The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (30 page)

“He calls it
The Museum of Oddities
.” The movement of Uncle’s lips stopped my accusation cold. “He took me there the first night we arrived. It’s for the men’s amusement. For those who are drawn to horror or a walk along the deformed and macabre. It is not for ladies or their delicate sensibilities. He didn’t like hiding the display from you, but I personally requested he not show it during our tour.”

My mouth gaped. To think, all along, Uncle held the answers I’d been seeking about the viscount. And never once had I thought to ask him.

“You had no inkling how to broach the subject.” From across the room, Hawk tried to comfort me, but his efforts only served to widen the chasm between my mixed emotions.

Gulping back a sob, I turned from Uncle and busied myself setting out hats. Even that activity stabbed me with irony. I had expected dreariness and dankness in our boutique, with the shop being set inside a castle and the room being a twenty-by-twenty foot enclosure with a domed ceiling.

Instead, a chandelier of pink crystal shimmered with candlelight. Upon the walls, pasted strips of paper alternated in almond-blossom pink and white, accented by portraits of meadows and flowers. Daylight streamed through the six gable-end windows and glazed the white marble floor with a liquid sheen.

The intimate details captivated me most: the copper-wired dress forms—glimmering and new—waiting to be draped by Uncle’s fabrics; the wooden hat forms set upon shelves that ascended like winding staircases from the floor up to the top quarter of the wall; the four cheval mirrors, adorned with fragrant roses, peonies, and daffodils, where ladies could model their pending purchases. Last of all, the ribbon and lace trimmed hat boxes—stacked upon a table draped in sheer silver sarcenet—every bit as beautiful as the merchandise which would be carried out in them. It was as if the viscount knew the secret desires of the little girl within me … as if he had stepped into my fairytale fantasies and breathed life into them.

Setting out my last bonnet, I dropped into a floral settee behind me, overcome with remorse. Hawk paused in front of a window to gaze out. I looked through him, my soul raw and dazed, so much like the frozen landscape outside.

A brush of heat warmed my right thigh as Uncle came to rest on the settee. He turned to me. “It is the spirit, Juliet.”

My heart thumped. “The spirit?” I asked, my throat catching like the tumblers of a rusted lock. Did he sense Hawk’s presence?

My ghost spun at the window, his head tilted curiously.

“That is why Nicolas—Lord Thornton—wants his aunt here,” Uncle continued. “Why he wears the flamboyant colors, why there are gypsy runes and symbols throughout this place. Because the spirit is in his blood. I know he has told you of his mother. Of his dead brother. Surely you can understand his loyalty to his aunt. And surely you can understand his need to keep her hidden, for her own safety and his reputation. You must stop being so suspicious of him. If you wanted to learn more, you should’ve asked him yourself. Or come to me.”

Nicolas
. Uncle called our host by his first name. How had I missed the depth of the bond these two had forged? He obviously had been Lord Thornton’s direct line to my likes and dislikes.

My fingers twisted in the lace at my wrist. “I know so little of him, yet he knows so much of me. It left me desperate for information.”

The severe turn to Uncle’s mouth softened, and in that moment I knew I was forgiven. “I would’ve told you anything you wished to learn. But now … oh, Juliet. What have you done?”

I reached for the hand on his knee. “I’ve learned things of his past. Unsettling things. I have caught him in lies.”

His chest rose on a sigh. “I know of his dealings with women and gambling. I know of his alleged temper and weakness for liquor. Do you not think I visited the rumor mills before allowing him to court you? But he assures me those days are behind him. And as for lies? It isn’t as if you’ve been entirely honest with him.” He squeezed my fingers. “How long have you known the gypsy woman was his aunt? Yet have you mentioned how you helped her? He told me he saw you at the cemetery when he visited his brother’s grave. Yet have you ever explained to him why you stole his brother’s flower?”

Heat flashed through my face, a bristling surge of nerves. There it was. Confirmation that Lord Thornton had known it was me all along. Why hadn’t
he
said anything?

