Suspicion (12 page)

I can’t help laughing.

“Um … you do realize I don’t know any of those people, right?”

“Oh, that doesn’t matter. The royal and titled families have been acquainted with the Rockfords for more than three hundred years, so the current titleholders will expect to socialize with you. And considering your position, you will also be expected to introduce yourself to members of Parliament.”

The more he talks about my terrifyingly public future, the more I long to catch the next flight back to New York. I take a deep breath and push myself forward, into a room I remember.

The dining room soars forty or fifty feet high, up to a glorious ceiling painted with scenes of the first duke triumphant in battle. The walls are covered in hand-painted murals and frescoes, flanked by bronze columns. A long mahogany table stands in the middle of the room, and as I look closer—I catch a glimpse of a pale
hand
resting on the edge of the table. But Oscar and I are the only two people in the room.

The hairs on the back of my neck prickle as I take another step forward. And then a flash of blond hair whips against the back of one of the red-and-gold dining chairs.

“Your Grace? Are you all right?”

I’m only half conscious of Oscar speaking to me. I creep around the other side of the table to face the chair—and I let out a bloodcurdling scream.

A skeleton’s face stares back at me, with empty sockets where her brown eyes should be. She wears her emerald dress from eight Christmases ago, and her colorless hand inches its way across the table toward me—

“Your Grace!” Oscar grabs hold of me. “What on earth is the matter? Why are you screaming?”

“I saw her,” I gasp. “L-Lucia.”

Oscar falls silent.

“You must have imagined it. Lucia is gone.”

And as I blink and look back at the chair, I realize he is right. She is no longer there. Did she disappear? Or is the combination of guilt and grief causing me to lose my mind?

“Perhaps it’s the jet lag. You must be exhausted,” Oscar says hastily, steering me out of the dining room. “We can save the rest of the tour for later. I’ll show you up to your room, and Maisie will bring your lunch on a tray whenever you’d like to eat.”

“Thanks,” I say faintly, glancing back one last time at the empty chair.

B
y the time the dinner hour approaches, I’m too drained to make my way downstairs. I lie splayed out on the bed, staring numbly at the world’s most beautiful bedroom. I’ve been given the Duchess Suite, a relic from the days when husbands and wives slept in separate rooms.

The bedroom’s damask walls are painted robin’s-egg blue, the same shade as Tiffany’s famous little boxes, with matching curtains framing the French windows. The ceiling above my bed is gilded in a mosaic pattern, and impressionist paintings grace the walls. Delicate white-and-gold furniture softens the room’s edges, and the freshly cut peonies in a vase on my bedside table lend the air a sweet smell. It’s the kind of bedroom any girl would dream of, and I find myself wondering how many times Lucia peeked inside, eagerly waiting for it to be hers.

When Oscar showed me up to the room, I couldn’t help asking if it used to be Lucia’s. He said no, Lucia stayed in a west wing bedroom and wouldn’t have moved into the Duchess Suite until she took the title—something she would now never get to experience.

I roll over with a sigh; I used up all of my energy Skyping with the Marinos earlier. Zoey squealed over my room, but the sadness evident in Carole’s and Keith’s faces left me with the heavy weight of homesickness. I wonder if I’ll always have this feeling of being torn in two.

I hear a rap at my door and reluctantly sit up.

“Come in.”

Maisie stands in the doorway.

“I was wondering if Your Grace is coming down to dinner?”

“Please, call me Imogen,” I tell her. “And I’m actually really sleepy. Do you mind saving my dinner for tomorrow?”

Maisie gives me a blank look. Do they not
do
leftovers at Rockford Manor? Based on her expression, the answer seems to be a definite no.

“Or … give it to someone else?” I suggest. “I’d just hate to see the food go to waste.”

She nods. “As you wish, Your Grace. Would you like me to turn down the bed for you?”

“Oh, that’s okay,” I say awkwardly. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Maisie. Thanks for everything.”

Maisie gives the room a lingering glance before wishing me good night, and I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing:
what a beautiful room, and what a shame that it was never Lucia’s
. And suddenly, I find myself stammering a question.

