Chapter 7
Thomas sat in a large bedroom. Windows on the far wall looked over pastoral views of an endless manicured lawn bordered in the distance by a dark forest. This was his country estate.
Clio wasn’t aware of how she knew, just that it was so.
As before, she wasn’t in his head but instead watching the entire scene like a play being performed for her alone.
A woman stood in the doorway; her sumptuous rose gown draped beautifully over an hourglass figure.
She moved with the practised grace of someone used to wearing miles of silk.
Kneeling next to Thomas, her dress pooling around her feet like a waterfall, she took both of his hands in hers and ducked her head to catch his gaze.
‘I’m begging you, Thomas. You must leave.
I do not want to hate you. You promised you would stay away for the remainder of the year.
Perhaps absence will convince me there are still reasons for us to be together, but you can’t blame me for how I feel. Even if—’
He stood abruptly, pulling her up with him.
‘Absence hasn’t encouraged your affections thus far.
And being with other women hasn’t changed anything between us, despite your promise that it would.
I never should have agreed to this foolish plan.
I haven’t seen you in months. If you wish me to leave again, then come with me.
We can take a tour of Europe, get away from all of these people.
’ He spat the last word like it burned his tongue.
‘We’ve been apart for far too long already.
You are my wife, and I do not desire to live separate lives.
I don’t care if our plans must change. I miss you, Lissa. ’
The woman’s lips twisted into a grimace. ‘Don’t. Call. Me. That. I hate it when you call me that. You may want us to be together, but what about my desires? My wishes? Do they not matter in the shadow of your selfish needs?’
Clio felt the sharp ache in Thomas’ chest, the desperation to convince Lissa of his plan, the oily guilt of being unfaithful, the hope – more painful than a bullet ripping through his flesh – that she might stay.
That she might accept him. That they might reclaim their easy affection.
His love for her cut like a sword, and Clio was never more convinced: if this was love, she wanted none of it.
The cold splash of water from a hansom cab’s wheel running through a puddle shocked Clio back to the present.
‘Blast.’ Her skirts were sodden. Looking left, then right, the quiet neighbourhood street was empty.
She spread her fingers wide, her hands hovering over the wet satin, and let her magic heat her palms, steaming away the dirty water.
Straightening, she brushed out the emerald skirts patterned with bold black and gold paisley.
It was only then she realised the familiar wave of nausea accompanying her visions of the dead was absent.
She hadn’t felt it after her other visions of Grey either. Stranger and stranger.
Shaking her head, she refused to think about any of it now. If she wanted to make her appointment with the insufferable man, she would need to hurry.
When she arrived at the gate leading to Lord Beachley’s front stairs, Grey was already there. He stood large and tall like a sentinel guarding the entrance of Hades with his silver-tipped cane tapping impatiently against the stone path.
‘You’re late.’ His deep baritone resonated in her bones.
Clio made a show of unbuttoning her wool coat, flicking open the pocket of the double-breasted vest she wore in the same material as her skirt, and pulling free a gold watch attached to her with a sparkling chain.
It was a daring ensemble that few women would chance, as it played with masculine and feminine silhouettes.
Her crisp white shirt with its high collar and starched creases could just as easily have been from Grey’s closet as her own, though his would need to be larger to accommodate his thick chest and muscled arms.
Forcing her attention away from Grey’s torso and pushing down the heat rising to her cheeks, she studied the face of her clock. ‘It would appear I’m bang on ten o’clock, Grey.’
He clenched his teeth. She knew she’d annoyed him by foregoing his title.
Wonderful. Better to keep him frustrated. A frustrated man has no time to question whether or not I have any magical powers.
Pulling his own watch out, Grey flicked open the gold cover plate and turned it so Clio could see the big hand sitting smugly on five minutes past ten. ‘London Time would disagree.’
Every Londoner knew standardising their watches to the railway time was the most accurate measure. Clio hadn’t calibrated her watch in several weeks. Damn him for winning this round.
‘All good things come to those who wait… Isn’t that how the saying goes?’ She tipped her chin up, refusing to admit her defeat.
