The door creaked open only seconds later, revealing?—
Not the duke.
The person looking out was a servant, though not a butler. Rather,a woman, and judging by her serviceable gown and apron, a housekeeper. Stout and stern, with a kerchief tied tight about her hair, the older woman frowned at Rosamund as though she were a nuisance peddler.
She offered no greeting, her stare as formidable as the door she guarded.
“Um… hello.” For a moment, the words Rosamund had rehearsed in her mind escaped her. “My name is Miss Rosamund Belle.” Her mother’s maiden surname—easier all around for no one to know who her family was. “I am here to meet with the Duke of Bexley, if you please.”
“His Grace does not receive visitors.”
“But I am not just any visitor,” Rosamund said, forcing some steel into her voice. “I am a… a writer. And I have a proposition for His Grace.”
“He isn’t interested.”
The woman’s stubbornness did not deter Rosamund, rather the opposite.
“I think,” Rosamund persisted, “he’ll want to decide for himself.”
Cool blue eyes narrowed as she studied Rosamund. “What kind of business does a writer have with the duke? Nothing good, no doubt.”
“Oh, but it is—good, that is. I wish to tell his story, so that people might know the truth.”For his own protection.
Because presently, people feared him. And fear, in large enough amounts and pointed in the wrong direction, could very well turn dangerous.
The gossip being bandied about in the village, horrid rumors, were obviously built upon baseless speculation.
“His Grace isn’t interested in telling stories.”
Rosamund folded her arms over her ample chest. “I must beg your pardon then, ma’am, but I’m not leaving until he tells me so himself.”
A stand-off followed, broken only by the restless stamping of Rosamund’s mare in the courtyard. But eventually, with a put-upon sigh, the housekeeper fully opened the door and stepped to the side. “Very well. But when he casts you out, do not say you weren’t warned.”
Rosamund let herself exhale. First hurdle, crossed.
The woman ushered her into a cavernous entrance hall where the air felt unnaturally still. A great chandelier hung up above, unlit and dull, its stem anchored at the center of an ornate rosette whose leafy patterns were echoed in the spiraling molding that extended across the ceiling. The few pieces of furniture and decor were shrouded in white sheets—all except for a single console table standing against the wall.
It was a simple thing, but in a room so lacking in color and warmth, the polished wood managed to catch her eye. A small glimmer of beauty amid the decay. The table’s surface was carved with vines and flowers, and her fingertips itched to reach out and trace the lines.
Above the table, however, a large ghostly sheet had been draped over whatever was hung on the wall.
If she were to guess, it hid not a portrait, but a looking glass.
Her throat tightened. The stories of his disfigurement must be true, otherwise, why would he cover his reflection?
The housekeeper, saying nothing, swept her along until they reached the drawing room. Inside, the furnishings were covered, the draperies drawn against the dimming light. Dust swirled in the air as the housekeeper yanked the cloth from a solitary chair with a grudging snap.
“Not like we were expecting guests.” She gestured stiffly. “You may sit and wait here.”
The housekeeper did not look back as she left, the latch clicking shut behind her.
Rosamund remained standing a moment longer than necessary. Then—carefully—she lowered herself onto the very edge of the chair, her weight balanced, her spine held rigid. She tested it the way one tested thin ice.
She remembered too well the sharp crack of one of her mother’s chairs giving way beneath her, the stunned silence that followed, the way refinement had suddenly revealed itself as something brittle and unkind.
This chair… did nothing at all.
No creak. No ominous shift. The legs remained firm beneath her.