A Dreadful Splendor (47)

I placed my bag on the large circular table in the middle of the room. “The charade has arrived,” I announced.

He turned around and gave me a confused glance. “Were you affronted by my choice of words? You know it’s imperative for me to keep up the appearance of being reluctant to participate.”

“Yes, my lord,” I said, taking out my candles and laying them one by one on the table. “The effect will be all that much greater.”

He picked up a candle and inspected it. “The title is unnecessary. You may call me Gareth.”

I wasn’t aware of anyone calling him by his first name, even Dr. Barnaby. I stayed quiet, even when he looked at me expectantly. Then I finally said, “And you may call me Miss Timmons.” I waited to see his reaction.

To my surprise, he chuckled dryly.

I smiled. “And was that remark about dancing a veiled jest for my benefit?”

He handed me back the candle. The tips of his fingers brushed against mine. “You can hardly expect me to be as accomplished a liar as yourself, Miss Timmons. I was merely stating a fact. If you read anything more into it, I would suggest the desire was on your part.”

“Desire?” I huffed, hating how warm my neck felt. I turned my back and pretended to fuss with my bag. I took out the ghost book and placed it gently on the table. “You were teasing me; don’t deny it,” I said over my shoulder. “I saw you grinning into your soup as you said it.”

“With all these questions about dancing, one might suspect you’re asking for a lesson.”

I froze. Surely, this was a jest. I tucked a loose curl behind my ear. “You enjoy teasing spiritualists on their lack of social graces, don’t you?” Despite enormous effort and concentration, my voice quivered. I turned around, expecting to find him helping himself to a cup of tea and sandwich. Instead, he stood tall and inviting, one hand stretched out to me.

“I never joke about dancing, Miss Timmons.” There was barely the hint of a smile, but his blue eyes had the softest expression. A million heartbeats elapsed between us. Then he said, “All you have to do is take a step forward.”

It was true. One step and I’d be in his arms. I had the feeling of falling, like my chest was leaning toward him, but my legs would not work. Maybe it was guilt keeping me in place.

The door to the library opened unexpectedly. “Forgive me, my lord, but there’s a . . .” Mrs. Donovan halted midsentence, taking us in. She was as still and judgmental as a lurking crow. Confu sion and anger fought for purchase across her expression before her usual glare slipped into place.

“I gave instructions we were not to be disturbed,” Mr. Pemberton said, his hand now by his side.

She gave a curt nod. “Mrs. Galloway has a question for you regarding the completed menu for Lady Audra’s celebration-of-life party. In addition, the head groomsman requests your presence at the stables at your earliest convenience.” Then she trained her eyes on me. “Everything to your liking, Miss Timmons?”

“I require nothing at the moment, thank you,” I answered, hoping she would have no excuse to linger. I was certain snakes would pour out of her mouth if she said another word.

With a bow to the room, she turned in place and closed the door behind her. I whispered a sigh of relief under my breath. But the interruption had changed the air of the room. Without realizing it, I had stepped away from him.

The unscripted delight of possibility had been replaced with caution and doubt. How foolish was I for even entertaining the notion of being a proper dance partner? He was only seeing how far the joke would go, I’m certain. There was only one reason I was at Somerset.

Mr. Pemberton picked up the ghost book, flipping it over in his hands, inspecting it.

“Please be careful,” I said, taking it from him. “The pages are slate. I’ll show you how it works, but you must be patient.”

“My apologies.” He put up his hands as if surrendering. “May I ask a question instead?”

“Of course.”

“Timmons is an interesting name for someone who has a French accent.”

“That’s not a question. And no, I don’t.”

“Yes, you do. It’s not always there, but it surfaces with certain phrases.” He needlessly touched the candles lying in a row on the table, making minute adjustments. “Usually when you talk of death.”

“My mother was French,” I replied. “If there is anything about me that reminds you of France, it is from her. I’ve never been there.” I tried to answer succinctly, hoping he couldn’t hear the secret sadness in my voice. I snuck a glance at the tray of sandwiches, the aroma of roast chicken reaching my nose. My stomach had settled enough to realize it had missed lunch. My body was growing used to the regular meals.

“Would you like to go one day?”

I thought of the picture of Maman, posing in front of Notre Dame. “Yes,” I replied. He waited, as if expecting me to elaborate. “Why are you asking me this?” I asked.

“I understand that Spain is renowned for their magnificent stallions. I’ve sometimes considered if I might make a life there.” He absentmindedly twirled the gold ring. I had the notion he wanted to tell me more.

Instead, his gaze settled above the mantel, on the portrait of Audra’s grandfather, Lord Chadwick the third. His voice became cautious. “Sometimes I think this place is alive and everyone inside is dead.” He turned back to me. “Does that sound very morbid?”