The Sapphire Heiress (The Silver Order #1)

2 The Guest

Chapter Two

The Guest

E than Locke took in the crisp, cool morning air. Salt-less and thick with rotting leaves, it was nothing like the smell of sea he had grown to admire. The sky at dawn was different too. Instead of the brilliant blues and deep purples, the color of yolk stretched across the sky striped with a stir of dull oranges and sharp reds. There was no sound of sails snapping against the wind or the roar of waves, either—just the chirping of birds.

He let out a woeful sigh. My business of piracy and constant travel is over , he reminded himself. Land will have to do.

And among these land-dwellers, he would have to fit in. Last night, he had come off as a gentleman splendidly enough. Certainly, that woman would not have accepted shelter otherwise—no matter how ill the weather. She seemed a good judge. Like most English ladies, she had airs that hinted at her past within the upper classes.

He wondered what had happened to bring her down in the world of servitude. In her fine, quick eyes, she certainly held an interesting tale or two. He could tell that much. Any woman brave enough to traverse his woods on horseback was quite unusual. Then again, so was her background. At the same time, there was something familiar about her. The mystery of it had needled him all night.

At the end of the drive, he reached what was once an iron gate. Since he had gone, a web of dead, leafless vines had ensnared it shut. Without an ax, there was no hope of getting it open. At the moment, though, it suited his needs. Down the dirt road, carriage wheels ached with speed. He took a knife from his waist and cut away the brittle vines, creating a makeshift window.

The carriage, opulent with black, lacquered doors, rolled to a halt. A man dressed in a green waistcoat and top hat descended with several delicate steps. He brushed himself off, straightened his jacket, and, removing his hat, revealed a gray mountain of hair.

“Frances Ellsworth, are you?” Somehow, Locke imagined the man who had written these last few weeks to be younger. But he knew him only by his fine and delicate signature. More importantly, Locke wanted to know how the bastard knew about the Blackthorne fortune and his interest in it.

“Things aren’t as they once were, are they?” Ellsworth lifted an emerald-embossed cane and stabbed the vines with a crunch.

“That was clear enough in your letters.” A fact that made Locke ache for the prosperous days of old. “How long has Alastair been cold in his grave?”

“’Bout six years.”

Locke was surprised at the pain that took hold. Rival or not, Alastair had once been family. Adopted family, but family nonetheless.

“I hoped to find you sooner, but it proved no easy task.”

Locke clenched his jaw as he usually did to control his anger. He did not like the idea of being used for the man’s own design, but if it meant recovering the stone so that he could finally return it, hell, anything was worth that.

Running from country to country smuggling just enough to stay alive had seemed like a decent alternative at first. After a few years, it had worn thin. He simply could not go on living like that. It was the stuff of cowards. But until he got those men off his back about the stone, he’d always be running .

“And your plan will work?”

“I’ve not a doubt.” Confidence glittered in Ellsworth’s translucent, blue eyes. “Together, we shall find the Blackthorne family vault in no time.”

“By the end of the year, I should hope.”

“Possible.” Ellsworth jutted out his lower lip. “Tired of the tempest seas, are you?”

“Ready to retire is all.” Nearly halfway into the nineteenth century, times had changed. It was the end for men like him. Like Bristol, the seas had changed too. A bit of quiet would do him good, though—better than good. To own it, he was rather tired. “You’re certain the estate’s current owner will be amenable?”

“Oh, yes.”

In his mind, Locke noted the plan—as laid out in Ellsworth’s letters—had seemed cunning enough; supposedly, Ellsworth had some precious clue. The only things that worried him were how he had gotten that clue and the abruptness of their acquaintance. Locke did not have a good feeling about him and he always trusted his instincts. He would simply have to be careful. Recovering a dangerous and powerful gem from a dead thief would not be easy. He had come prepared for that.

“Fear not.” Ellsworth lifted his chin and smiled friendly-like. “You can trust me. You were Alastair’s enemy, were you not? That is enough to make us instant friends… Or partners, at the very least.”

Locke huffed . “What else do you think you know of me?”