“Maisie, wait. I … well, it’s been so long since I saw my cousin and I’ve been wondering so much about her. I don’t know what she was like when …”

“When she died?” Maisie finishes my sentence.

I flinch.

“Yes.”

Maisie’s unspoken reply, and my own conscience, taunts me.
Why didn’t you ever call if you actually cared about her?
But if that’s what Maisie is thinking, she’s at least nice enough to hide her scorn.

“Lady Lucia was brilliant,” Maisie says simply, straightening her back and adopting a more formal tone. “She was the smartest girl you ever met, and she had a quick, naughty sense of humor too. She was popular and powerful and, of course, beautiful.” Maisie pauses, as if considering something. “My favorite portrait of her is in the State Room. Have you seen it?”

I shake my head. “I haven’t been to that room yet.”

“Would you like me to show it to you?”

I nod breathlessly. “Yes, thank you.”

My sleepiness forgotten, I follow Maisie out of the bedroom and down the stairs. A strange surge of adrenaline courses through me as we near the State Room. Am I actually
excited
to see this portrait of my dead cousin? No … it definitely isn’t excitement, but I am eager, anxious, to see her face after all these years, and I hope that her familiar features will replace the terrifying skull’s face in my mind from earlier today.

Maisie opens the door and we step into the most dazzling room I’ve seen thus far, decorated in the rich colors and furnishings of the Louis XVI era, with gilded ceilings and crown moldings, sparkling Baccarat chandeliers, and a sumptuous hand-woven tapestry covering an entire wall, illustrating yet another of the first duke’s victorious battles. Above the white marble fireplace, the life-size portrait of a modern beauty hangs in a place of honor.

I walk forward in slow motion until I am inches away from her painted face. The twelve-year-old Lucia was remarkably pretty, so I’m not surprised to find her even more gorgeous in her late teens. But it’s Lucia’s expression that catches me off guard and sends a shiver through me. Her face has no trace of the sparkle and curiosity I remember. Instead, she wears the gaze of someone who’s seen and done … too much.

“Did anyone really watch over Lucia? After the fire, I mean?” I ask, studying my cousin’s enigmatic expression in the painting. “I know our grandfather wasn’t well, so I can’t imagine he was able to be a full-time parent.”

“The late duke was her official guardian, but my mother and Oscar did most of the looking after,” Maisie replies. A moment later she adds, “That was Lucia’s favorite dress. She wore it on her last birthday.”

“It’s beautiful. She looks stunning.”

And she does, with her halo of blond hair, sultry brown eyes, high cheekbones, and porcelain skin. A strapless, floor-length cream-colored dress hugs the curves of her tall, slender frame, and her bow-shaped mouth tilts upward in a secretive smile—like a twenty-first-century Mona Lisa.

“I wonder what she was thinking about when this was painted.” I reach forward, gently touching the canvas.

“Her boyfriend, I’m sure,” Maisie says softly. “He was her favorite topic.”

I hold my breath, turning to face Maisie.

“What was he like?”

Her eyes cloud over, just as they did when I suggested we become friends.

“He lives in an estate only five miles away, so he came to the house all the time to see Lady Lucia. He was a good chap—he loved her terribly.”

I feel my heart pounding in my chest, so loudly that I’m sure Maisie can hear it.

“What’s his name?” I ask, even though I already know. Only one person fits Maisie’s description.

“Lord Sebastian Stanhope.”

I nod quickly, turning back to Lucia’s portrait before Maisie can look into my eyes and see the effect his name produced. It was so long ago that my silly, childish self loved him, but … did I ever really stop? Isn’t he the reason I was so unsure about Mark Wyatt, and every other guy who has ever paid me any attention? I’ve never forgotten him—I couldn’t if I tried. But none of that matters now. He belongs to Lucia. He always has.

I am now desperate to get away from this room, away from her smoldering portrait.

“Thanks for showing me, Maisie,” I murmur, heading toward the door. “I think I’m ready to go now.”

I wake shivering in the middle of the night. The temperature seems to have dropped a good ten degrees since I went to bed, and even my thick bedspread can’t ward off the chill.

Suddenly I hear a voice. I sit bolt upright, my heart racing. It sounds like singing—faint and far-off, but the words are clear.

