Chapter 8 #2
‘She is lying.’ Clio stood, brushing her hand down her distractingly well-tailored outfit.
No woman should look so bloody enticing in a man’s dress shirt and fitted waistcoat.
Nor should her scent of bergamot and rosemary fill his head with thoughts of bodies twining together in the dark shadows of an old forest. And yet, it did.
She was both wild creature and refined lady, and Thomas couldn’t stop imagining how easy it would be to flick open the buttons of her high collar and reveal her throat.
Inhale her essence. Press his lips just there, at the hollow of her neck where her pulse beat to an ancient rhythm.
Shocking thoughts. She was too young. Too innocent. Too much his best friend’s bloody niece. And possibly a witch.
‘Are you even paying attention?’ Anger made her golden eyes spark.
No. He was letting his mind conjure images of her naked flesh. But he could hardly admit that. He cleared his throat and organised his thoughts back into some semblance of order. ‘What evidence do you have of her lies?’
‘None yet. But you know I’m right.’
That is neither here nor there.
He crossed his arms over his chest. ‘Today has been a waste. We have uncovered no new evidence. We have no new avenues of inquiry to find the viscountess. We have nothing.’
Clio pushed back the chair, knocking his cane from where it balanced against the scarred wooden table and stepped over it as she approached him.
She pointed her finger at him like a small dagger.
‘Then you really weren’t paying attention.
We know Viscountess Beachley had a contentious relationship with her housekeeper.
We also know she had a change of heart towards her husband the day of his death.
We know Mrs Coggins was the last person to see either of them alive, and she served them tea.
The last drink Viscount Beachley ever consumed before he died – of poisoning – was given to him by his housekeeper.
And we know Mrs Coggins is lying about something. ’
‘If you think she is lying, then how can we trust any of her testimony? How do we even know Lord Beachley and his wife had a friendly afternoon tea together?’
Clio’s smile created a stir in Thomas’ chest. ‘Because she isn’t the only person we spoke with today, or have you forgotten?
The butler mentioned that he went to Lord Beachley’s study at ten past three to deliver a letter, but he wasn’t there.
The footman informed him he was in Lady Beachley’s sitting room, which he noted was quite odd.
Your new maid, Miss Sanders, remembered complimenting Lady Beachley on her dress that day.
The viscountess told her it was one of Lord Beachley’s favourites and she was wearing it especially for him.
And the cook remembers making lemon tarts.
A treat she rarely made for Lady Beachley as the woman hated citrus, but one that the viscountess specifically requested for afternoon tea because it was her husband’s favourite. ’
‘And how does this prove the housekeeper killed Viscount Beachley?’
‘I never said she killed him. I said she was lying. And she could have murdered him. She had the opportunity and the means. What remains to be discovered is whether she had a motive. Unlike some, I like to keep my mind open to all possibilities.’
‘Are you accusing me of having a closed mind, Miss Blair?’
Her eyes swept from the top of his head to his feet.
A strange sensation washed through him. The only women who had been so bold with their gaze on his person were courtesans whom he paid.
Yet it was disdain, not lust, he read in her face.
‘I’m accusing you of missing the details, Grey.
Details that will lead us to the killer.
’ Turning, she led the way out the door, down the servants’ corridor, and outside to the mews.
She glanced up to a dreary sky. ‘Rain is coming.’
As if conjured by her words, a fat drop landed on his jacket. He adjusted his coat, buttoning it against the angry weather. ‘Did you bring your cabriolet?’ There were no carriages waiting in the mews save his own.
She began walking to the front of the house and the street beyond. ‘I don’t live far from here. Good day to you, Grey.’
Catching her arm, he turned her before thinking better of it. She froze, her pupils blowing wide as a jolt of electricity jumped from her body to his. The energy shot up his arm like a lightning bolt. He dropped his hand.
‘Damn static electricity,’ she muttered.
He clenched his hand in a fist, his fingers tingling with the intensity of whatever had passed between them. ‘My sister wanted me to enquire about your availability two nights hence for supper. She has news from the duchess.’
‘Oh. Yes. Well.’ Clio looked at the pathway leading to the gate that would take her to the street beyond and freedom. She turned back to him, tapping her hand against her skirt. He could imagine her impatience to escape. ‘I believe I am free that evening.’
He nodded. ‘I shall come for you at seven.’
His words must have caught her off guard. She took a half-step back and swallowed. A thrill ran through him to have taken her by surprise. He doubted many men had achieved such a feat. ‘I don’t need an escort, Grey. I’m quite able to transport myself to your sister’s.’
Unsteadying the woman was becoming a new obsession for Grey. Which was hardly flattering of his character. But it was not an easy task. Knowing he could accomplish something most people could not brought him a small measure of pride, which was more than he’d felt in quite some time.
Taking her hand, to test if another bolt of lightning would strike between them, he wasn’t disappointed by a pleasant hum zinging along his nerves.
He bowed over her hand, resisting the urge to lift her gloved fingers to his lips.
‘Miss Blair, would you allow me the honour of escorting you to my sister’s house for dinner?
’ He straightened to his full height, tightening his grip.
As she tilted her chin, sunlight broke free from the clouds, bathing her in brightness.
Her bottom lip was fuller than her top. She had a single freckle just beneath her left ear.
Her right incisor was ever so slightly crooked.
And she didn’t think he noticed details.
He had put her in a difficult position. She could refuse, but it would be uncommonly rude. Not that the woman seemed to care overmuch about social niceties, but it would also mean the idea of riding with him in his carriage bothered her. And he was willing to wager she wouldn’t admit such weakness.
Pulling her hand free, dark clouds once more covered the sun. She dismissed him with a single blink. ‘No, thank you.’
Damnation! I’ve never been a lucky gambler.
