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Sylvia added a white blouse and matching vest, then fixed her hair in a simple chignon. She looked at her reflection in the suite’s floor-length mirror. From the outside, she appeared just as she had when she first arrived here: tidy and professional. Things would be so much simpler if that was all she was, an innocent lady’s companion. Sylvia’s shoulders slumped from the weight of all she had accumulated these last few days. Weight she would have to learn to bear, just like the rest of it.
When she emerged from her room, the castle was buzzing with activity. Downstairs, several police officers stood talking with guests, while members of staff and personal servants rushed around, trying to prepare for early departures. Stacks of trunks and other pieces of luggage were already piled near the entryway.
But there was no sign of Rafe.
Sylvia let out a sigh and headed toward the library, but an achingly young officer blocked the way.
“Sorry, miss. You can’t go in there. That’s where we’re interviewing guests.”
Sylvia backed away. “Oh, I see.”
The door then opened, and Rafe stuck his head out.
“Mackenzie, is it?” he asked the officer. “Can you call for another pot of tea? Lady Delacorte is feeling parched.Again.” Rafe looked incredibly annoyed to be delivering the request. Then he noticed Sylvia. His eyes widened for just a moment before he mastered himself. “Oh. Hello, Miss Sparrow.” He hesitated slightly before speaking her false name.
Sylvia lowered her head. “I was just leaving.”
But as she turned around, Rafe called out to her. “Would you mind waiting a few minutes while I finish up here?”
Sylvia looked over her shoulder. Rafe’s scowl indicated that this was more of a command than a question. He didn’t wait for her response. “You can sit there,” he said, gesturing to a chair by the wall. Sylvia nodded and walked toward it. She could feel his gaze on her, but when she took her seat, he had already gone back into the room.
Sylvia tried to master her racing heart. Would she still be questioned regarding Brodie’s death, or did none of that matter because of Mr. Wardale’s confession? Yesterday, Rafe had promised that he would take care of everything, and he knew she had acted in self-defense when she plunged the knife into the gardener. But that was before she had laid her past bare to a room full of men. Before she had watched the light seep out of his eyes while Wardale revealed her deepest secrets.
Eventually, a maid delivered the requested tea, and a few minutes later, Lady Delacorte bustled out of the room and huffed, “Why, I’ve never been treated sorudelyin all my life,” she complained to Sylvia. “Don’t let them bully you, my dear.”
“Yes, madam.”
Then the grand lady flounced off. If she felt any grief over Mr. Wardale’s demise, she certainly didn’t show it. Sylvia couldn’t imagine that she was under suspicion, but it was likely that her very public attachment to their host had been a source of great interest.
Another few minutes passed before another man emerged from the room. He was middle-aged, with hair graying at the temples.
“Miss Sparrow?”
Sylvia rose stiffly and approached.
“I’m Chief Inspector Bagby.” The man gave her a kind smile that did little to settle her nerves and extended his arm, letting her pass first into the library.
Her heart pounded furiously in her chest as she entered the room, and her hands tightened into fists. She couldn’t do this. Couldn’t face both Rafeanda member of the law. The detective who had interrogated her after her arrest in London had lobbed increasingly personal questions at her for hours and even tried forcing her to sign a confession. It had been an exhausting, demoralizing experience. And as much as she disliked her brother, she knew that without Lionel’s interference she might not have left the jail at all. After a few steps, Sylvia glanced back, but the inspector hadn’t followed.
“See you later, Davies,” he called out before shutting the door behind her.
The echo resounded through the silent room. Sylvia stared at the closed door for several moments before it registered that he was truly gone. The tightness in her chest began to loosen with relief, and she cast a hopeful glance toward Rafe. He stood by the massive stone fireplace looking far more imposing than she had ever seen him. How strange to think this room had been the setting for their first glorious kiss only days ago. He still wore the same suit from last night, now slightly rumpled, and the faint circles under his eyes betrayed his lack of sleep. No doubt he had been dealing with Mr. Wardale’s death for hours. She clasped her hands in front of her and buried the instinct that longed to press a soothing palm to his troubled brow.
“I heard about Mr. Wardale. How are you?” Sylvia asked as she walked toward him.
Rafe leaned his back against the mantel, ignoring the question. “I told Inspector Bagby I needed a few minutes alone with you.”
“And that was allowed?”
Rafe gestured to a high-backed chair before him. “It wasn’t his choice.”
She swallowed hard at his dark tone. “He knows who you are, then?” she asked, taking a seat.
Rafe remained standing. She didn’t like this, how he loomed over her, but that was probably by design. “More or less. And that this is an extremely delicate matter based on the nature of the documents we uncovered.”
“Does…does he know about me?” Sylvia realized that could mean all sorts of things. “And what I did?” she added.
A muscle twitched by his jaw. “He knows that you were accosted by the gardener and acted in self-defense. But I did have to explain your presence in the garden. With me.”