“I did hear a fanciful tale or two, but I’m sure it’s no more than conjecture.”

“Rumors are hardly ever true.” Yet the ones circling the county about me probably are , he thought. The sapphire had changed him in ways he could only hide for so long. It was a wonder the villagers hadn’t yet called for his neck in fear of witchery or some other nonsense. Though they’d always seemed to sense something unnatural about him, it hadn’t been enough cause for true concern.

And if there was one thing he remembered of the people of Bristol, it was that they enjoyed all tales supernatural. Better yet, they feared them.

“Don’t worry.” Ellsworth smiled. “I don’t pay much heed to wild tales.”

“Are we to split the profits, then?”

“Why, of course. But before we get into such details, first allow me to properly introduce myself. I am Francis Ellsworth.” He stepped back and gave a deep bow. “And you are Ethan Locke.”

Locke almost corrected him. Captain Ethan Locke , he wanted to shout in his usual commanding tone that struck fear into many a man’s heart. But considering the ill-repute of pirates these days, he reconsidered. Instead, he gave a half-hearted nod.

“Now that we are acquainted, how about a cup of tea for a weary traveler?”

Locke paused. His old self would never have allowed this. The man could very well stab him in the back. Rather than unnerve him, he smirked at the thought.

“One moment.” Locke turned round and headed for his ax.

He had bigger fears than death. Imprisonment, he knew firsthand, was a far worse fate. He might not have been trapped behind a cage, but given his fifty-eight years of the same sunrises and sunsets, that was what life had become. And although he was aging again, as the years went on, he found himself increasingly eager for escape.

*

Mae stirred in her bed. The light in the room, though still dim, intensified as Grace pulled back the curtains.

“How you feeling, miss?”

Of all the servants, Grace had been kindest and most loyal through all this. Despite Mae’s change in station, Grace still considered her the true lady of the house. To her, Mae wasn’t different. She was the same as she had always been.

“Grace, you don’t have to—”

“I’m in no mood to argue, miss. Richie says you took quite a lashing in last night’s storm.”

Mae moaned into her pillow. The night before seemed more like a strange and distant dream. A near nightmare.

And yet she didn’t quite regret it.

“Your dear brother would not have approved of such late rides and well you know it.” Grace refilled the corner basin, a few grays poking out from beneath her white cap. At her age, she ought to have retired. Instead, Grace had stayed, taking care of her like family.

Mae nibbled her bottom lip. She had only stayed out so late because she had not wanted to return. She had wanted the feel of the wind and the smell of the moors to continue on forever. But Grace was right—if Mae’s brother had been alive, he’d have scolded her too.

She didn’t care. Riding far beyond where she ought to had helped her feel like her old self again: the person who would cast aside anything for a thrill, who found pleasure in all things dangerous. She refused to be defined by any other term.

“I don’t think your dress will ever dry out.” Grace looked pointedly at the dripping-wet mass hanging over Mae’s desk chair.

Mae groaned as she threw the covers aside. “What time is it?”

“Eight A.M. , miss. And I daresay, today is not a good day to be sick.” Grace kneeled next to the ash-filled fireplace. “Just as I thought.” She clucked her tongue. Tossing in more coal, she returned to the topic at hand. “The house is in a throes over Mr. Rosewood’s most important guest this evening. A great dinner being ordered no sooner than this morning.”

“Mr. Rosewood wastes no time.”

“And I’ve been told—” Grace’s face scrunched, as though repulsed by the words to follow. “I’ve been told to send you to the kitchens after your lessons. I tried to tell ’em, I did. I told ’em you haven’t chopped, stirred nothin’ in your whole—”

“It’s fine, Grace.” Not yet mustering the strength to rise, Mae dragged her fingers through her thick, dark-brown hair. It was just one of many sacrifices, she was sure. Last night included.

“Is someone ill?” Mae asked.

“That be another matter entirely. It seems our Katie has been relieved of her duties.”

“For what?”

“Displeased Mrs. Rosewood with some impropriety. I hear she means to find work in London.”

