn’t it better to tell him in person? Nothing he could do with this information today, and what could Cameron say? He didn’t know what Isabella had done for sure. She hadn’t admitted to anything. He only had instincts and feelings, and how could he offer Brandon support with 500 kilometers between them?
