Chapter 1
The eyes that watched her from the walls did not seem of this world.
Candlelight flickered over the painted features, the pallid morning light unable to cast away the shadows crawling up the deep green wallpaper of the drawing room.
Artwork lined almost every inch of available surface, the quivering light dancing over the thick, smooth paint.
The vibrant colors seemed to ripple in the confines of their gilded frames, the figures within as if inching closer to their beholder, drawn by the force they no longer possessed.
Life.
Phaedra had seen the article in the newspaper the year before, the engraving of the fiery devastation shocking in its horrid detail.
But to witness the wreckage in person had been something else entirely.
She remembered how her steps had halted after alighting from the carriage, the sight before her stealing the very breath from her lungs.
Brackenhurst Hall had sat imposing and grim against the softness of its surroundings, the flanking woods fading into morning mist, the ground giving way to soft gray clouds as it dove off into the cliffs beyond.
But it had not been the estate’s austere beauty that had made her pause, nor the chill in the early spring air that had sent a shiver down her spine, but the jagged remains of the manor’s west wing, staring back at her, black and crumbling.
It had resembled a wound, dark and festering, its edges bleeding into the pale gray stone of the central block, the contrast almost vulgar in its intensity.
And when she had finally gathered the fortitude to move her feet once more, she had found that the eeriness of the house had not ceased with its exterior.
Phaedra’s eyes moved over the crowded wall before her, wondering if it was merely her imagination that lengthened the shadows around her.
If it was but her knowledge of the transpired tragedy that gave the gloom its weight to push down on walls and furniture and people, as if yearning to bend everything in sight. As if it had a—
She started as the door scraped open behind her, the sound jarring against the preceding silence.
“I apologize to have kept you waiting, Mr. Mercer! I hope—”
The words halted a tact before the footsteps, and Phaedra bit down on the spark of amusement tugging at her lips. It felt as if it could push back against the shadows, slowing the spreading chill in her body, and she turned around to face the man who had just entered.
He stared at her in apparent and very understandable confusion.
Although Phaedra had seldom found herself in such a case—indeed she had made sure she rarely needed to—the situation would always unfold a certain way.
She would return the greeting, then proceed to explain herself, making light of the misunderstanding—or rather misdirection—of her identity.
But this time, her own practiced words stilled as she beheld the new master of the house.
Nathaniel Hawthorn was young, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four years of age, tall and trim, and dressed in a dark suit that contrasted the golden tresses of his hair.
The green of his eyes was striking, even at a distance.
Yet it was not this, nor the ghastly paleness clouding his handsome features that arrested her words, but the almost astounding likeness to the man in the paintings around her.
A dead ringer for his father.
A thrill rushed down her spine, leaving behind dark tendrils easing into her veins.
They stared a moment, each transfixed by the other, then it was Nathaniel who found his words first.
“You must excuse me, Madam,” he said, bowing his head. “I was expecting…”
His words trailed off, uncertainty evident in every movement of his body. There was a rough timbre to his voice, like an instrument long unused, and he cleared his throat, setting off a bout of coughing.
Phaedra blinked, finally finding her own bearings. She waited for his fit to pass before stepping closer.
“Thank you, Mr. Hawthorn.” She clasped her hands in front of her. “But there is no need to apologize. In fact, I believe I am the one who owes an explanation.”
He looked at her then, waiting, his one hand twirling a signet ring on the other, and Phaedra found herself wondering if this clear sign of his disquiet was because of her or the ring that still must have felt like new on his finger. The dark circles under his eyes pointed to the latter.
She pulled in a breath before continuing.
“You were correct in expecting the painter P. D. Mercer in your drawing room. And by now, you are probably wondering if you have indeed ever heard the artist’s full name, or perchance seen a portrait of them in the paper.
I can assure you, you have not. And that is so by design. ”
His pale brows pulled together, his question more a statement. “You are P. D. Mercer?”
“I am. Phaedra Daphne Mercer.”