“He didn’t wish to tell you,” Hawk grumbled. His voice startled me and I looked up to find him gazing again out the window. “Otherwise he’d have to explain his actions at my grave. His hostility towards a dead brother. His knowledge of the journal.”

Uncle’s hand moved within mine and recouped my attention. “There’s something real between you and Nicolas. Anyone can see it. In the way you look at one another, in the way you connect so often without words. It could be your shared physical encumbrances. It could be because he grieves for a lost loved one just as you do. Grief can bridge to friendship, even to something much more powerful. Whatever the case, there’s a reason you act irrationally around him. A reason why you snuck into his chamber this morning … a reason you stole the flower from his brother’s grave.” He paused, cocking an eyebrow. “Why you keep watch over it so judiciously.”

Yes. But that reason was so much more complicated than Uncle could ever conceive.

“There are times a woman has no explanation for her actions,” I mumbled. “There are times her emotions rule her, and she knows not why or in what direction they will lead. All she can do is follow, and hope her heart proves a reliable compass. Mine has failed me, of late.”

Uncle’s eyes glazed, as if he was somewhere far away. “Enya shall be disappointed when we leave. She’s grown rather fond of this place. I believe she hoped we might stay. Did you know her favorite poet, Lord Byron, lived in a castle much like this one?”

I strained to read his lips—they moved so minutely now. Hawk filled in the words that I missed.

“She can recite the sonnet, ‘She walks in beauty, like the night’. Makes it sound like a song … never missing one rhyme or rhythm.” Coming back to the present, Uncle’s grasp on my hand withdrew, as if he were embarrassed.

I couldn’t help smiling. “Enya is quite remarkable.”

As if a bee stung him, Uncle leapt to his feet, kneading his hands. “I love your mother. I always will.”

Rising, I stopped his nervous fingers. “Mama shall always be in your heart. But if there’s room for another, you should bear no guilt for filling that vacancy.”

He shook his head. “It’s wrong. Enya is … is yet so young. What could I offer her?”

“Warm arms and a loyal heart. Children.”

So shocked by my suggestion, Uncle sputtered an unreadable scolding. Then, regaining his composure, he slowed his lips. “What would others say of such a pairing?”

Hawk observed us from across the room as he rested his pocket watch on his palm.

“That there can be beauty in a winter-spring love, father bear.” I patted my uncle’s cheek. “Just look at the purple heath upon the snow outside.” I felt Hawk’s gaze on me and thanked him silently for wisdom imparted.

Uncle’s confused frown deepened. “Snow and heath?”

I straightened the cravat at his neck. “Never you mind. Just know that I support whatever you decide. You deserve to be happy.”

Tapping my nose with a fingertip, Uncle smiled sadly. “As do you, tiny sparrow. We’d all do well to disregard the opinion of others. Had Nicolas not been so desperate to maintain his reputation so this Manor might be a success, perchance I wouldn’t have conceived of such a ruse as the ‘dowry’ to sanction his desire to court you. After all, at that point he’d already said he would buy your parent’s estate, keep it in your name, and let us stay there indefinitely, so long as he could have my cottage to use when he ventures into Claringwell.”

My chin dropped. “You mean to say, I was never to lose the estate? I thought it was his
requirement
in order to marry me.”

“I came up with that. Deemed it the best way to ensure you traversed here, to get to know him. You can be so stubborn at times, Juliet. But had I told you the truth, perhaps you wouldn’t have been so suspicious of his intentions. This disastrous morning could’ve been avoided.”

I couldn’t fathom it. “He wanted to court me even without the property? Why?” Then it dawned on me: the interview he found in Lord Larson’s mining files. Perhaps he felt obligated to help us financially out of respect for his brother’s memory.

“Wait,” Hawk said. “From what your uncle said, my brother didn’t find the interview about your accident until your uncle told him of it.” His words were logical, yet my heart still couldn’t make sense of it. “He was bidding for your estate long before that.”