“Oh, dear.” Mae had considered the same thing once. But she had heard too many woeful tales. For the rich, London held the promise of endless social engagements, whilst for the poor, the place was often hard and cruel. There, one could easily starve. She had heard about the seamstresses who, widowed and without relatives, had had to resort to less savory forms of income. She could only hope that fate did not become the poor young woman. Perhaps she would find work and be happy. Lord knew happiness could not be found here amongst strict and unforgiving employers like the Rosewoods.

Mae stepped onto the cold, hard floor. Out the window, it did not look much like day. Gray clouds still lingered over the tips of the trees. As her eyes wandered toward the endless horizon, the sudden image of Mr. Locke’s piercing gaze made her wince.

She wished she hadn’t been so timid. So much seemed possible now. A promise for a visit? Someday…more? But she had no wish for that sort of trouble. She would never see the likes of him again. It was better that way.

The fireplace restocked and the ashes cleared, Grace rubbed her hands over her apron. “Well, good day, m’dear.”

“Thank you,” Mae said as Grace shut the door behind her .

Selecting a dress for the day had never been a joy. But looking back, she should have relished every one of those colorful gowns with their smooth, silky material. The task of dressing depressed her now. In her wardrobe, she had only one spare. This one in gray.

She tried to picture how she looked the night before. Plain and utterly foreign. Like this estate had been the last place she’d belonged, though where else she might belong, she didn’t know.

Before the basin, Mae dipped the folded corner of a cloth into the water—thankfully lukewarm—and smoothed it over her eyes. Despite her hopes, it did not erase her thoughts of Mr. Locke or the weariness that was beginning to well within her. It was nothing new—just the widening of a hole that had long existed. Only now, it gaped, impossible to ignore.

No one would have blamed her for telling him the name of the estate. Only she dreaded the discovery of her past. She cringed again at the implication. The last thing she wanted was to get the gossips started. It was too good a story. Last she’d heard, they had called her life “a riches to rags story.”

It wasn’t the least bit true. She might no longer have money or social standing, but her life wasn’t nearly as horrid as one might think. At least working as a governess in her former home meant she could still enjoy its vaulted ceilings and the ancient, stone carvings grand enough to rival churches. Albeit a small consolation, she tried to let it comfort her.

Had the estate still been hers, she imagined herself nodding to Mr. Locke’s requests for her to stay, thinking it nothing. She wouldn’t care about rumors that might result if anyone saw her. As an heiress, she would have been free to do as pleased. As a governess, however, she had no choice but to obey Mrs. Rosewood’s orders of pious propriety. It was either that or face the street. She squeezed her fists, hating that she had been so obedient.

She took a deep breath. This was no way to start her day. She patted her face with a dry corner of a cloth and set her jaw.

Then, like all the days before, she dressed, braided her long hair, and twisted it into a tight coil. Everything was the same, save for her roiling stomach.

As she descended the stairs, she realized she had forgotten Grace’s warning and nearly collided with a servant. Weaving around her, a trail of three more followed, their expressions long and their arms heavy with linens and china. At the far end of the gallery, Grace worked a mop across the floor.

The estate had not seen this sort of chaos in years. Not since she’d been a child. Back then, the sight had meant an exciting ball, soiree, or dinner party. Now, she felt only the anxiety of the servants.

The schoolroom, at least, was completely serene. Not once rearranged, the room was the same as it had always been and yet so different. Exposed to the latticed windows, her favorite lavender chaise had long faded, its matching rug tattered and frayed at the edges. That morning, Mae felt equally worn, her smile more strained than usual. She could not continue like this.

Agreeably on time, Mae’s two pupils were already seated at the table, but while Miss Lenore was reading, Miss Clarissa Rosewood seemed distant, her eyes far away.

“Daydreaming, are we?” Today’s lesson would be harder than she thought.

“Haven’t you heard? We are to have a guest for dinner this evening!” Miss Rosewood clapped her hands together.

“Oh,” Mae replied stonily. “Fancy that.”

“Well, whom do you think it is?” Miss Rosewood asked.

“I haven’t the slightest. Whoever he is, you’re sure to meet him soon.”

