10. Chapter 10
As I put on my makeup the next morning, I felt lighter than I had in weeks.
I bit my lip in a futile attempt to keep my silly grin from messing up my makeup, but it was no use.
I couldn’t put on eyeliner when my eyes crinkled from smiling, so I gave up and put on a vintage Emilio Reton sweater dress with suede boots and stepped out of my room.
Jack waited for me in the hall, looking amazing in perfectly fitted jeans and a sweater. I resisted the urge to step into his arms, reminding myself that last night was the exception and that he was still off limits.
He pushed off the wall and walked with me when I entered the hall. “I had a great time last night,” he said.
“So did I. Maybe I’ll give you another night off sometime soon.”
He smiled and my heart did a little flip. I took a deep breath, trying to calm myself. This was just a little diversion that couldn’t go anywhere. There was no way for me to know if Jack’s feelings were real, no way to fully trust him. I’d thought Winston loved me, but I’d been wrong.
The light feeling in my chest disappeared, replaced by a familiar heaviness.
There. Now I was being real with myself.
I could flirt with Jack, maybe even kiss him a few times, but I would not let him fool me into believing that he actually wanted me for me.
He wanted my money or my body or my popularity.
Well, maybe not the latter. My reputation was definitely at a low point.
Jack nudged my shoulder gently with his. “You okay? You seem quiet.”
I gave him one of my disarming smiles. “I’m good. I was thinking about the reporter from last night.”
Jack’s expression turned murderous. “Your security officer should have never let someone slip in the room without checking first. There’s no way that guy had access to the VIP lounge.
And even if Riley wasn’t out to hurt you physically, who knows what spin his article might have?
Your security needs to protect you from any harm, not just physical. ”
I let the warm feeling of being looked after wash over me. It felt so nice to be taken care of.
We rounded the corner and entered the dining room, where Charles addressed Darcy in an uncharacteristically serious voice.
“I have no interest in leaving Austen Heights until we’ve found out everything we can about patient zero.
If we could only figure out the cause—” He cut off whatever he’d been about to say when he saw me enter. “Ah, Caroline, good morning.”
I didn’t try to pry. I knew from experience that if he and Darcy were in full Mysterious-Royal-Business mode, I’d never get anything out of them.
Elizabeth entered the room and sat across from Darcy. “How is Jane this morning?” she asked.
“She’s well.” Charles smiled at her before shifting his gaze to Jack.
I couldn’t tell if it was suspicion or approval in his gaze, but it was definitely assessing, which meant his security officer had updated him on…
how the evening had gone. Just one more reason why I was unwilling to let Charles assign me a bodyguard—his men were all loyal to him.
Elizabeth straightened. “That’s excellent news. Will she be able to return home soon?”
“We’re making good progress on her healing, but I’m still not comfortable sending her home.” Charles ducked his head. I knew all of his tells and the head-ducking could only mean one thing—he was lying. Was he trying to prolong Jane’s stay at Netherfield?
Elizabeth sat back, a frown pulling at her lips, but was that a smile playing around Darcy’s ever-serious expression?
Almost as soon as Jack and I were seated, the footmen brought in steaming platters of eggs, sausage, and roasted vegetables. I sighed happily. Saturday brunch was one of my favorite times of the week.
“How is your design project going?” Darcy asked.
“It’s going well. Mrs. Ponvale has been easy to work with, and I’m quite happy about the progress I’m making.”
“I hope designing for her leads to more clients.”
“Me too,” I said. “I don’t have a backup plan if this interior design thing doesn’t work out.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Carl, there are plenty of things you could do,” Charles said. “You’re quite accomplished.”
Elizabeth leaned forward in her chair. “Caroline, I have to know. Where on earth did you get the nickname Carl?”
“According to Bingley family legend, Charles desperately wanted a little brother. When I was born, he refused to acknowledge that I was a girl and told everyone he had a little brother named Carl. The name stuck.”
We all laughed and Charles threw up his hands in surrender. “You can’t blame me, those girls had me surrounded.”
