"It's lovely," Evangeline said with genuine gratitude. "Thank you for your thoughtfulness."
Mrs. Cromwell's stern features softened slightly. "Her late Grace was particular fond of this room. She said it caught the morning light just so. I thought, well, I thought you might appreciate the view of the rose garden come morning."
"I'm certain I shall." Evangeline moved to the window, but the glass reflected only her own pale face against the darkness beyond. "Mrs. Cromwell, might I ask what manner of man is His Grace? I confess myself somewhat apprehensive about our meeting tomorrow."
The housekeeper was quiet for a long moment, her weathered hands smoothing imaginary wrinkles from the counterpane. When she spoke, her voice carried the careful neutrality of a servant who had learned to guard her tongue.
"His Grace is a complicated gentleman, miss. The war changed him, as it changed many a good man. He's not the laughing boy who left here all those years ago." She paused, seeming to weigh her words. "But he's not without honour, for all his troubles. And he's been most particular about your comfort and safety."
It was a diplomatic answer that revealed little while confirming much. Evangeline found herself wondering what secrets lay behind the housekeeper's careful phrases, what truths about her mysterious benefactor were too dangerous or too painful to speak aloud.
"Thank you, Mrs. Cromwell. Your honesty is appreciated."
"I'll have Mary bring up a tray directly, miss. You'll want to build up your strength for tomorrow." The housekeepermoved toward the door, then paused. "Miss Hartwell? His Grace doesn't much like surprises these days. Quick movements, loud noises—they don't sit well with him. Best to announce yourself when entering a room, and speak clearly so he knows you're there."
The warning sent a chill down Evangeline's spine. What manner of man required such careful handling? What demons pursued the Duke of Ravenshollow through the halls of his ancestral home?
After Mrs. Cromwell departed, Evangeline found herself alone in the rose-colored chamber, listening to the silence that seemed to press against the windows like a living thing. Somewhere in this vast, decaying mansion, a beast waited, a man described by his own servants in terms more suited to a dangerous animal than a peer of the realm.
She moved to the writing desk and withdrew her father's hidden papers, spreading them beneath the lamplight. Perhaps somewhere in these cryptic military documents lay the key to understanding the debt that had brought her to this forsaken place. But as she studied the incomprehensible notations and foreign phrases, she felt only a growing sense of isolation and dread.
Tomorrow she would meet the Duke of Ravenshollow, the man who held her future in his scarred hands. Tonight, she could only sit in her rose-colored prison and wonder whether her father's final gamble would prove her salvation or her doom.
Outside the windows, the Yorkshire wind howled across the moors like the voices of the restless dead, and Evangeline Hartwell prepared to discover what manner of beast waited to claim his debt of honor.
Chapter Three
Morning came grey and cheerless to Ravenshollow Hall, seeping through the tall windows of the Rose Chamber like weak tea through muslin. Evangeline woke to the sound of rain pattering against the glass and the distant cry of ravens wheeling above the moors. For a moment, in that space between sleep and waking, she forgot where she was. Then reality crashed over her like a cold wave, and she remembered: Yorkshire. The Duke. Her uncertain future stretching ahead like an uncharted wilderness.
She had slept poorly, her dreams plagued by shadows and whispered warnings. Even now, in the pale light of dawn, the chamber that had seemed so welcoming the evening before, felt somehow oppressive, as though the very walls were watching her with invisible eyes.
A soft knock at the door interrupted her brooding. "Come in," she called, pulling her wrapper more securely about her shoulders.
A young maid entered, perhaps sixteen years of age, with nervous brown eyes and work-roughened hands. She bobbed a curtsey that spoke of careful training but little practice with titled guests.
"Begging your pardon, miss," the girl stammered. "I'm Mary. Mrs. Cromwell sent me to help you dress and to tell you that His Grace will receive you in the library at ten o'clock."
The formal phrasing sent another chill through Evangeline. She was to be "received," like a petitioner seeking an audience with a monarch. "Thank you, Mary."
The maid's eyes remained downcast as she moved about the room with practiced efficiency. "Mrs. Cromwell also says I'm to show you about the house a bit, if you have a mind for it. It shall help you get your bearings."
"That would be most helpful." Evangeline rose and moved to the windows, drawing back the heavy curtains to reveal the view that Mrs. Cromwell had promised. What she saw made her catch her breath, though not entirely with pleasure.
The gardens of Ravenshollow Manor stretched before her like a monument to departed glory. Once, they must have been magnificent—she could see the bones of formal parterres and elaborate topiary work, the ghost of what had been a spectacular rose garden. But neglect had claimed them as surely as it had claimed the house itself. Weeds choked the flower beds, ivy smothered the carefully shaped hedges, and the fountains stood dry and cracked, their marble nymphs stained green with moss.
Beyond the gardens, the Yorkshire moors rolled away to the horizon, vast and empty beneath the grey sky. It was a landscape that spoke of isolation and wildness, a place where civilization felt tenuous at best. She could understand how a man might lose himself in such surroundings, might forget the world beyond these windswept hills.
"It was beautiful once," Mary said softly, following her gaze. "My grandmother worked here when the old Duke was alive. She said the gardens were the finest in all Yorkshire, with roses that bloomed from May till October."
"What happened to them?"
Mary's face grew troubled. "His Grace well, he does not much care for such things anymore. He claims flowers are meant for the dead, not the living."
The morbid sentiment sent another shiver down Evangeline's spine. What manner of man dismissed beauty so categorically? What depths of despair had driven him to such darkness?
After Mary helped her dress in her most presentable black gown—a modest creation that nonetheless emphasized her slender figure and the pale perfection of her skin—they set out toexplore the inhabited portions of Ravenshollow Manor. The tour proved both fascinating and deeply unsettling.
The house was a labyrinth of corridors and chambers that seemed to stretch endlessly in all directions. Much of it stood empty, with dust sheets draped over furniture like burial shrouds and paintings turned to face the walls as though the very sight of them caused pain. Entire wings appeared to be closed off, their doors locked and their windows shuttered against the light.