“So it’s a man. You think a man is coming for dinner?”

“Of course,” Miss Lenore piped in, straightening up in her seat so she sat a little taller. “To ask father for my hand. ”

“ Sister ,” Miss Rosewood drawled. “You’re not yet seventeen.”

Though perhaps it wasn’t far from the truth—just for the wrong sister.

Mrs. Rosewood clearly regarded her youngest, Miss Lenore, with her delicate features and thick, auburn hair, as the true prize. Miss Rosewood, meanwhile, could not have been more different. Instead of pale, unblemished skin, she had dark freckles and red hair. But because she was the eldest, Clarissa needed to marry first. Mr. and Mrs. Rosewoods would be sure to pass her along quickly to the first half-decent man that came along.

Miss Lenore had something like real beauty and when it came to pushing an already wealthy but title-less family higher in society that—in addition to their wealth—was their best hope for leverage. There would be no settling on a husband with her.

The thought made Mae’s heart ache. Even Miss Rosewood seemed to know she was second best.

“Do you think I’ll like him?” Miss Rosewood asked.

“Of course,” Mae replied. Truthfully, it didn’t matter. As with any young woman of means, if her father thought he was good enough, what else was there?

“So you think—”

“Whatever your father intends, he has your best interests at heart. Now, please—”

“Had you no offers?” Miss Rosewood asked, too innocent to know the sting of the question.

“One,” Mae said matter-of-fact. It was something she preferred not to think about. For two years, she had pushed it out of her mind entirely. The experience had been too painful.

“And you declined?”

Even Miss Lenore frowned.

Mae smoothed down her skirts, struggling to maintain her composure. Her pupils wouldn’t give in until they knew. “Well…a merchant ex pressed a feeling or two for me, but that was years ago…”

“Is that so?” Mrs. Rosewood appeared at the doorway. Mae snapped to her feet. What was she doing here? And for how long had she been standing there?

“Was he not well-to-do?” the mistress of the house asked. Her features were as sharp and severe as her manners. With high cheekbones, she might have been pretty once—if she’d had a little more fat on her face and lips that weren’t so razor-thin.

Perhaps knowing what her mother was thinking, Miss Rosewood’s expression soured in her mother’s direction, but the look went unnoticed.

“He was,” Mae whispered, feeling rather like an old maid.

“And still you rejected the offer?” Mrs. Rosewood balked.

“I later broke off the engagement.”

“Feelings for another man got in the way, no doubt.”

Mae opened her mouth to argue but quickly remembered her place.

“It’s a story we hear a thousand times, is it not?” Mrs. Rosewood began the lecture in a boorish tone. “The outcome is never as happy as the storybooks. Miss Blackthorne herself is proof. Once an offer is turned down, one can never be sure if there will be another—no matter how large the dowry. For someone with Miss Blackthorne’s breeding, it’s almost a certainty.”

The last line about Mae’s breeding, no doubt in reference to her mother’s background, bit into her.

“Fact is, he was a terrible man.” Mae could not help herself. “Life with him would have been miserable.” More so than this one , she finished in her head.

The family business had rested on the marriage, but every fiber in her body had screamed against it. All the jewels in England could not have tempted her to accept him.

She didn’t care what the local constables believed, her brother’s death had not been a suicide. Beneath his veneer of fine manners, Ellsworth was a murderer. William’s murderer.

“You have provided an excellent first lesson.” Mrs. Rosewood smiled crisply. “But I’m afraid that will have to do for today.”

She motioned Miss Rosewood to come forward. When Miss Lenore sat up, the lady of the house shook her head. “Not you, dear. Just your sister.”

“Why only me?” Miss Rosewood asked but went forward nonetheless.

“We’ll be going out in search of a new gown.”

“For tonight?” Miss Rosewood nearly shrieked. “For dinner with father’s guest?”

Mrs. Rosewood gave a quick nod, then eyed Mae. “Don’t forget the kitchens, Miss Blackthorne.”

Mae bowed her head, impatient for the clicking of heels to dissipate. Choking back a sob, Miss Lenore clearly had been affected by the visit too.