“I can empathize; I’m also surrounded by sisters, and their interference is one of the most aggravating kindnesses I deal with on a daily basis,” Elizabeth said. Her gaze darted to me, then away.
My stomach tightened at her accidental reminder of Louisa. Or was it accidental?
Elizabeth turned to Darcy, her hand gesturing in a too-animated way. “And did you hope for a brother and insist your sister be called George?”
“No, I was happy to have a sister. She’s a lot younger than me, so I suppose I was grateful to have a sibling at all. Georgiana is a sweet girl and very accomplished.”
“I keep hearing that word,” Elizabeth said. “But I have no idea what you mean when you say someone is ‘accomplished.’”
“It’s a compliment on how talented and clever someone is,” Charles said. “There are many people to whom I would apply the term.”
“Not me,” Darcy said. “I only know a few people who deserve the term. Maybe six.”
Elizabeth took a small sip of her orange juice. “And just what must one do to deserve it?”
I tried not to cringe at the memory of the exhaustive lessons and tutors I’d been subjected to as a child.
“To really deserve the term, you have to excel in art, music, language, and culture. You need to have mastered your fae magic, and there has to be an air of refinement about you. A je ne sais quoi. ”
Elizabeth set her glass down on the table with a clink. “With a list of requirements like that, I’m surprised you know anyone who qualifies. I certainly don’t.”
Darcy leaned back in his chair. “So critical of your own circle of acquaintances, Lizzy?” He gave her one of his rare, amused smiles. He wasn’t one to smile out of courtesy, his expressions were always genuine. Elizabeth didn’t seem to notice.
She raised her chin. “I don’t believe such a person exists.”
Jack and I shared an amused glance.
I plucked a raspberry white chocolate chip muffin from a silver platter. “Elizabeth, I ran into someone from the Sanditon Chronicle last night. Do you know someone named Riley?”
Darcy stiffened.
“Yes,” Elizabeth said. “He’s a good reporter. And a good friend.”
“He barged into the VIP room at the club and took a photo of me. Do you know why he might have done that?”
“It sounds like he’s writing an article on you. I’ll talk to him, but if Maxine wants a story, there’s not much I can do to prevent it.”
“Do you think the story is about the murder?” Darcy asked.
“I don’t know,” Elizabeth said. “It could be about the disinheritance scandal.”
I didn’t know whether that should make me feel better or worse.
After breakfast, we went back to The Trinket Trove . The rain and wind had brought down almost all of the leaves, leaving the trees looking bare and a little sad. Jack was quiet for the drive, his posture tense.
Was he regretting our night at the club? I reached over and rested my hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay?”
He relaxed, rather than tensed, at the contact. “Yes. I’m just trying to focus before we go in there. We don’t know how Mr. McFarland is going to react when you confront him about Genevieve.”
I squeezed his shoulder. “I’ll be fine. Look how many people are here.” I gestured to the five cars in front of The Trinket Trove as I drove past, finding a parking spot a block away. “He’s not going to hurt me in front of so many witnesses.”
“He’s not going to hurt you at all,” Jack said, violence in his voice.
I tried not to preen at his protective tone. He was my bodyguard—he was supposed to be protective. I held my head high as we walked into the antiques store. I was not about to be intimidated by Reggie McFarland.
The store owner stiffened when he saw me. “You again,” he muttered. He clasped his hands together. “Are you here to sell me back my mirror?”
“I don’t have your mirror,” I snapped. “But I did find an interesting bit of information. The woman who died—Genevieve Charbonet—was your employee. “
His expression became carefully blank. Was he glamouring over his face so I wouldn’t see his reaction?
“What do you mean, you don’t have my mirror?” His voice was like ice.
I dropped my shoulders, letting him think I was intimidated. “Someone stole it the night Genevieve was murdered.”
Mr. McFarland cursed and Jack took a step closer to me, staring him down, a subtle growl rumbling in his throat. McFarland broke eye contact first. “She did work for me, but I had nothing to do with her death.”
“I didn’t say you did.” I kept my tone friendly, trying to put him at ease. “Do you know anyone who might have wanted to harm her?”
