Page 17

The footsteps paused on an uneven floorboard that James did not remember before and the door opened with an ungodly creak that recalled banshees of the Irish isle.

Pickett entered, visibly shivering in a threadbare sleeved waistcoat, so different from his typically impeccable attire.

“Good heavens, man. What the devil has happened to you, Pickett?”

“My lord?” the man appeared nonplussed, his nondescript features more sunken than usual.

“Never mind, get me dressed, Pickett.”

As Pickett proceeded to assist him in his toilette, James blinked several times as his normally perfectly starched shirtsleeves and cravat were not prepared. He must have imbibed far too much the previous evening and it was playing Hades with his grip on reality.

“Is Lady St. George still abed?”

She had returned, had she not? After they had left things the previous day, he feared that she might never return to Bailey Hall.

Go. Go back to London, James.

After everything he had done, he had not even honored her request. Perhaps he should leave at⁠—

“Yes, my lord, you know how she keeps ton hours even up here.” Pickett said, a trace of reverence that he never used for Mariah.

James paused in buttoning the woolen waistcoat that Pickett had just draped over his shoulders, his fingers hovering like bees over flowers.

Mariah never stayed abed, nor did she keep ton hours. Perhaps Pickett had at last discovered a sense of humor.

Yet, in all their years, when had that stoic man ever indulged in a jest?

Attempting to shake the disquiet that was spreading through his being like a scourge, James finished dressing with haste, then found his way to the breakfast room. Like his own chambers, the appearance was jarring, as if the room had not been maintained for some time. But that couldn’t be right, he had just breakfasted…the previous day? Why did it feel like ages before?

Because you crushed her dreams. You destroyed any faith in you she might have sowed.

At the thought of dreams, his gaze drifted to the spot where the portrait of Bedford Grange hung.

Which was now an empty space, with the faint ghost of an outline that suggested a painting had once lived there.

“Ellis!” James bellowed. While awaiting the arrival of the aged butler, he pressed his palms against his eyes, desperately seeking to summon a measure of sobriety.. He did not bellow at servants. While his parents were typical aristocrats, they had taught him to treat servants with respect and dignity. His father had always been a gentleman’s gentleman.

“My lord?” Like Pickett, the butler appeared a more meager version of himself, his face equally sunken as if his portions of food had shrunk substantially.

“What the hell is going on here?” James muttered under his breath before he gestured toward the wall. “Where the devil is the painting?”

“The painting, my lord?” The elderly butler remained impassive, as though he were long accustomed to James’s sudden outbursts of temper. James slowly lowered his hand, a flush of irritation warming his neck as he realized he was behaving in a manner far beneath his usual conduct with the staff. He found himself oddly resentful of Ellis for having the power to make him feel like a blustering bully.

“The painting of my family at Bedford Grange. With my parents and Lionel. It always hung right there.” He pointed to the corner of the room, feeling every bit like a tattling child.

“Oh, yes, Lady St. George sold it.”

James dropped the tea he had begun to pick up, scalding his hand in the act.

“Blast it.”

Ellis made no move to aid him, which was again strange for a butler he had known since childhood.

Blowing on his hand, James glared at the butler. “She would not do that.” No matter how angry Mariah was with him, it was not in her nature to be vindictive in such a way. From the expression on her face the previous day, she was intimately acquainted with the sting of shattered dreams. If only he knew what her dreams were… “And besides,” James went on, cupping his scalded hand, “it’s not as if the painting is a genuine Turner, I cannot believe it would go for much.”

The butler’s sunken eyes darted over James’s shoulder. “I believe she sold it for the frame, my lord. I do not know what became of the portrait.”

“The frame…” James murmured, not comprehending.