Suspicion (17 page)

My dreams that night are a kaleidoscope of chilling images, from Mrs. Mulgrave’s skeletal face sneering at me with contempt, and Sebastian smashing the porcelain figurine, to my cousin’s lifeless, beautiful body lying in its coffin. I wake from the last nightmare with the sensation of someone’s hand brushing against my leg, and I scramble against the headboard. The shadow of a woman’s figure stands at the foot of my bed.

A scream rises in my throat, but my vocal cords are paralyzed, I make no sound. My fingers manage to switch on the light … but no one is there. The figure is gone.

I don’t bother going back to sleep after that. Instead, I grab my laptop from the desk and sit up in bed, propping myself against pillows. Skype opens automatically, and my heart constricts at the sight of Zoey Marino’s name lit up in green font. She’s online—I can see my sister and hear stories from home, or I can stick with my original plan of researching a frightening ancestor.

I click on Zoey’s name, but just as I do so, her name turns gray. She must not have seen me, and signed off. My decision has been made.

I sign out of Skype, and then type “Duchess Beatrice Rockford” into the Google search window. My eyes widen as the screen fills with dozens of links, most of them from supernatural conspiracy websites. They all look a bit dodgy—to borrow a British term—so I choose the Wikipedia link.

Lady Beatrice’s left eye stares boldly at me through the opening of a mask that she holds up to her face. Her light hair is piled half onto the top of her head, the other half arrayed around her shoulders. An unusual ring adorns her right hand, and I zoom in on the portrait to see it more clearly. The ring is a diamond in the shape of an icicle.

I return to the Wikipedia article and click on the next image—a painting of Beatrice on the night of her hanging. She is older in this painting, but her blond hair is styled the same as in the earlier, youthful portrait. The painting depicts screaming townspeople snatching at the skirts of her heavy gown as she attempts to flee. Leaves and flowers are woven through her hair, and a long garland drapes across her dress, giving her the appearance of nature itself.

I look closer. There is no doubt that I resemble her; our blue eyes, high cheekbones, and ivory skin are all a match. We could be sisters from different eras.

Well, I
am
related to her. It makes sense that we’d look alike,
I tell myself.
Stop reading into it.

I close the picture and return to the article’s sparse text. The bio skims her childhood and adolescence as a New York heiress in the early 1800s, her arranged marriage to the fifth Duke of Wickersham in 1830, and the discovery of her “supernatural skills” and “dalliance with the occult.”

After a bitter argument, the fifth duke reportedly witnessed his wife set fire to Rockford Manor’s Shadow Garden, using nothing but her hands. She then rebuilt the entire garden from scratch—all in the span of mere minutes. The duke went mad at the sight, never again regaining his full sanity. The Duchess of Wickersham was tried and hanged for witchcraft, though she repeatedly insisted she was not a witch. She called herself an Elemental.

So she too revealed herself in the Shadow Garden. It’s yet another unwanted link between Beatrice and me. Could this connection be the reason my touch only seems to affect the elements when I’m on Rockford grounds?

I reread the article, shuddering at the realization that if someone finds me out, or if Maisie ever repeats what Lucia told her about me, I could meet the same fate as Beatrice. Maybe not hanged—I’m pretty sure people don’t do
that
anymore—but I’d no doubt be locked up somewhere. I’ll have to do a better job of hiding my skills from now on, no matter what it takes.

I reach the bottom of the Wikipedia page, where article sources are listed. In this case, there is only one—
The Unearthly Duchess: A Biography,
by Humphrey Fitzwilliam, published in 1865. I feel a rush of adrenaline at the thought of reading an actual book about Lady Beatrice, written by one of her contemporaries. I quickly type the title into the Google search window—but only one link comes up, leading to Oxford’s Bodleian Library. The text reads:

Humphrey Fitzwilliam’s
The Unearthly Duchess:
A Biography
is one of the Bodleian Library’s historic treasures.” Our copy is the only known volume still existing in print. Due to the book’s fragile condition and historic significance, it is held in our preservation storage facility. If you wish to view this title, you will need to place a hold on the item, and it will be delivered to you in the Bodleian reading room of your choice. Please allow a minimum of three to five business days.

“Three to five days?” I groan. Deflated, I type in my information and place the library hold, all the while wondering how I can get my hands on the book sooner. And then Maisie’s words ring in my ears.

“If I were you, I would talk to Sebastian Stanhope and find out exactly what he and Lucia discovered about Lady Beatrice at Oxford.”

The two of them were studying the fifth duchess; they must have read her biography. I know now that I have to follow Maisie’s advice, whatever her motives may be.

I have to talk to Sebastian.

By eight a.m. I’m dressed and ready, forgoing my fancy British clothes in favor of jeans and a gray hoodie. Thankfully it’s Sunday, Alfie’s day off, so I can call a taxi without arousing suspicion.

I creep down the stairs and through the corridors, praying not to run into Oscar or either of the Mulgraves. As soon as I make it past the front door, I break into a run, alternating between jogging and sprinting the mile-long path from the house to the front gate. When I finally reach the gate, panting and sweaty, the black cab is already parked and waiting for me.

“Are you Maisie?” the cabdriver asks as I jump into the backseat.

“Yes,” I lie. “I need to go to Stanhope Abbey. I’m running an errand for my mistress.”

“Of course.” He turns around in his seat to glance at me. “Might I ask, what is the new duchess like?”

“She’s very … normal,” I say dryly. If only.

With no traffic on a Sunday morning, we reach Stanhope Abbey in no time—too soon for my liking. I’ve barely begun to get my nerves under control when we pull up to their gate, with the cabbie announcing into the intercom, “Maisie Mulgrave on an errand for Rockford Manor.”

“Should I go around back to the servants’ entrance?” he asks me as the gates open.

