Chapter Eleven
They’d had several days of calm at Villa De Lacey following the “theft” of Lady Eamont’s ring, and it unsettled Nate.
The guests had spent their time playing croquet, rowing boats, and enjoying all Westmorland had to offer.
They appeared cheerful and seemed to be entertained, yet tension lingered in the air.
Nate swallowed his brandy and moved to his window.
It was close to midnight, and the moon shone above the lake.
But even more impressive were the stars that dotted the sky.
Such a breathtaking wonder, he’d never seen in London.
He suddenly had the urge to go outside. Stargazing on such a night was not to be missed.
Lantern in hand, Nate made his way downstairs and outside into the garden. Inhaling the fresh, cool night air, he marveled at the star-filled sky. He was certain that he’d never once looked up at the night sky when he’d lived in London.
“Nate.” Someone touched his arm, making him jump.
He turned to see Helen. Her pink evening dress was covered by a black hooded cloak. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Aren’t you happy to see me?” She held up her lantern and gave him a coy smile. “Don’t say no. I won’t believe you.”
“Go away, Helen. I don’t know why you came here.”
“I think you do know, Nate.” She touched his arm tenderly, and for a second, the old feelings returned. Then he shook her off.
“Go!” he repeated.
Nate thought he saw a look of shock on her face, but it quickly passed. Then her eyes narrowed, and she whipped her hood up over her head, turned, and strode back to the villa.
Nate frowned as he watched her go. What right did she have to be upset with him? What did she want from him? She was a married woman, for goodness’ sake. Why couldn’t she leave him be?
*
Bridget awoke to a barrage of thunder. Despite it still being dark, she threw back her covers and padded barefoot across her room to watch the war raging in the heavens.
She had always been fascinated by storms. As a little girl, she’d loved to watch the drama unfold in the sky from the safety of her room, knowing that her papa was next door, ready to protect her.
Tonight, menacing clouds barreled across the sky, roaring like Titans in battle, hurling bolts of lightning at each other and striking the earth below.
Windermere’s mercurial weather was on full display for their guests.
Yesterday evening had been calm and balmy, with a full moon shining over the lake.
What had the humans done to displease the gods? As if in answer to her thoughts, Bridget heard what sounded like a chilling wail from the hallway.
She paused, trying to blink her exhaustion away as she listened over the storm.
Had she imagined it? Or was there going to be a repeat performance of last week’s drama?
Lightning struck again, and the wind shrieked, rattling the glass panes on her windows.
An icy draft seeped through into the room, chilling Bridget to the bone.
She stumbled back to her bed, deciding that the wail must have come from the wind, which sometimes sounded like an Irish Banshee.
She sank back into her bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, grateful for their warmth and comfort as the rain came down in full force, pounding the panes.
She snuggled under the blankets and drifted back to sleep, forgetting all about the faraway cry.
When it came again—a terrifying shriek, competing for attention with the tempest outside—it woke Bridget from her slumber.
She sat up with a start. It was different from Lady Eamont’s overly dramatic cry for attention.
This scream came from a place of fear, and it sent a quiver down Bridget’s spine.
Heart pounding, she jumped out of bed. And Bijou, who had been a shivering mound under the blankets at the foot of Bridget’s bed as he always was during a storm, started wrangling his way from under the covers.
Bridget grabbed her dressing gown and raced out of her room, taking care to close the door behind her, leaving Bijou safely inside.
She hurried across the hallway to the staircase and, passing the walnut grandfather clock on the landing, saw it was half-five. What an ungodly hour to be howling. This had better not be one of Lady Eamont’s antics again, Bridget thought as she peered over the railing down into the main hall.
What she saw made her blood run cold.
A woman’s twisted body lay at the foot of the stairs, her right leg bent at an unnatural angle and her head resting on a pool of blood.