“I know dark clouds will gather round me,

I know the road is rough and steep.

But golden fields lie just beyond me,

Where weary eyes no more will weep. …”

I can’t breathe. It’s Lucia’s song—the one she sang that day in the Shadow Garden. Am I dreaming? Where is it coming from?

“I’m just a poor, wayfaring stranger

Traveling through this world alone

There’s no sickness, pain or danger

In that fair land to which I go. …”

The voice continues, seemingly moving closer, growing louder. My hands shake as I switch on the bedside lamp and climb out of bed. Holding my breath, I creep to the door and fling it open my fear nearly paralyzing me in the doorway.

The singing stops. Nobody is there. Yet I can hear the unmistakable sound of footsteps.

Get a grip, Imogen,
I tell myself.
It’s all in your head again.

But as I crawl back into bed, I could swear a new scent has followed me into the room—an unfamiliar, jasmine-tinged perfume.

The next day begins with breakfast in the Bow Room, the private dining chamber named for its bow-shaped windows. Despite my fitful sleep the night before, my spirits lift as soon as I enter the room, with its cheerful cream-colored wall panels and damask curtains pulled back to reveal views of the lush French garden below. Ornamented gold mirrors hang in between the windows, highlighting the matching gilt console tables and china underneath. In the center of the room, a round table covered in a crisp white tablecloth is set for breakfast. I slip into the inviting velvet-backed chair and lift the lid on my dish, sighing in contentment at the over-easy eggs, sizzling bacon, and breakfast potatoes. I’m about to dig in when a perky, twenty-something redhead waltzes into the room with Oscar.

“I’m sorry for the intrusion, Your Grace, but I wanted to introduce you to the social secretary we’ve just engaged for you. This is Ms. Gemma Montgomery.” He holds up his hand as I start to stand. “Please, don’t get up.”

Gemma drops into a curtsy, then takes the seat across from mine at the table.

“Lovely to meet you, Your Grace. How do you do?”

“Fine, thanks.” I glance from her to Oscar. “Sorry to be so clueless, but what exactly
is
a social secretary?”

“I’ll be running your public schedule,” Gemma explains. “As a duchess, you’ll make numerous appearances per year, from lending your support at charity dinners and Oxford events to hosting festivities for the Wickersham locals at Rockford Manor, and potentially following in your grandmother’s footsteps by serving as a lady-in-waiting at royal ceremonies. You’ll certainly be at the next royal wedding, whenever Prince Harry decides to get himself hitched!” She giggles.

“Wow. I never imagined … all this. Do I have anything coming up soon?” I ask, crossing my fingers under the table that she’ll tell me I have a good month to get over my nerves before braving the public.

“Yep!” she answers cheerily. My heart sinks. She must sense my anxiety, as she adds reassuringly, “It’s a very low-pressure first appearance, which is why we chose it. You’ll be attending the Oxford versus Cambridge Varsity polo match this Saturday.”

“Okay … do I need to know anything about polo, or can I just cheer when everyone else does?”

Gemma laughs.

“Polo is pretty important on this side of the pond. I’ll make sure you’re schooled in the finer points before the match.”

And school me is exactly what she does, though I can’t say I absorb much of it. Once she launches into her spiel about polo sticks, chukkas, and “the line of the ball,” I find my mind wandering hopelessly. I’m not exactly the sporty type. When she asks if I’m all clear on the game, I nod confidently rather than subject myself to another lecture. As long as I can follow along well enough to smile and feign frustration at the right times, I figure no one will be the wiser to my cluelessness.

“Now, the biggest event we’ll need to prepare you for is the annual Rockford Fireworks Concert,” Gemma says, once the discussion has finally shifted away from polo.

“Oh, God.” My stomach lurches in panic as I recall the social event of the season, which my parents used to cohost along with Grandfather, Uncle Charles, and Aunt Philippa. I close my eyes briefly, remembering hundreds of guests dancing in the gardens while the orchestra played classic British tunes, the staff dashing to and fro as they served enough food to feed a small army, and the dazzling display of fireworks at the night’s end. “Is the party actually still happening this year, even though … I’m the only one left to host?”