Although there was no challenge in her voice, his brow cleared, his gaze dropping to his entwining hands.
“I… see,” he said. “I apologize, I simply assumed…” He trailed off again, the struggle to find his words seemingly flustering him.
“Most everyone does.” Phaedra smiled, then raised an eyebrow. “Will this be a problem?”
“No!” he exclaimed, his eyes flashing to hers. Then he halted for a beat, as if the outburst had startled him just as it did her. “No,” he repeated, his tone more collected this time, “not at all. I was merely… taken by surprise.”
“Good,” she said, pleased. “I’d hoped my journey had not been in vain. It is not often I find myself so far removed from where I normally conduct my business.”
She surveyed him a moment, noting the becoming tinge of rose in his pale cheeks. It almost seemed as if the child he had been not so long ago had managed to peer through.
“Your letter was vague,” she said at last.
“Yes,” he said, straightening, the shifting of the topic finally dispersing his nervous state.
“I do apologize for that. It is merely that the nature of my request is somewhat…” He nodded his head to the side.
“Unusual. Therefore I would have preferred to discuss it in person. I appreciate you coming on such short notice. I know you are very sought after.”
It was actually her work that was sought after, but Phaedra did not correct him.
Instead, she gave him a smile. “I must admit, I was intrigued. I could not imagine why you would have need of a painter.” Right now were the words she did not add.
But then she paused, brows furrowing. “You do wish to commission a painting?”
“I do.” He nodded, his eyes sliding to the wall behind her. “A series of paintings, in fact.”
Something stirred in the vivid green of his gaze, but before Phaedra could decipher its meaning, he walked up to the display of canvases, his hands clasped tight behind his back.
There was a faint scent of leather and smoke as he passed her, and Phaedra could not hold back the unfurling notion that he was but an illusion of her mind.
Nothing more than a specter of the past, forever haunting the place of his fiery demise.
She let out a silent breath, waiting for the image to pass.
Although the emergence of such grim musings could very well be explained by the uncanny similarity between the two men—the one dead, and the other very much alive—she could still sense the dark delight lurking just beneath the surface of her mind.
The pull that could wrap around her limbs in coiling vines to drag her down into the murky depths of her own morbid fascinations.
She inhaled slowly, willing her mind to come to rest, before turning to follow Nathaniel.
He stood before one of the larger paintings, a family portrait done in bright, airy colors.
The mother and father sat in the middle of the frame on a plush velvet sofa, the left hand of the woman lifted and pressed to the lips of the man close beside her.
His eyes were intense, the green of his irises burning with adoration.
She, in turn, looked almost bashful, her gaze downcast, her shoulders pulled up to hide the blossoms soon to appear on her face.
And before them on the carpet sat two small children playing, oblivious to the world around them.
Phaedra tilted her head, the composition somehow strange, bringing to mind mirrors and reflections, and things that were hidden in plain sight. But before she could grasp what exactly had conjured up these associations, Nathaniel spoke again.
“As you can see,” he motioned to the multitude of frames lining the walls, “my family is a great admirer of the arts. Or rather… was.” He paused, surprised once more by his own words.
He pulled in a breath, his lips tilting into the mockery of a smile.
“You must excuse me. I sometimes… forget myself.”
“Of course,” she said, yet she could not help but wonder if it was irritation or grief that trembled through his voice. She imagined it might even have been both.
Phaedra did not often find herself pitying the wealthy—especially the ones born into it—but there was something about the suddenness of the tragedy and the consequent responsibility falling on this young man’s shoulders that sent a pang of sympathy through her.
After all, he barely had time to mourn his family before the burden of his inheritance was thrust upon him.
Along with the expectations, scrutiny, and undeserved cruelty of the public.
“It is understandable,” she added. “I am truly sorry for your loss.”
He nodded, his teeth raking over his bottom lip. “Thank you.”
He turned from her then, moving down the wall, and she followed behind him, keeping her distance, her eyes wandering from frame to gilded frame, taking in the images depicted.