He crossed his arms. “If your thieving assistant hadn’t swindled me out of my mirror, I could have found that out. But since you have been completely uncooperative, I can’t help you.”
I placed both hands on the countertop. “I know you killed her. And I am going to prove it.”
He glared. “I know you have my mirror. And I will get it back.”
I spun on my heel and left The Trinket Trove , fuming all the way back to the car—but Jack’s steady presence beside me soothed my frustration and I was calm by the time I turned into Netherfield’s long driveway.
The enchanted trees lining the road still retained most of their vibrant leaves and the sun shone brightly.
I spent the rest of the day with Sydney as we scheduled work crews for the Ponvale project and finalized our choices for the design of Gladys’s home. Jack brought us takeout and worked on a laptop from the couch.
When we finally finished our tasks, it was just after 10:00 p.m. I offered Sydney a guest room for the night, but she said she’d prefer to go home. Jack and I said goodnight to her and trudged up the stairs. I stifled a yawn. Last night’s clubbing had caught up with me.
I paused in front of my bedroom door, not sure whether I was hoping Jack would kiss me or not.
“Goodnight, Caroline.” He sauntered to his room and I unabashedly watched him walk the length of the hallway before entering my own room.
I shut my door firmly behind me and slipped into a pair of comfy, silk pajamas.
I considered foregoing my evening skincare routine in favor of more sleep, but I knew I wouldn’t sleep well unless I did.
So I dutifully washed and moisturized my face.
When I was finished, I slipped into bed, anticipating that I would fall instantly asleep. But my alert mind refused to quiet. My thoughts drifted from Jack, to Louisa, to the murderer, and back to Jack again. Netherfield tried to help me out. A warm rice bag appeared under my sheets.
“Thanks,” I whispered to the house, burrowing my feet under the heat.
“Maybe next you could help me catch the murderer. Or figure out how to keep my hands off of my hot bodyguard.” Netherfield’s response was a cold glass of water.
I laughed as I sipped it, feeling better.
As eager as I was to be independent of Charles’s generosity, I loved this sentient house.
I settled back into my fluffy pillows, but a loud creak had me sitting back up in bed, heart racing.
Netherfield had created a new door in my room, and it stood ajar.
Muttering about helpful houses, I slipped my feet into the fuzzy slippers and robe that it provided. If Netherfield was going to lead me around in the night, at least it did so in comfort. I tiptoed through the door and down a long corridor lit with little faerie lights.
A wooden door stood at the end of the corridor. I quietly opened it and peered around the room. What was Netherfield trying to show me? A window provided just enough light for me to see a dresser, nightstand, and bed where—mortification hit me like a wave as Jack sat up in the bed.
“Caroline?”
I cleared my throat. “Hey. Sorry, this house sometimes has a mind of its own and it led me down a passage. I swear I didn’t know it would lead to your room.”
He flipped on a lamp, giving me an unobstructed view of his rather impressive—and rather bare—chest, which he soon covered, pulling a T-shirt over his flannel pajama bottoms.
“Any idea why your crazy house might have sent you to my room at”—he glanced at the clock on his nightstand—“2:15 in the morning?”
I knew exactly why it had done it; this helpful house anticipated my every desire. But there was no way I was going to tell Jack that, so I shrugged.
“Who knows why the house does what it does?”
His expression turned mischievous but he apparently decided not to say whatever had him smiling, instead shaking his head. “I’ll walk you back to your room.”
“Okay.” I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. I hated feeling awkward above all other emotions, so I shoved my discomfort down deep and tossed my hair as I led him back through the corridor.
Jack followed me back the way I’d come and I pulled open the door to my room.
Only the passageway hadn’t led us back to my bedroom, it had led us to a large room with vaulted ceilings that had all the makings of a thrift store.
We walked past shelves stacked high with cracked teacups and torn throw blankets and toys with missing pieces.
The patina mirror stood in the center of the room. It hadn’t been stolen at all—it had been broken. And it had been in the Room of Broken Things all along.