“Of course you would dance like a dream,” Arthur said, and she felt his fingers spread upon the small of her back as Blackwell’s had only minutes earlier. How odd that she found it irritating when, by all accounts, he was quite likely the most handsome man in all of England.
As he swung her in a wide, elegant sweep, pulling her close against him, a loud screech filled the room. Lucy stumbled to a stop and looked over her shoulder to where Blackwell stood at the Victrola, holding the record in his hand. She pulled away from Arthur, relieved to have a reason to do so.
Blackwell looked at Arthur as he smashed the black disc against his thigh. The shattered pieces skittered onto the floor, settling around the lord’s booted feet. “Out,” he barked, the sound echoing against the high ceiling. “I do believe I was very clear about this section of the house.”
Lucy glanced at Jonathan, who regarded Blackwell with anger clearly stamped on his features. “Of course,” he finally said to his brother and made his way to Kate, who stood with wide eyes.
Arthur placed his hand on Lucy’s elbow, but when she didn’t move, he released her and instead silently made his way to the exit with Candice, followed by Jonathan and Kate. Jonathan paused as though to say something to the earl, but then moved on with his arm around Kate’s shoulders.
Lucy stood where she’d stopped dancing, willing her feet to move forward but unable to do anything except look at Blackwell, who had turned his attention to her.
“What?” he growled and walked across the shattered bits of black that crunched under his feet. “What do you wish to say?”
Lucy cleared her throat and met his hot gaze as he neared. “I do not pretend to understand—”
“Correct,” he interrupted. “You most certainly do not.”
“Nor will I presume to tell you how to behave in your own home.”
“I should hope not.”
“You are a grown man. I believe you can discern that for yourself. If you’ll excuse me.” She stepped around him, her shoes echoing on the floor as she left Blackwell standing alone in the room.
The mood that evening in the card room was surprisingly festive, especially given Miles’s behavior in the ballroom earlier. His relatives would likely be in attendance for another few days, but with Jonathan and Kate to dilute the madness—not to mention Miss Pickett—he hoped to be able to ignore the Charlesworths. Provided Miss Pickett, Jonathan, and Kate would forgive him for acting like a cad. Arthur and Candice he rather hoped he had offended.
He shook his head, still unable to pinpoint what had possessed him to destroy the record and throw everyone from the ballroom. The last thing he consciously remembered was Arthur pulling Miss Pickett closer to his fair-haired self—the rest was rather a red haze. If she were going to regard his cousin with the same breathless awareness with which she’d regarded him, he hadn’t been about to watch it happen.
It helped that Sam had extended his visit for one more day, and Oliver Reed had telescribed that he would arrive the following morning. Miles was eager for an update regarding Oliver’s investigation into the threatening notes Miles had received. Having his friends at the manor did much to help his flagging sense of hope, which had become nearly nonexistent in recent months.
Miss Pickett smiled at something Arthur said, and it hit Miles like a punch in the midsection. He had thought of nothing but her since their dance, and he wondered why he tortured himself now. He rarely, if ever, socialized after supper, and when he’d announced his intention to join the family and guests after supper rather than retire to his own quarters, Jonathan’s look of surprise was undisguised.
“Beautiful woman,” Sam said, taking the seat beside Miles near the hearth.
“Which one? There are three.”
“Daniel’s sister. She is very much like him in temperament, I believe. It’s more pronounced now than when I met her before. She was charming then, but young. Now she looks very much . . . not young.”
“I should hate for Daniel to see your visual assault on his sister.” Miles fought a sudden urge to plant a fist in his friend’s face.
Sam glanced at him before turning his attention back to the card table across the room. “Do not tell me you are unaffected by her charms.”
“Charms? She is too assertive, that one. By far.”
“And how would you know? I doubt you’ve spent more than thirty minutes, total, in her company.”
Miles raised a brow. “And you have? Are there clandestine assignations transpiring beneath my roof?”
“Can’t say I wouldn’t mind a few,” Sam murmured and took a sip from the tumbler in his hand.
Miles looked at Miss Pickett and felt tension vibrating through him. He thought of her in dancing his arms. She had been petite and soft. Perfect. His teeth clenched as he watched her laugh at his idiot cousin and swat his arm. Who was he trying to fool? That idiot cousin was likely much better company for a young woman of any sort than Miles would be on his best day.
He ran a hand through his hair and closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. His life was far too complicated to bring a woman into it.
“Are you ill?” Sam asked him.
Miles rubbed his eyes and turned to his friend with a sigh. “No more than usual.”
Sam watched him with eyes that invariably saw far too much. “You’ve not spoken at all of Marie.”
Miles looked into the fire crackling in the hearth. “What is there to say?”
“You know I would lend a listening ear.”
He nodded stiffly. “If I should need one, I’ll be certain to use you for it.”
Sam was silent for a moment. “She was the apple of your eye, and often your confidant.”
Miles looked at his friend for the space of a long heartbeat. Had Sam not heard the clear dismissal? “And?”
“Had you told her? Of . . . things?”
