Then Comes Murder

Dancing with Devils (part three)

Leverett Hall, pale stone face gleaming in the weak afternoon light, stood at the end of the path as lovely and preserved as a pressed flower. Thirty-three windows glinted with the polish and effort of the thirty-three near-invisible servants who toiled behind its gates. The lawn was kept, the hedges trimmed, and even the wind seemed to obey some silent command to maintain quiet order. A pressed flower, Jacob decided, or perhaps a tomb.

He shifted in his seat. Charlie was snoring on his shoulder, oblivious to the dark restlessness that hung over his brother. Riding with his younger brother had seemed the easiest of evils. Fortunately, his father had left the night previous, thereby removing the hellish possible that they might have been forced to endure the other's company for the eight hour journey. George, Caroline, and Nora were in the front coach, likely disparaging him further.

He's dangerous...a terrible temper...the duke doesn't speak to him...

Though he didn't consider himself a saint by any measure of the word, Jacob had, miraculously, managed to bite back his tongue at that. The hot flicker of indignation had almost spurred him back into the yellow-walled room to explain the truth of the matter. The Duke of Ashurst was the monster, not him.

The coach shook. Charlie muttered something that sounded suspiciously like 'Caroline,' so Jacob prodded him. His brother swatted away his hand sleepily and rolled to the other side. Jacob stretched the fingers of his freed arm.

Thankfully, he'd not barged into that room, proclaiming his innocence. Jacob could not explain why he cared that Lady Eleanor Fane know the truth. Perhaps it was the bright intelligence in her gray eyes, or that she did not measure men by titles and legacy. He certainly could not measure her by title and legacy, and he realized he admired her all the more for it. Between heartbeats, those midnight fantasies shifted. Jacob ran a hand through his hair. In addition to its more sinful uses, he imagined that full-lipped mouth pursed in contemplation, tilted in laugher.

There is no chance of me finding happiness with Lieutenant Thornton-Spencer.

He'd left at that.

The truth did not matter.

Guilt and anxiety, their dark poison, crept up his throat as the coaches slowed in the shadow of the ancient manor. It sent a chill down his spine.

I am not the monster, Jacob told himself silently.

Charlie stirred. Blinked.

"We're here already?" he asked, rubbing his eyes.

Mouth filled with bile, Jacob only nodded solemnly.

With a sweeping efficiency that marked all the servants employed to the duke, a dark-haired footman opened the coach door. Blinding sunlight spilled at their feet. Charlie moaned, and muttered something bit of prose about love and torture. Jacob didn't recognize the verse. With a determined swallow, he exited.

Though it seemed impossible, Carter and the small contingent of London servants had arrived ahead of their party and stood with the rest of the estate staff in a perfect line outside the manor. As Jacob approached, his chest still screaming to run for the woods, he nodded his head in jaw-clenched, but otherwise polite, greeting. The under-butler determinedly kept his gaze unfocused. The maids had eyes as round as saucers. Jacob frowned. This group of strangers had undoubtedly built his character on gossip and misremembered stories. Beyond Carter and the sad-eyed cook Mrs. Bell, the faces were unknown to Jacob.

That was until he met the eyes of the tall woman at the front of the ensemble. From the coach, he'd assumed the gaunt woman to be a housekeeper. Dressed in colors more appropriate for half-mourning, his mother was grayer and thinner than he remembered. Even when they were children, she'd always seemed a touch subdued, as if a shadow of sorrow followed her. Now, it seemed as if she had become the shadow. Her honey blonde hair had faded. Her skin was as pale and thin as parchment.