“Now, now.” Mae knelt down before her. She felt her own pain surface, but having had much practice, forced it back without notice. “It’ll be your turn soon.”

“Yes, but how long might that be?”

“Soon enough.” Mae picked a book from the stack and opened it. “Until then, you best mind your studies.”

*

At the end of the lesson, Mae headed to the kitchens, as instructed.

Since that morning, the house had become only slightly less chaotic. Servants put the finishing touches to flower arrangements and ran rags feverishly over anything made of wood.

Meanwhile, Miss Rosewood’s questions still plagued Mae. No matter how little she had left to lose, no matter how hard she tried to rise above, the tiniest reminder of Ellsworth still crushed her.

Members of the same trade, Mae’s and Ellsworth’s families had been at odds for generations, a rivalry that often amused her. While tense, it had sometimes proven beneficial, driving her father toward better and more innovative ship design.

Not once had she imagined what it might be like on the losing side, the bitterness that might arise when faced with failure. The kind of bitterness Ellsworth embodied for his entire family—all dead now.

The rivalry had destroyed them both. Mae hated that Miss Rosewood had brought back those memories. Even if it had been well-intentioned on the pupil’s part. Here, forgetting was difficult enough.

Mae hurried down the empty hall, glad for once that she would not be alone, that she had an hour’s more work to free her mind of these things.

Upon entering the kitchen, the smell of fish and stewing vegetables overwhelmed her. Shelves teeming with pots, pans, and preserves lined every inch of available wall space. Above the hearth, a large pot bubbled to the brim.

Mrs. Jacobs, a well-rounded woman well into her later years, was stirring, her face slick with perspiration. On the large table centered in the room, Mrs. Dorris—a woman of equal age to the cook but meager frame—chopped carrots. She had a small space cleared out amongst a clutter of other ingredients.

Since the women had mostly been confined to the kitchen, Mae had only spoken to them once or twice. And yet, both women and even their mothers had spent their lives working there. They seemed content. As if the idea of a different life had never even occurred to them. Mae supposed that there would be little point. Here in the kitchen, they were even more confined than Mae. It was only she who had a taste, a dream of something better.

“Yes?” Mrs. Jacobs’s stirring hand stilled as she looked up. The old woman wore her usual white cap .

“I was told you needed my assistance?” As the words had left her mouth, an idea struck. They, if anyone, might know about the modest manor in the woods. Her only challenge was how to bring it into conversation.

“I thought the work be beneath you, you being educated and all…” Mrs. Jacobs grabbed a handful of chopped carrots from Mrs. Dorris’s pile and threw them into a second pot. “But I suppose we do need the help and things have changed, haven’t they?” She turned her gaze to a pile of potatoes in the corner. “Those need peelin’.”

Mae waited for further instructions, but, receiving none, reluctantly walked to the corner. Pulling up her sleeves, she shifted through her surroundings. Beneath a dirtied rag she found a knife.

Again, she hesitated. Her ignorance of such an easy, domestic task took her aback. Still, she was even more reluctant to speak up. So with a potato in one hand and a knife in the other, she tried to imitate what she had seen only a few times before. Careful not to cut herself, she slid the knife down a potato then again but with more force. Although she shaved off more than she would have liked, she thought she’d managed well enough.

“I’d wager the man coming to dinner is likely a suitor,” Mrs. Dorris said after several minutes of silence.

“Says who?” Mrs. Jacobs sprinkled a collection of herbs atop the carrots.

“Why else would they be having a guest for dinner? Mr. Rosewood will likely secure an offer before the day is out.”

“It may be their only chance.”

“Mrs. Rosewood does seem to repel.”

The two old ladies laughed together.

“Likely to be an ogre of a man,” Mrs. Jacobs whispered, though Mae heard every word.

“And old, to be sure!”

They laughed again and this time, even Mae joined in. It was then that she realized her opportunity.

“I encountered something strange in the Northern Woods yesterday,” she began. Both women turned sharply, as if noticing her existence for the first time.

“You rode through the Northern Woods?” Mrs. Jacobs asked in harsh disbelief.

