“So you admit those women weren’t witches.”
“Seems doubtful, but that doesn’t mean witches don’t exist. Do I think a curse caused the Duke of Avebury to commit treason? Not really, but I believe your friend Kingston believes it.”
“And what if I told you the Duke of Carlisle has also written to me? He’s lost his country estate and his town house, the latter on his thirtieth birthday. King turned thirty the night the Lords found his father guilty of treason.”
“The curse mentions the age of thirty?”
Rory nodded.
“Could be coincidence.”
“What if I told you the day my wife and…” He cleared his throat. “The day Lady Emory died was my thirtieth birthday.”
Notley set down his fork and finished his wine. “I would say whatever you did to anger this witch, the punishment does not fit the crime.”
The two men were staring at each other when a tap sounded on the door. Rory jumped and almost knocked his wine over. “Devil take it,” he muttered. “Come.”
The door opened, and Miss Brooking peeked inside. He knew it was her before he even saw her face, as her bright hair preceded her. “My lord and Mr. Notley, Miss Lumlee wishes to say goodnight.”
Rory raised his brows and glanced at Notley. The other man shrugged. Clearly, he didn’t know what to do any more than Rory. “Er, come in?”
Miss Brooking opened the door wider, and his daughter entered, dressed in a frilly white robe and slippers. Her hair was still damp but pulled into a neat tail secured with a ribbon. She looked exactly as he’d always pictured his daughter. She even smiled at him. “Goodnight, Mr. Notley. Goodnight, Papa.” She gave a quick curtsey and turned to go.
Miss Brooking shook her head and twirled her finger, and the girl turned back to Rory. Head down, she trudged over to him. Rory watched with some amusement and fascination, having no idea what to expect now. Another curtsey? “Goodnight, Papa,” Frances said.
“Goodnight.”
Frances glanced at her governess again. “I am supposed to kiss your cheek,” she said quietly.
“Oh.” Rory was taken aback. “Do you, er,wantto kiss my cheek?”
“No.”
“Frances—” Miss Brooking began, but Rory held up a hand.
“How about a handshake?” He held out his hand. Frances looked at it for a moment then put her little hand in his. He pumped it lightly and looked into her eyes. “Goodnight, Frances. Sleep well.”
She pulled her hand away and ran back to Miss Brooking, who put an arm about her shoulders and ushered the girl out. “Goodnight, my lord. Mr. Notley,” she said, and closed the door. Rory couldn’t help but feel as though she were warning him that there had better not be a repeat of a few nights ago.
“I don’t envy your staying here,” Notley said.
“Why? You see the change in my daughter in only a couple of days. Miss Brooking is working miracles.”
“She’ll have you under her thumb in no time. I know her kind.”
Rory had never been under any woman’s thumb, not even Harriet’s when he was the most besotted with her. But the comment did make him remember his interaction with Genevieve in her mother’s garden and her requests. He still didn’t like the idea of his daughter wearing spectacles, but he didn’t see the harm in giving her a bottle of Harriet’s perfume. His former wife’s things had been packed away and put into the north attic when she died. After dinner, he took a lamp, opened the door to the musty stairs, and made his way up.
His family had not lived in this house for generations, so there were no centuries-old portraits or wardrobes filled with clothing from another era. This attic was the smaller of the two, the south attic being the larger and used as sleeping quarters for the footmen.
Rory hung his lamp on a hook and surveyed the space. A few paintings he had brought from London but decided not to hang leaned against one wall. A clock and a table Harriet hadn’t liked were on the other side. And pushed against the far wall was a large trunk—all that remained of Harriet in the house. Most of her things had been at the house in London. Rory couldn’t even be certain he’d find more than a few hats and aprons in the trunk, but he made himself move forward and open it anyway.
As he’d expected, large-brimmed hats, good for keeping the sun off the face, were on top. Under those were aprons one might wear when gardening. He lifted them out and set them carefully aside. Below those were what looked like gowns. He recognized one of them, a blue garment that had always made her eyes look beautiful. He reached down and lifted it as well, and the scent of her wafted up to meet him. For a long moment, he was immobile, awash in memories, good and bad. He could remember burying his face in her hair and the scent of hersurrounding him. He could also remember the way she sneered at him and slammed a door, leaving her scent trailing behind as she sauntered away.
He did not find any bottles of perfume, but he did find a stack of four handkerchiefs. He lifted those to his nose and sniffed. Many women perfumed their handkerchiefs so they might block out unpleasant odors if necessary. These still retained the scent of Harriet and her perfume. He set them aside and began piling the other items back in the trunk. When he lifted the blue gown again, something thudded onto the floorboards, and he moved aside to better see what had fallen.
It was a simple gold chain with a cut sapphire dangling at the end. He’d bought it for her as a wedding present because he thought the gem matched her eyes. She’d seemed almost offended by the gift, intimating that what he had seen as a delicate, lovely piece was small and a poor show of his affection for her. Looking back now, Rory realized that was the first time he had a glimpse of the real woman he’d married. The next would come in bed on the wedding night, when his very touch seemed to repulse her.
He pocketed the necklace and shoved the rest of Harriet’s things back in the trunk. Then he closed the lid, lifted the handkerchiefs, and made his way back down the stairs. The necklace he put on a table in his bedchamber. He would save it for Frances when she was a few years older. But he would not have the scent of Harriet in his room. He gave the handkerchiefs to Gables and asked him to wrap them in tissue and place them in a wooden box to be delivered to the nursery with Frances’s morning meal.