‘Good day, Grey.’ Not waiting for him to return her goodbye, she turned smartly on her heel and strode down the street.
The sky opened, and rain fell in earnest. Though it was difficult to see through such a heavy curtain of water, he guessed Miss Blair would arrive at her home completely dry.
Clio didn’t immediately return home. She waited for Grey to climb into his carriage before looping back to Viscount Beachley’s mansion and knocking smartly on the servants’ door.
Miss Sanders answered, her eyes again growing large. Perhaps she needed spectacles. ‘Miss Blair. I thought you were done with your interviews.’
Clio nodded. ‘Yes. I am. But I wondered if I might take another tour of the house. I wish to examine Lady Beachley’s sitting room. The last place they were together before he was found in the main hall.’
The maid’s brow lowered in confusion. ‘Is Lieutenant Grey not with you?’
‘Lieutenant General,’ she corrected. Not that it mattered. The maid could call him whatever she liked.
‘Er, yes. Well. Is he not—’
‘He had other business to attend. I shan’t be long, I promise.
’ Clio stepped inside, forcing the girl to step back.
Thank goodness it wasn’t the butler or Mrs Coggins who’d answered the door.
She would have had a much harder time brushing past them.
Nodding to the maid, she quickly made her way up the dark staircase that opened to the entrance of the home.
The last time she had been in the house alone, Sir Robin was on her shoulder.
She felt oddly vulnerable standing in the entry without his comforting weight.
But if she wanted to solve this case, she needed to convince Viscount Beachley that she was here to help him.
The only way to do that was finding the ghost. She might not have any other opportunities, so she couldn’t squander this one.
‘Come on, Clio. Be brave,’ she whispered as she walked down the hall to the room where she had her first and only vision of the viscount.
Stepping back inside, she looked around.
The sitting room was much as it had been before.
Walking to the couch covered in a delicate rose print, it was clear this space had been decorated with a feminine view.
She sat and ran her hands over the material. Nothing.
Standing, she walked to the corner where an easel was positioned to take advantage of the light from the window behind it.
Leaning closer, linseed oil and turpentine tickled her nose.
It was a portrait of what had to be Miss Anna.
Clio didn’t realise the viscountess was such a talented painter.
She had completed the eyes and soft curls, but the girl’s nose and cheeks were only faint sketches in charcoal.
Before she could reach out to touch the canvas, a vase fell from the mantel, crashing to the floor and shattering. She straightened and focused her gaze on the hearth. In the gloomy, late-morning light, there was a faint shimmer.
‘Viscount Beachley. Were you trying to get my attention?’ She moved away from the painting, slowly approaching the cold hearth. A thrill ran through her. Something sharper than excitement. ‘I was hoping you might pay me a visit.’
The shimmer grew darker, shadows and light playing off it until a hazy image appeared.
The viscount was taller than she expected.
His eye colour was impossible to discern as every feature was painted in varying hues of silver and grey, but they sparked with intelligence.
He had a strong jawline and thin lips. Even in death, his hair was meticulously combed.
Phantoms presented themselves the way they wished to be seen in life.
Beachley clearly cared about his appearance as every stitch of translucent clothing was pristine and neatly tucked, buttoned, and tied.
‘I’m here to help you, Lord Beachley. To find your killer and bring them to justice. ’
He reached out a ghostly hand. As Clio extended her own, their fingers brushed. It was like slipping one’s hand into a cold, rushing stream. The vision hit harder than she expected.
‘I don’t want him to come again. He isn’t helping her.
Anna is getting worse.’ Clio’s voice was once again the low timbre of Viscount Beachley.
Anger and fear rippled through him in equal measure.
She was standing in the centre of Lady Beachley’s bedroom.
The woman sat at her dressing table to Clio’s right, a hairbrush in her hand.
She wore a nightgown of cotton that buttoned all the way up to her throat.
Lamplight illuminated the spacious room decorated in green and gold.
Powder and peonies, a sickeningly sweet combination, had Clio’s belly roiling in an uneasy wave.
‘He’s highly regarded in the medical field. I won’t send him away because of your baseless accusations.’ Violet’s voice shook.
Clio strode closer to Lady Beachley, and the woman’s knuckles whitened around the silver brush handle. For a moment, Clio feared the viscountess might strike out and hit her husband with the makeshift weapon. It would leave more than just a red mark if she did.
‘My accusations come from your blatant disregard of our vows. I know what I saw when I walked into Anna’s room.
’ Fear and anger churned in Clio’s belly as Viscount Beachley leaned closer to his wife.
He wanted her to hit him. Wanted to feel the sharp bite of the silver brush cracking into his cheek.
Because it would remind him what was at stake.
Violet stood, her chest expanding and contracting with rapid breaths. ‘You saw a worried mother consulting with a talented physician about the health of her child. Nothing more.’
Viscount Beachley’s laugh nearly scorched Clio’s throat. ‘Do not play me the fool, Violet.’
‘Get out.’ Violet reached blindly behind her, grabbing a bottle and throwing it at Clio. Viscount Beachley ducked, and the glass shattered against the wall. Powder and peonies flooded the room. ‘Get out!’ Violet screamed again, this time finding a hatpin and wielding it like a dagger.
Clio stumbled back. Viscount Beachley kept a careful eye on the sharp tip of the hatpin, but his voice was steady.
‘He will not come into this house again. I will instruct the staff to bar his entrance. They will inform me if you try to subject our daughter to his dangerous medical experiments.’ Turning, Clio stiffened as the hatpin flew over her shoulder, clattering to the ground.
‘I hate you.’
Violet’s words echoed in her head as Clio slumped to the floor, nausea forcing her to curl into a ball.
‘Miss Blair!’
Blast!
It was the last possible voice she wanted to hear.
Lieutenant General Grey.