“Only to escape the storm. I met with a home there.”

Mrs. Dorris gasped. “’Tis abandoned.”

“Not anymore.” Mae moved her knife down a new potato. “A Mr. Ethan Locke lives there. He had just arrived.”

The two women looked at each other, their eyes as wide as their open mouths.

“I’ll be…” Mrs. Jacobs mumbled, evidently deep in thought. “Came in with the storm this time, did he?”

Mae did not catch her meaning. “You know of him?”

“We both do,” Mrs. Jacobs answered. “Your father knew him well enough.”

“When?”

“When he was young, of course. They were like brothers, they were. But that was years ago. Before you was born.”

“Like brothers?” Mae’s heart jumped. She hadn’t heard a whisper of him her whole life. How was it that this cook—someone to whom she had not spoken more than a few words—knew more about her father’s past than she did? Following his death, she had searched her father’s office for clues, a journal—anything that might reveal more about the family—and had come up with nothing. Now there was this. Though little and seemingly insignificant, that detail had brought her father’s hazy memory more to light. And for a moment, she felt less like the last surviving Blackthorne whose past was better off forgotten.

She wondered more about the man. How had he come to know her father—so much older than he? What had ended their connection?

Before Mae could think to ask these questions aloud, Grace’s head popped in the doorway.

“Mr. Rosewood’s guest has arrived,” she said. “He has asked for some tea before dinner.”

“I’ll bring it out to him.” Mrs. Jacobs whipped out a towel and grabbed the kettle hanging in the hearth.

“But that’s not your job. And you smell of onions,” Grace protested.

“Mr. Rosewood won’t notice. Get me the china.”

Mrs. Dorris nodded, feverishly arranging the tray while Mrs. Jacobs collected herself, straightening her cap and pushing back loose strands of gray hair. Then tray in hand, she walked out of the kitchen with more poise than Mae thought possible.

It was a severe slip in conduct and decorum, they all knew this, but the servants had learned enough about the Rosewoods to know they wouldn’t notice. The Rosewoods’ wealth was so new, the finer details regarding hosting and the servants were lost to them.

Mae had already finished peeling, but she could not bring herself to leave. Rather, she took in the grand display before her. The gravy Mrs. Dorris carefully spooned into white porcelain. The large and impressive roast mutton on its silver platter, the glossy oysters, the fish consommé still brewing, and the bright-pink salmon. She had never really thought about the work needed to create the meals she’d once taken for granted. Nor the intense heat of the kitchen and the abhorrent smell of fish. Burning pencil shavings did little to cover the stench.

She felt silly standing idle while Mrs. Dorris arranged adornments of foliage. But at last, Mrs. Jacobs returned, her face flush and her voice ripe with excitement.

“You didn’t get in trouble, did ya?” Mrs. Dorris asked.

Mrs. Jacobs waved a hand and rushed over, short of breath. “It’s just as I suspected! Just as I suspected…”

“What?” Mrs. Dorris demanded .

“It’s none other than Mr. Locke himself. And he hasn’t aged a day, I tell you. Not a single day!”

“Impossible.” Mrs. Dorris stilled in her work.

“Mr. Locke is Mr. Rosewood’s guest?” Mae asked.

The two ignored her.

“He should be—” Mrs. Dorris attempted to count on her fingers. “Not much older than me. Nearly sixty.”

“ Sixty? Perhaps you’ve mistaken father for son?” Mae interjected.

Mrs. Jacobs collected the potatoes from Mae’s corner and began chopping. “No, no, dear. There’s no chance of that. I suspected the same thing when Mr. Locke visited your father oh, ’bout seven years ago. He was supposed to be fifty just like your father, but he wasn’t. I couldn’t be sure, but now that all those years have passed…”

“He has sold his soul to the devil.” Mrs. Dorris gripped a knife in consternation. Mae stifled a laugh. It was the odd sort of story all the servants there loved to gossip about.

“In sheep’s clothing, he is,” Mrs. Jacobs said. “For he’s certainly no ogre.”