Miles’s smile felt more like a grimace. “Of my condition?” At Sam’s nod, Miles sighed. “No.” He paused, weighing his words. “She has been here.”
Sam wrinkled his brow.
“Recently.”
Dawning comprehension crossed Sam’s features, followed by a slow exhalation of breath. “Do you know why?”
Miles shook his head. He chose not to add the fact that Miss Pickett had been the recipient of most of Marie’s attention.
“I know of a Medium. She’s young, but her mother has told mine of her budding talent.”
Miles shook his head. “Not yet.”
“Why the wait?”
“I don’t know. I’d rather discover Marie’s purpose myself. If I cannot, then I will consider your Medium’s references.”
“Good enough. I’ve not seen her for a couple of years, but town gossip from my mother’s weekly letters suggests Miss Hazel Hughes is quite proficient.” He paused again. “Bear in mind, though, that from what little I’ve heard of such things, it may not be wise to delay the process. The sooner you address matters with an effective Medium, the sooner the issues are resolved. I hear those on the other side—especially those who are exceptionally restless—can make life uncomfortable if they feel they are not being understood.”
“I am aware of this.” Miles’s tone was sharper than he intended. He wanted to handle Marie on his own terms. The last thing he needed was for a professional to tell him what he feared he already knew about the truth surrounding his sister’s death.
The card game drew to a close, and the players began to stretch and stand. As Miss Pickett and Kate moved away from the table and slowly wandered toward the door, Miles stood and followed.
“Miss Pickett, I have a question for you of a . . . a botanical nature. Might I have a word?”
She turned in surprise, her mouth slightly open, before composing her features. “Of course.”
“I wonder if
you would join me in the library. I’ve come across a book I’d like to show you.”
Kate looked at him with brows raised sky-high, but she gave Lucy a subtle shrug and kissed her cousin’s cheek. “Good evening, then.”
“You rest.” Miss Pickett ran her thumb lightly across Kate’s cheek. “You’re pale.” She lowered her voice as they moved into the hallway. “I ought to have insisted you go right upstairs after supper.”
“You know I hate to miss a party.” Kate kissed her again and turned to look around Miles for Jonathan, who followed closely behind.
“Sleep well, Kate,” Miles surprised himself by saying, and those within earshot seemed equally so. Since Kate’s mild rebuke of Eustace the other day, Miles had found himself seeing her as though for the first time. In truth, she was a vibrant woman, and he wanted her to be well and whole for his brother’s sake, if not her own.
Miss Pickett fell into step beside him as they made their way down the dark hallway to the library. She looked back over her shoulder once, and he saw her brow crease as she visually followed her cousin’s progress until she rounded the corner.
“I will have Sam examine her tomorrow,” he said gruffly.
Miss Pickett looked up at him, her eyes wary as they passed a sconce that gave off paltry light. “I cannot, for the life of me, determine the nature of her illness,” she said, her voice quiet.
As they entered the library, he led her to the hearth and made a show of pulling a book from the mantel and opening it for her. Should any prying relatives have followed them down the hall, they’d see exactly what he’d suggested.
As he flipped through the pages, he leaned closer and murmured, “I must apologize, firstly, for my actions earlier in the ballroom.”
She held up a hand with a slight shake of her head. “As I said, I do not understand all that has gone on under this roof in recent months. It is little wonder you might find yourself . . . well, on edge.”
He nodded. It was gracious of her, and he knew it. Nobody in polite society of any layer behaved as brutishly as he had, and he was fortunate she even chose to be in the same room with him. Feeling uncomfortable, and feeling frustrated because he was uncomfortable, he closed the book, set it on the mantel, and moved quickly to the true purpose for their visit in the library.
“I clearly have no botanical questions for you. I sought your company to ask that you please keep me apprised of any nocturnal visits you may experience. I do not want the rest of the household to be aware of this recent . . . circumstance.”
She looked up at him. “May I ask why? What do you intend to do about it?”
He wished he knew. “I suspect my sister has something to say. I wish I could explain why it seems she has singled you out for her attention, but I’m in rather unfamiliar territory.”
Miss Pickett studied him for a long moment until he was nigh unto squirming—an anomaly he hadn’t experienced in years. She finally nodded. “I will share whatever I know. And I suppose if the pattern continues, I’ll simply see you here in another four hours or so.” She offered a small smile that faded quickly. “Incidentally, the other night when I was following Marie, she went into the portrait gallery and knocked over the pictures of herself and the Charlesworths. Possibly the picture of late Lady Blackwell, too—I’m not certain.”
“She knocked over . . .” He blinked. “You know this for a fact?”
The look she gave him would have quelled a lesser man. She explained about having heard a noise, learning a ’ton had righted the portraits before being reprogrammed, and finding chipped picture frames. The more she spoke, the more concerned he grew. He knew little of spirits and their capacity on the other side. As Miss Pickett went on to describe the scene she’d witnessed on Marie’s second visit—how her appearance revealed the graphic nature of her death—he felt cold to his extremities. Perhaps the household required the services of a Medium sooner rather than later.
“And should I require your assistance?” she asked. “Where am I to find you?”