‘Where is your bird?’ Grey’s sharp gaze moved from her shoulder down her body before quickly resettling on her face.
Clio tried to reconcile the hard features of present Grey with her vision of him in the past. That version of Grey had been vulnerable and hurting, instigating a wild need within Clio to protect him from whatever future pain awaited. This man only provoked her ire.
‘Sir Robin isn’t really a morning person. Er. Bird. And since you didn’t give me any influence over our meeting time, I thought it best to leave him to his perch.’
Grey’s grunt gave her no inclination as to his opinion on the matter. But neither did she care. ‘Shall we?’ He pushed open the iron gate with his cane. The plaintive squeal of metal on metal rang mournfully off the cobblestones.
Clio was careful to avoid touching Grey as she moved past him and along the path leading up to Viscount Beachley’s stone stairs, but she couldn’t escape his enticing scent. Soap. Starch. Spice. Both comforting and disconcerting. A wicked combination.
Physical contact had always increased the intensity of her power.
Holding something the dead person treasured, touching the furniture, floor, and walls of where they died.
It all helped to focus and increase the flow of power coursing through her, intensifying her connection with the deceased.
She couldn’t imagine what touching Grey might do, but she guessed it wouldn’t be good.
Best to make sure she stayed well away from him until she could determine why his memories kept invading her mind.
Memories that contradicted her opinions most inconveniently.
What she knew of Grey’s past came from newspaper articles, scandal magazines, and whispers of ancient gossip from nearly a decade ago.
Those sources described the man as a rakehell who callously abandoned his young and beautiful wife.
Nothing like the taciturn gentleman in front of her.
Nor did they accurately depict the Grey she saw in his memories.
Nothing added up. Clio felt the need to pick at the mystery until it unwound. An inclination she resolutely ignored.
She made her way around the side of the house to the mews.
The servants’ entrance would be at the back of the residence.
She pulled her thoughts together, banishing her incessant curiosity about Grey to the dark recesses of her mind so she could focus instead on what mattered: finding Viscount Beachley’s killer.
Gravel crunched behind her, alerting Clio that Grey was following her.
The heat of his gaze burned the back of her neck, and she stiffened her shoulders.
When she reached the small overhang of the doorway boasting a small entrance and hallway to the underbelly of Viscount Beachley’s home, Clio knocked sharply.
Grey stood directly behind her. If she leaned back even a little, her shoulders would bump against his chest.
The door swung open, and a maid, young enough to still be in the schoolroom, stepped back, her eyes widening to round saucers.
‘Hello. May we please speak with the butler?’ As the head of domestic staff, he would be the person to arrange interviews.
‘Mr Chatham, I believe.’ The now-familiar growl of Grey’s voice was becoming a problem. It vibrated down her spine. Clio’s belly clenched.
It’s nothing. I’m merely hungry.
She should have eaten breakfast, but there simply wasn’t time. Thanks to Grey’s ridiculous schedule. One more reason to hate the man.
After several seconds of stammering, the girl scurried away, and they waited another fifteen minutes on the stoop before the butler arrived.
The tall man was thin as a reed and stood straighter than a ruler.
Grey produced a letter. From the messy penmanship, Clio could only assume it was some kind of directive from Uncle Lachlan.
Whatever he wrote worked a treat as the butler’s stuffy attitude melted away.
He quickly ushered them down the shadowy corridor, through a small office, and into a much larger room with cupboards on three walls, and a long table running down the centre.
Clio guessed this was where the staff took their meals.
Freshly baked bread, spiced meat, and something sugary wafted from under a swinging door. The kitchen must be on the other side. Comforting sounds of cheerful voices, banging pots, and crackling wood confirmed her suspicions.
‘If you will stay here, I shall gather the remaining staff and send them to you one at a time. Will that suffice?’ The butler spoke to Grey, then glanced at Clio. ‘Does your, er, secretary need any supplies? Pen? Parchment?’
Grey’s smile only fanned the flames of Clio’s indignation.