Certainly not , Mae thought. And likely from a place entirely unknown to her. Someplace that had to be far grander.

So why was he, of all places, here?

“Where do you think he has returned from?” Mae asked.

“Who knows where.” Mrs. Jacobs shook her head.

No doubt somewhere distant , Mae thought, envying him at once. Maybe Spain, among the matadors. She tried to imagine Italy, the West Indies, China—the places she knew only from books and the globe collecting dust in the schoolroom. It would likely take her a thousand years to guess.

“He can’t be all bad,” Mae found herself murmuring. She had always thought her father brave for traveling in his younger years, for venturing beyond England and all that was safe. Her mother too. Before they’d settled down in England after they’d married, she’d traveled alongside him. What she would do to travel to the places they all had been, whatever places those may have been. She didn’t care.

“Don’t believe us?” Mrs. Jacobs knifed off a few of the potato skins Mae had missed.

“It is quite the claim.”

“No claim. ’Tis the truth.” She bristled. “And if you’re wise, you’ll stay away.”

Mae flushed again, not sure why the cook had given such a warning. What would she want with him? She certainly wasn’t so disillusioned to think that last night had been anything more than a kindness.

Beside her, the chopping continued. Mrs. Dorris tilted her head up. “We got it from here.”

Mae brushed off her hands and went into the hall. The tale those women spoke of could not be true. They were impossible, not to mention ridiculous.

Mr. Locke didn’t seem far in age from herself. He hadn’t the look of a man nearing his sixties, like Mrs. Dorris.

Perhaps these were the rumors he had expected her to hear. He had practically admitted his notorious reputation himself. Well-bred accent or not, a man with those tattoos was no doubt involved with some scandal or another. Whatever his connection to her father, she had a feeling it hadn’t been good.

There were tales that circulated around her family too: particularly those of how they’d risen to grandeur. One called her grandmother a mistress to a king, another said the house itself sat on a goldmine, kept secret to avoid taxes.

A sudden rap of footfalls stilled her thoughts. She prepared herself for Mrs. Rosewood, who would likely have a new set of demands. Ones she’d be forced to obey, no matter how late the hour. But when she looked up, another figure closed in.

Mae stepped back. She recognized his deep-blue, almost-black riding coat at once. Swallowing her shock, she regained her composure. Mrs. Jacobs was right about one thing. Given the proximity of his home, there was a good chance Mr. Locke’s father and maybe even his grandfather had been acquainted with her family. Now it was more important than ever to keep her name—or better yet, her existence—secret from him.

Mae picked up her pace, hoping to pass him unseen.

“Is it really…” His voice stopped her.

“Mr. Locke.” Mae lifted her gaze off the floorboards and caught his bright eyes. All at once, the other words she meant to speak caught in her throat. He looked so different than he had the night before. His hair, bronze when dry, was no longer wild but coiffed back.

Thank God they were alone. What would Mrs. Rosewood surmise of the charming gaze he was giving her? What would the servants?

“Fate smiles upon me.” He gave the slightest twitch of a bow. “You are in good health, I hope?”

Recalling Mrs. Dorris’s words of the devil, she studied him. Aside from his utterly charming appearance, he didn’t seem a man of evil or darkness. Then again, who could be sure?

“Yes, thank you.” Mae curtsied and waited for him to continue on.

“I feared you might have caught cold after last night’s ride.” He stood his ground. “I should have been more persuasive in my efforts to make you stay.”

Was he truly this concerned? It was polite of him to inquire after her health, of course, but the question surprised her all the same. Most people above her station didn’t bother with pleasantries.

She stumbled for something to say. Somehow, the words were lost to her. Nervousness was building in her chest, twisting her insides into a tight coil ready to explode. Alone or not, they still ran the risk of being caught. Mrs. Rosewood’s assumptions would have no bounds. She was known to accuse a maid or two of theft when something had been misplaced. Who knew where else Mrs. Rosewood’s imagination might lead her—or for that matter, Mae’s own.

“I am quite well,” she finally managed, though meekly. When she stepped forward, Mr. Locke blocked her escape.