In my room was on the tip of his tongue, but he held it back—just barely—when he realized the implication. “You have a telescriber, I assume?”
“Of course.”
“And you know where to find the connector? It is to the right of the bed, behind the nightstand.”
She nodded, then dropped her gaze from his face to his chest.
“Am I suddenly too frightening to look upon?” He forced the safety of cynicism back into his tone.
She lifted her face, boldly examining his scar before meeting his eyes. “You do enjoy hiding behind it, do you not?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Hiding behind what, pray tell?”
“Your supposed disfigurement. Which is laughably benign. I rather think you foster the image and create the accompanying persona to keep the world at bay.”
She was too perceptive for comfort. His breath stuck in his lungs, and he forced it out on a laugh that was more of a scoff. It was deliberate, and he knew she would hear it. “And how is it that you know me so very well, Miss Pickett?”
“I know my brother, and he is an excellent judge of character. He claims exactly three close friends, one of whom is you, my lord. And as much time as he spent with you in the war, enduring the most unpleasant of circumstances, I imagine his opinion of you would be sound. Ought I to revise my own?”
She held his gaze, which he knew for a fact was intimidating on a good day. Several sarcastic, cutting responses passed through his mind before he finally felt his lips quirking slightly into his second genuine smile of the day. “I’ll leave that for you to decide.”
She tipped her head in acknowledgment. “Very well. Might I suggest, then, that you resist the urge to become prickly if a person doesn’t stare continuously at your face. That’s rude. And in any case, perhaps I was merely admiring the cut of your suit coat.”
“Were you, now?”
“I am a woman, am I not? And it is what we do, is it not? We are consummate studiers of and experts on fashion. I would hardly be doing myself any favors by ignoring that which I was born to observe.”
He leaned his shoulder against the enormous hearth. “Do you mean to tell me, Miss Pickett, that your primary focus in life is fashion? Do not insult my intelligence.”
“I am attempting to be all that I ought. Just today, Mr. Charlesworth asked me if I am a bluestocking. I should hate to offend this household or seem too outrageous.”
“Now you are being ridiculous. Aside from the fact that my cousin is an idiot, we seem to be avoiding the reality that, for all your outward calm, you seem rather flustered.”
“You do not know me nearly well enough to ascertain whether or not I am ‘flustered,’ my lord.”
He raised a brow. Was she blushing? “Oh, yes, Miss Pickett. I do believe you are indeed flustered.”
“I can assure you, what you mistake as flustered is merely a growing sense of irritation.”
He smiled again. “May I walk you to your room?”
She frowned, her brows drawing together. “If you must.”
“I can certainly remain here, if you’d rather.”
“No, no. I suppose I am rather . . . apprehensive.”
“I regret that this household makes you in any way uncomfortable. That any of us would.” It came out sounding stiff, which was not what he intended. He escorted her through the doorway and into the hall.
The look she gave him was one of chagrin. “My apologies. Your home is lovely, your staff very kind. I . . . well . . .”
“Are you afraid?” What a stupid question. His angry sister—his angry dead sister—had awoken her from sleep twice now, the second time with blood dripping down her face. She must be terrified. Not to mention the fact that he’d given her a fine display of his own temper on more than one occasion.
Miss Pickett shook her head but wou
ldn’t meet his eyes.
“You have only to telescribe—or call for Jonathan. He is just down the hall.”
“I’ll not awaken them,” she murmured as they climbed the stairs to the second floor. “Kate needs her rest.” She looked as though she wanted to say something else but stopped.
“My telescribe name is ‘Blackwell.’ I’ll come straightaway if something happens.” He rather hoped something would happen. The sooner he could ascertain Marie’s motives, the better for all of them.
Miss Pickett nodded, and they walked in silence, passing the Charlesworths’ guest rooms before stopping at hers. She withdrew a key from her pocket and unlocked the door. He swallowed, briefly closing his eyes. How unfortunate that a guest in his home would feel the need to lock her belongings away. Or attempt to keep someone out.
She looked up at him, her expression unguarded. Her eyes were huge in a face that was suddenly pale. She was afraid. But what could he do? Suggest she sleep in his suite?
“If you are reluctant to be alone, I can arrange for one of the maids to join you—human or ’ton, whichever you prefer.”
She shook her head and visibly straightened her shoulders. “I shall be fine. Thank you.”
He gave her a slight bow, and she dipped into a curtsey he knew was as ingrained in her as breathing. She closed the door between them.
He stood for a few moments outside her locked door before slowly making his way down the hallway toward the south wing.
This time when Lucy awoke, it was different. There was the hint of a breeze, but cold—painfully so—and dank. Lucy’s heart began to race before she even opened her eyes. That she had fallen asleep at all was a miracle, but the strange house seemed determined that she not find respite in slumber.
She opened her eyes slowly, aware of a suffocating blackness. The heavy draperies at the turret had been drawn, but she hadn’t closed them. She’d intentionally left them open because the night was clear and a blanket of stars had shone through the mullioned glass.
Beauty and the Clockwork Beast Page 11