Uh-oh.
Not knowing where the servants’ entrance is will definitely blow my cover.

“No, they told me to come through the front,” I fib.

After handing the driver his fare, I step out of the cab and slowly make my way up the Stanhope Abbey steps. I squeeze my eyes shut and take a deep breath before ringing the doorbell.

The footman who answers the door does a double take when he sees me, narrowing his eyes as he looks from my face to my casual outfit.

“It’s me, Imogen Rockford,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry I had the cabdriver say I was Maisie—I only told him that so he wouldn’t ask questions. My driver is off today.”

The footman stares at me with a combination of bemusement and delight, as if I am the juiciest piece of scandal he’s come across in a long while.

“Your Grace,” he says, a smile spreading across his face. “What a pleasure to welcome you back so soon. What can I help you with?”

“I need to speak to Sebastian. Can you tell him it’s urgent? And please, don’t bother the others. I know it’s early, and I really only want to see Sebastian.”

I realize as I tell him this that I’m probably giving him a lot more fodder for his imagination. But I’m past caring.

“Of course,” the footman says smoothly. “Why don’t you wait in the library while I go up and wake him?”

He leads me through the house, which seems colder and darker without the presence of the family or any guests. We arrive at the library, and the footman flips a switch that lights every lamp in the room.

The Stanhope library is just the thing to distract me from my nerves, an oasis of leather-bound books packed into floor-to-ceiling shelves, accented by dark wood furniture and a crimson Persian carpet. Though not as gigantic and decorative as the library at Rockford Manor, this one is somehow more comforting. While the footman leaves to find Sebastian, I scan the bookshelves for my favorite titles. I easily find
Pride and Prejudice
and am hunting for
The House of Mirth
when I hear the sound of approaching footsteps.

Sebastian stands in front of me, dressed in jeans and a navy blue pullover that accentuates the green of his eyes. His golden-brown hair is mussed from sleep, and I feel a sudden urge to reach over and run my fingers through it.

“Hello, Your Grace,” he says quietly.

“Sebastian.” I try to smile. “You don’t have to call me that, you know.”

And then, at the same time, we both say, “I’m sorry.”

I look up at Sebastian in surprise.

“I shouldn’t have gone off on you like that,” he continues. “Theo told me you had no idea about the statuette. I should have known Maisie was behind it. I’m really sorry.”

I take a step closer to him.

“I’m sorry too. I was mortified when Theo told me it belonged to … to Lucia. I totally understand why you were so upset.”

“Let’s just forget it ever happened,” Sebastian says, with a smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Can we?”

“Well, that’s just it,” I say awkwardly. “I can’t forget. Because I went home and confronted Maisie for setting me up, and she told me … some things. That’s why I’m here.”

Sebastian looks away.

“I hate to keep reminding you of Lucia, but I need to know if what Maisie said is true.”

He gives a slight nod.

“Let’s go outside. We can talk there.”

As I follow Sebastian out of the library, I can’t help noticing the outline of his tensed muscles through his shirt.
Not the thing to focus on, Imogen,
I admonish myself.

He leads the way out the front doors and onto a tree-lined path that curves to the left of the house.

“It’s beautiful out here,” I remark, trying to break the ice.

Sebastian doesn’t seem to hear me.

“What did Maisie tell you?” he asks, an anxious glint in his eyes.

I take a shaky breath. “She said that you and Lucia were studying Lady Beatrice at Oxford and that Lucia was fixated on her story, because of Beatrice’s supposed
powers.
” I try to laugh, as though I find the whole thing perfectly ridiculous, but my laugh sounds as false as it is.

Sebastian listens silently, his expression revealing little.

“Maisie also said …” I hesitate for a moment but force myself to go on. “She said Lucia had told her things about me, that
I
could be somehow connected to Beatrice and her so-called … abilities. The whole thing seems crazy, but Maisie wanted me to know about it for some reason. She wanted me to talk to
you
about it. I know I shouldn’t trust her, but she freaked me out all the same. I spent last night researching Lady Beatrice online, and it seems there’s only one legitimate biography on her, which I can’t get my hands on until the Bodleian Library gets it in, and I thought maybe you’ve seen it. …” I realize I’m babbling and my voice trails off.

Sebastian turns abruptly, as he seems to wrestle with what to say.

“It’s true,” he finally answers. “The last year of Lucia’s life, we worked together on a thesis for our mythology class. Lucia chose Lady Beatrice as our subject, and that’s when we read her biography at the Bodleian and discovered that she was rumored to have been an Elemental—someone who can create and control any of the four elements, using nothing but their hands. Lucia became obsessed, both with the idea of this power and with Beatrice’s final words the night she was hanged.”

“What were they?” I ask, my throat turning dry.

“Her last recorded words on the gallows were
‘When my true descendant shows herself, all others before her will be swept away, until she and only she controls my home, Rockford Manor.’
”

My heart leaps into my throat.
“… all others before her will be swept away.”
My grandfather, parents, aunt, uncle, and cousin—was it a ghastly coincidence that they all died in swift succession? Or was there more to it?

“I tried telling Lucia the whole thing was mad, that history had warped the story of the old duke murdering his wife and turned it into bloody folklore. But she insisted we had proof that the myth was real.
You.
” He looks into my eyes, and I find myself backing away, as if he can see through me. “She watched you create a flame with your own hands that night—and we both saw you conjure the flower. I tried to come up with another explanation for her, but what else was there? She ran with the idea, determined to find out all she could about Beatrice and then confront you, armed in some way with her knowledge. But she never got the chance, did she?” Sebastian closes his eyes wearily.

I shake my head in horror. I might have wondered all these years if something was wrong with me, but I never imagined anything like this; I never thought of myself as some kind of supernatural
thing.