Chapter 1
“She says your real wife still lives here.”
The brass key became heavy in my hand.
Claribel stared at it.
Not at me.
Not at Elspie.
The key.
That told me where the truth was.
I looked toward the private-wing door.
“Which room?”
Elspie’s lips trembled.
“I don’t know.”
Claribel exhaled.
Too quickly.
Relief.
Then Elspie continued.
“My mother does.”
Gone.
Claribel reached toward the key again.
I closed my fist.
“No.”
Her hand stopped.
“Lachlan, this is absurd.”
“Then you have nothing to fear.”
She looked at me.
I had spent eight months engaged to that woman.
I knew her expressions.
I knew the smile she wore when bored, the one she used when lying politely, the one she gave older men she disliked.
I had never seen this one.
Panic controlled by training.
I turned to Elspie.
“Where is your mother?”
She pointed toward the private wing.
“Old linen room.”
My jaw tightened.
That room had no reason to be locked.
“Who put her there?”
Elspie looked at Claribel.
Enough.
I started walking.
Claribel caught my sleeve.
“Do not do this in front of guests.”
I looked down at her hand.
She released me.
Interesting priority.
Not:
The woman is confused.
Not:
Elspie is lying.
Not:
There is nobody inside.
Only:
Not in front of guests.
I handed the engagement reception to Rafe with one glance.
Doors stayed open.
Nobody trapped.
Nobody threatened.
But no one entered the private wing behind me.
Elspie came.
Claribel followed anyway.
At the linen-room door, the brass key fit.
One turn.
Inside sat an elderly woman wrapped in a housekeeping blanket.
Thin.
Exhausted.
Alert.
“Mother!”
Elspie dropped beside her.
The woman held her daughter’s face.
Then looked past her.
At me.
Her expression broke.
“Mr. Thornwick.”
“Agnes?”
I remembered her.
Agnes Merrivale.
My mother’s former seamstress.
She had worked in this house when I was young.
I thought she retired fifteen years ago.
She stared at Claribel.
Then at me.
“Don’t marry her.”
Claribel stepped forward.
“She’s confused.”
Agnes ignored her.
She pointed toward my closed east corridor.
“Seraphine is alive.”
My lungs stopped.
Seraphine Thornwick.
My wife.
Dead eleven years.
May you like
Agnes whispered:
“She’s been living behind that corridor for almost two years.”
