“Perhaps I am wrong about her. Although…” She sighed and dropped her gaze. Her smile slipped a little.
“Although what?”
Looking uncharacteristically uncertain, Mrs. Essex glanced back up. “She was in the gallery the other night.”
“And?”
“She wanted to see your wife’s portrait.”
Numbness, starting at his fingertips, spread up his arms and reached inside his chest. “Curiosity is a natural thing.” His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“I don’t think she will relent until she has all the answers.”
His jaw tightened and his teeth clenched. “What answers?”
Mrs. Essex drew back, visibly surprised. “Forgive me. It is a sensitive subject and I… I did not mean to overstep.”
“You should go.” He knew his voice was harsh and he knew he was being unfair when all she was trying to do was help him, to warn him.
Something disturbing flickered within her blue eyes. There, then gone. She’d composed herself completely. Her smile was back in place. “Very well, my lord. I shall leave you to ponder your decision.”
Randolph leaned back in his chair and did precisely that. Angelica was inquisitive and direct. She liked to know things and if she suspected there might have been foul play involved in his wife’s death, she’d want to look into it. She’d want to know every detail.
Steepling his fingers, he considered the possible dilemma she posed. If she were his wife, would she stand by his side and protect his secrets, or turn him in for murder?
A gentle knock at the door drew him out of his reverie.
“Enter!”
It was she. The woman who filled his every thought, the one he wanted to make his own. He stood in order to greet her.
“Angelica. Is everything all right?”
She looked strange. There was a haunted look about her, an eerie disquiet.
“Where’s your wife’s portrait?” Her voice was precise, calm, completely at odds with her expression. “It is not in the gallery. I’ve already looked.”
His gut roiled with ominous concern. Every muscle in his body tightened to the point of snapping. “Why do you ask?” He ground out the words without any finesse.
“Because I want to see it.” She glared at him, her eyes hard and determined.
Randolph tried to breathe. He tried to tamp down the rising panic. Each thump of his heart sent a painful jab straight through his chest. “It’s in the attic,” he managed. “I packed it away for a reason.”
“Because her death broke your heart.” He almost laughed. Yes, it had broken his heart all right, though not for the reason she thought but rather for countless others. “It must have been terribly difficult,” she continued, “but it wasn’t your fault. It was—”
“Stop.” He couldn’t bear anymore. “Is seeing the portrait a stipulation?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He didn’t understand her reasoning, but it hardly mattered, did it? If seeing Katrina’s likeness was what it would take, then so be it. He grabbed an oil lamp and lit it. The flame lurched to life. “Come with me.”
For reasons she could not begin to fathom, Angelica sensed she was pushing the bounds of what Randolph was willing to accept on her account. It made sense, she supposed. If he’d loved Katrina as much as she thought he had, then her death must have been truly devastating. Just the thought of her out there alone, freezing to death while he remained ignorant, unable to help. It must have been awful.
But after her vision, for she knew not what else to call it, she wished to look upon the face of the woman who’d been so dear to him. She wasn’t sure what she hoped to accomplish by it, but perhaps the painting would offer some insight. Maybe seeing Randolph’s wife would let her know whether the woman was seeking her help or attempting to chase her away.
A shudder scraped her spine. She didn’t believe in ghosts but neither could she explain the strange encounters she’d been having or why no one else felt or saw the same things she did. Angelica glanced over her shoulder. The candles in the wall sconces flickered. Icy air curled around her ankles. Oblivious, Randolph marched ahead with clipped footsteps. His posture was rigid and utterly devoid of the warmth he’d shown toward her during the previous days. If anything, his demeanor was wrought by a carefully held control she feared might turn into full-blown anger if she wasn’t careful. Her heart beat faster, not so much with the fear of the unknown this time but because she worried that being alone with this man might be very unwise.
“Perhaps we should do this some other time,” she tried. “My mother ought to come with us. Or Lucy.”
Ignoring her, he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked a door at the end of the hallway. “I want this over and done with.” The door opened with a creak to reveal a winding stone staircase. Randolph waited. He arched a brow. “Well?”
“I, um…” She looked around to make sure no one watched.
“It won’t take long. If anyone chooses to search for you, you’ll merely tell them you went exploring. It is a large house after all.”
“Yes. I suppose it is.”
When she still didn’t budge he leaned forward. “This was your idea. You insisted I show you the portrait.”
“Of course.” She didn’t like his tone or the way he acted. It was menacing. Harsh. The opposite of what she wished in a husband. But since he did have a point and she wasn’t the sort to back down, she stepped forward into the stairwell.
A musty smell filled her nose. The door clicked shut. Randolph’s large, imposing body warmed her back. Lifting the hem of her skirt so she would not trip, she started up the stairs. The soles of their shoes scraped the edge of each step. Their creeping shadows, pinned to the wall by the oil lamp’s light, were unnaturally tall, willowy shapes that would feel right at home in one of those gothic novels she favored.
Angelica winced but kept going. She’d asked for this. The time for playing the coward was long gone now. Oh, if only she could trade places with Lady Seraphina. A sprained ankle and plenty of bed rest seemed like heaven compared with facing the mysteries of Colchester Hall while being subjected to Randolph’s temper.
They reached the top and moved forward, away from the stairs and across rough, un-sanded floorboards. The wood creaked loudly beneath their feet while the flickering flame from the lamp danced across the underside of the roof. Angelica looked up, impressed by the intricate, interconnected joists and rafters. The light faded and she realized Randolph had left her behind. She quickened her pace, weaving her way between boxes, crates, and the odd piece of furniture.
There he was, just up ahead. Angelica’s heart leapt. She could feel the darkness trying to catch her – the cold that started below in the hallway increasing its hold. Her teeth began to chatter. She folded her arms across her chest, hugging herself. Of course there would be no heat up here. They were practically out of doors. But what surrounded her was something deeper, stronger, a bleak desperation shrouded in ice.
“Here it is.” Randolph spoke, his voice oddly detached.
Angelica moved to his side. He held the lamp high so the light fell directly upon a rectangular object. It sat on the floor, leaning against a post. A sheet was draped over it, not with care but with what appeared to have been a hasty attempt at concealment.