Chapter Fifteen
Mira paced before the fireplace in the library, occasionally glancing at the face of the ormolu mantle clock.
Twenty-six past nine.
Twenty-eight past nine.
Twenty-nine past nine.
Nicholas was not coming.
Mira sat on the edge of a ruby-velvet settee and leaned down to adjust her stocking. There was a definite wrinkle in the fine fabric, and, as she walked, the leather of her boots rubbed over it, abrading her ankle. It was a minor irritation, but she was not certain how long the walk to Dowerdu would take, and she did not want to have to limp home with an ugly blister on her foot.
“Ah, Miss Fitzhenry. Prowling the library again?”
Lady Beatrix’s voice, fine and brittle as porcelain, startled Mira, and she lost her balance and slid off the settee. She landed in a heap on the plush carpet, the skirts of her apple-green morning dress in a tangle around her knees.
“My dear,” Lady Beatrix breathed through a laugh, “are you quite all right?”
“Um, yes, my lady, indeed I am quite fine,” Mira stammered, struggling to right herself. As she endeavored to free her legs from their muslin bonds, she tried to explain away her clumsiness. “I did not hear you come in. I am afraid you startled me.”
“Of course, Miss Fitzhenry,” Beatrix responded, her voice still trembling with amusement. “I fear I have always been silent as a cat. Perhaps I should wear a bell?”
Lady Beatrix glided across the carpet, her carriage so regal Mira felt lumpish just looking at her. Beatrix came to stand directly over Mira’s struggling form. With the settee to her back and Beatrix right in front of her, Mira was effectively trapped, having no room to maneuver so she could pull herself upright.
Abruptly, Beatrix did away with the social niceties. “So, Miss Fitzhenry,” she said, suddenly sounding as serious as the grave, “what have you learned about our local scandal?”
A frisson of foreboding slithered down Mira’s spine. If Beatrix also suspected that her husband was the murderer, what might she do to protect him…and her own good name? A sudden image of Beatrix striking Bella flashed through Mira’s mind, and she lost her breath. Abandoning all pretense of grace or dignity, she clawed at the velvet upholstery of the settee until she managed to pull herself onto it. Quickly she stood, and sidled away from Beatrix.
“Um,” she responded, straining to keep her tone light, “nothing really, I’m sure. All three deaths were such tragedies, but it seems that they must forever remain mysteries.”
Beatrix was silent, her narrowed eyes fixed on Mira in a most unnerving manner. “Mmmm,” she murmured, her searching gaze never wavering.
“Well,” Mira said, “if you will excuse me, my lady, I was just about to take a short constitutional. After all the rain, I find I am a bit restless and could use the air.”
“Of course, Miss Fitzhenry,” Beatrix responded, a knowing smile tipping at the corners of her mouth. Without any further chitchat, Beatrix turned away and began to peruse a shelf of books as though she truly had come in search of something to read. Still, Mira could not shake the feeling that Beatrix had sought her out, that there was nothing at all casual about the encounter.
Mira glanced once more at the clock as she retrieved her green Kashmir shawl from the arm of the settee. Nine thirty-seven. Nicholas was definitely not coming.
With a smothered sigh, and a quick curtsy to Lady Beatrix’s back, Mira wrapped her shawl around her shoulders and hurried from the library.
Apparently she would have to find Dowerdu—and the truth—on her own.
Mira picked her way carefully along the uneven ground of the path to Dowerdu. The pathway ran perilously close to the cliff’s edge. Indeed, the pathway was really more of a wide ledge, with boulders and crags rising on the landward side to meet the moor above.
Morning sunlight threw the shadow of the land across the waves and boulders below. The cold wet breath of the sea sighed up from the depths and tickled her cheek. And to the west, a wall of dark cloud was building, its own shadow turning the water beneath it black as night. Now and again, a ragged gash of lightning would tear the thunderhead asunder. The contrast of the lightning in the distance with the sun shining overhead was eerie, and pushed her to hurry along her way.