“Do you mean to trap me, sir?” Mae’s voice was even with propriety, but her eyes fluttered with anger. She wouldn’t stand for these games.

“You seem flushed. Not from fever, I hope.” His brow wrinkled and drew together.

“No, and if you don’t mind…” Beneath his teasing eyes, Mae was sure she flushed even deeper. “I don’t think Mr. Rosewood would be pleased to discover your absence.”

“Gracious host as he is, he left me to admire the drawing room and soon I came to admire the hallway too…and now”—he smiled with practiced charm—“you.”

She hardened her gaze. He was doing this on purpose, trying to embarrass her. He probably thought that the slightest flattery would make her weak in the knees. No doubt he enjoyed toying with the servants too.

As if to confirm her suspicions, he smirked before turning his eyes to a portrait that hung on the wall beside her. The grim expression of an old, white-haired man stared back. “A Rosewood ancestor?”

“No, an ancestor of the last family that lived here.”

Although the words tickled her tongue, she couldn’t bring herself to ask if he had known the family. It was far too risky. The question could give her away and for some reason, she also feared the answer. She had a feeling whatever this man had to do with her family, it couldn’t be good.

“That’s right. Mr. Rosewood came into his money rather late in life, didn’t he? Grew up a farm boy. Hardly the type of upbringing—”

Mae cut him off. She would not be caught listening to such insults. “How long have you known Mr. Rosewood?” But her question wasn’t entirely innocent, either. She was eager to discover the purpose of his visit. Did he really intend for Miss Rosewood’s hand? It didn’t seem likely.

What did a man, inked on all over his chest, want with marriage? He didn’t belong in fine drawing rooms. He belonged elsewhere. She didn’t know where.

“Since this morning.”

“And you are not acquainted with Mrs. Rosewood, either?”

“We are neighbors.” Mr. Locke’s face hardened.

“How nice of you to visit,” Mae replied with even civility. “And so soon. Do you plan to visit the Nettle family too?”

“My, you ask a great many questions.” He pulled at his white sleeve cuffs, drawing her eyes to his hands. “What are you, a damn detective?”

Mae barely registered his words. Along either set of knuckles wasn’t the gash she recalled from the previous day. There wasn’t even a scar.

When her eyes lifted, the gaze she met was no longer teasing, but stiff and serious.

“I daresay there are some things you may not wish to know,” he said.

Like what? The black arts that had healed his wound so quick? What else might give him the ageless life the cooks had claimed him to have? Perhaps they hadn’t been telling lies, after all. This man was beyond all logic.

“You must be fascinated by me,” he continued, catching her unfocused stare. “Out of boredom, I suspect.”

“You flatter yourself.” People thought governesses were all the same: timid, lonely, and obscure. If only she could show him who she really was. The person she so desperately wanted to be.

“In that case…” Mr. Locke stepped aside, allowing her to pass. With a sweep of the hand and a twinkle of the eye, he dared her.

Taking her chance, she picked up her skirts and left him behind. She refused to let his comments faze her. Even if he was right, even if she wished they had done so much more than talk that stormy night, even if she had thought of little else…

She slowed her steps. A new, unfamiliar atmosphere seemed to surround her. And it wasn’t just through the eyes of her role as governess, either. Her home, once constant, had changed somehow, as though teeming with secrets she couldn’t quite see. Mr. Locke was one of them. If Mrs. Dorris had been truthful and her father had known Mr. Locke, then he had likely ventured here before. But when? As a child? How close could he and her family have been? What else might she discover?

It had long troubled and shamed her that she knew so little. Despite the long, distinguished line of ancestors behind her, their rise to prominence had been a complete mystery. Like every family of significance, they had to have started somewhere. A grand story, no doubt. Why had her father not shared it? He had told her so many far-fetched, wondrous tales she’d taken then as truth. Naturally, she’d questioned their veracity as an adult. Though she wanted to believe again. She wanted to feel that same wild sense of longing to be among the waves, to be brave, to find riches beyond imagining. A child’s hope just as far-fetched as her father’s stories. She opened her bedroom door and shut it behind her, feeling it rattle through the latch.