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Chapter Eleven
Unlike Demeter, Chastity never had a vivid imagination. She didn’t much like the idea of ghosts so concluded if she did not believe in them, she would never see one.
Tell that to the shiver running down her spine as she moved down the darkened corridor of Heath Lodge. The light of the lone candle bounced off the walls, creating movement where there was none, and a slight breeze whispered about her shoulders, causing the hair on the back of her neck prickle.
A creak from somewhere in the house made her jolt. She stilled and pressed a hand to her tight chest and massaged it until the tension vanished.
Where was everyone anyway? Since supper, she had scarcely seen any of the other servants and they had all seemed melancholy at the dining table—even Mr. Lowe.
Why had she not simply gone to bed after her chores were done? Why had she decided to seek out Valentine? She had nothing new to tell him.
Her breaths unnaturally loud in the gloom, she pressed forward. One length of the hallway and she would head to bed and conclude Valentine had gone out somewhere. Where, she did not know nor did she want to think about it. Maybe he was wrapped in the arms of an old lover somewhere. Maybe he’d kissed her because he simply had needs to be fulfilled and he’d grown tired of being reclusive.
She stilled at a soft growl emanating from the darkened recess of the corridor. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Or beasts. Or eyes watching her in the darkness. Her heart beat faster. The chances were one of the cats had snuck in from the stables. Though she had never heard a cat growl like that. A dog then? She lifted the candle and peered down the shadowy length of the building.
No signs of movement and she refused to let her imagination play games with her. After all, she had been in slightly sticky situations before—like when she and her sisters had tracked down some men threatening Cassie. A stray animal wouldn’t scare her away.
She took another step forward, her footfalls too loud even with the long, soft rug underfoot. Her candle caught on gilded frames and she pulled in a breath. The only thing moving here was her and the candlelight. Nothing else. There most certainly was not something behind her.
A shiver trailed up her spine. Now why had she put that thought into her head? She had gone from imagining one stray cat to a whole pack of beasts, waiting to pounce and tear her to pieces. Easing out a shuddery breath, she took another step toward the sound. Was she not a grown woman of thirty? How ridiculous to imagine such things.
The feeling of being watched came over her again and she twisted suddenly and lifted the candle high.
Nothing.
“Silly girl,” she muttered to herself. Of course, she could turn around considering there was no salivating pack ready to chew on her bones but if there was an animal in here, Mrs. Cooke would not be happy and she needed to gain the housekeeper’s approval soon. Mrs. Cooke knew everything that happened in this house. She could be useful to the investigation.
She didn’t know about the kiss, though. At least she certainly hoped not. The rest of the staff would never talk to her again if they thought she was having an affair with Lord Kendall, and her time here would be wasted. They would know he did not want her, though, had they seen the expression on his face when he talked of being lovers. He’d said it with such disdain that it still rankled her, and she did not know why.
After all, she didn’t want to be his lover either.
The growling sound stuttered and started again. Brow knitted, she paused. Was that...? She moved the candle about, casting the light upon the walls until she came across the slumped figure of a man.
She shook her head. Of course. A snoring man.
Not just any man. She neared and kneeled beside him. Lord Kendall.
Despite this being his usual unruly hair, unshaven jaw and cravatless look, he seemed worse than ever. His clothes were crumpled, and she smelled strong alcohol emanating through the heat of his skin. His feet were bare.
She shook her head and prodded his arm with a finger. “Valentine,” she whispered.
A nonsensical mutter made her jolt. Sighing, she put a hand to his forehead to ease his head back. He dropped his head against the wall, his mouth slightly ajar and snored again.
“What a state you are in.” She glanced up the hallway. No one would come down at this hour if his valet was not here, so she had to find a way to move him herself. She had only come to slip a note under his door about the other two girls, neither of whom seemed to have any attachment to Julian.
“Valentine,” she tried again, jabbing her finger against a firm chest.
An eye cracked open but she did not think he recognized her. He closed it again with a muttered, “No.”
“You cannot stay here. You shall catch a cold.”
“It’s summer,” he murmured.
“Even deep in your cups you will still argue with me.”
Both eyes opened and he stared at her for several moments. She had seen drunken men before—her late husband mostly—but he never looked like this.
Even with the limits of the candlelight, his eyes were two dark pools of pain, as though he had been drinking to escape something awful. She had not thought Valentine to be much of a drinker so what had happened to make him imbibe so much?
