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Nick shrugged. “My cook is French.”
“When I asked about your kitchen garden I was not being facetious. It’s a well-known medical certainty that the nourishment one ingests plays a role in one’s physical and even mental health. I wonder if the duke is truly deranged? Or could his malady be the result of a lifetime of unsalutary eating?”
Nick’s eyes lost their teasing light. “My father is mad. And no amount of vegetables will improve his condition.” He rose from the table and held out his hand. “If you don’t believe me, let me show you.”
His strong grip crushed her hand as he pulled her from her seat and led her down a long, dark hallway, following a glimmer of moonlight into a spacious, open, window-lined gallery, which opened out onto the shadowy gardens.
He took a flickering lantern from a hook near the door and held it aloft.
The halo of light illuminated rows of paintings, somber with blood red and inky black.
“This is why you shouldn’t become too fond of the duke, Alice.”