“Juliet.” Uncle’s hands cupped my shoulders, his white shirt and brown vest wrinkling. “Those follow-up missives we exchanged all those months … they were about you. Not the property. The viscount is drawn to you, just the way the good Lord intended. That visit when your mother and I met him in person, she took a portrait of you. I watched him as he studied it; he was captivated—enamored. As you said earlier, there are times a woman’s emotions rule her and she knows not why. The same holds true for a man. But it’s ever more difficult for him to act upon rash feelings in our society. Everything he does must be treated as a furtherance of his career. Even courtship involves negotiations and—” Uncle’s mouth clamped as his gaze drifted over my shoulder.

I turned to see the viscount stepping into the shop. Just as he promised, he was here to retract his marriage proposal. A pinched sensation tweaked behind my sternum.

I inclined my head in greeting.

He tipped his top hat in response, his free hand squeezing a linen bag tied with a bow. Dressed in a purple frock coat, a canary yellow double-breasted vest, and a tombstone shirt one shade browner than the mossy green of his trousers, he appeared to be on his way out for the day.

Then I remembered. This afternoon he had planned to take me for my dress fittings in Worthington while he ran some errands. A sinking perception pooled at the base of my throat. He would be going alone now, just as he would to all of the upcoming galas. He would be unattached and available to fill other women’s dance cards. Having fresh insight into how it felt to be touched by him, and learning all I had of his generosity toward me and my uncle, I didn’t like the thought of that. Not even a little.

Utilizing his cane in that graceful manner, the viscount paused to stand beside us and nodded to my uncle. With an answering nod, Uncle shook his hand.

Lord Thornton removed his hat and smoothed his thick hair.

Before he could speak, I stepped up. “Might you give us a moment, Uncle?” I directed the plea to him while keeping my gaze on the viscount’s troubled features.

My uncle excused himself and returned to his bolts of fabric on the other side of the room.

“How’s your arm?” Lord Thornton studied my sleeve. “Do you think it will bruise?” He looked almost green, as though sickened by the possibility he harmed me.

I wiggled the elbow he had used to escort me from his room. “I am fine. You were not as rough as you assume.”

“Thank God. I never meant to …” His eyes closed. When they opened again, he had regained his composure. His cane gestured all around the room. “So, does it suit? We can change anything you wish.”

I made a point to look nowhere but him. “I see nothing I would change, my lord.”

His eyes dropped to the bag in his hand. He held it out. “I brought this for you.”

Hawk appeared at my side in a blink, as curious as me.

I took the linen bag. My hand brushed Lord Thornton’s and warmth radiated from my arm to my chest, reminding me of our embrace in his room. I balanced the gift upon the settee to untie its bow.

The bag fell away to reveal a dome of spun glass—porous like crystallized mesh—seated upon a wooden base. The dome was a removable lid with a lock set into the front. Given its size and shape, it reminded me of a case waiting to house a large mantle clock.

Confused, I looked up.

“I had Mr. Diefendorf make it,” Lord Thornton explained. “He’s the German gentleman who runs the glass shop next door to your boutique.” Untangling a small chain from his pinky, the viscount handed me the key for the lock. “His expertise is glass-blown ornaments and jewelry. But this is a terrarium. To house that special flower you’re so fond of.” The viscount studied me with a deadened gaze, as if a wall of opaque glass dropped into place between us. “This will keep guests from touching it if you wish to have it with you in the boutique; yet it still allows the plant to breathe and receive light.” Thick lashes smudged his cheeks as he ran a long finger over his top hat where it balanced topsy-turvy on his can’s handle. “On the night of your arrival, your lady’s maid told Miss Abbot of the flower’s importance to you. Of its … frailties.”

All this time, he’d known it was the flower from his brother’s grave, and still he was pretending
not
to know. Even after my despicable behavior this morning, even after our parting of ways, he was still sanctioning my lies, allowing me to keep the plant because he thought I needed it—emotionally.

I held my breath, feeling utterly unworthy of such a gesture.

Hawk cleared his throat. “He’s hoarding it over you … to remind you that he has the upper hand.” His theory pierced the swell of air from my lungs. “Don’t forget he still harbors secrets. Why was our aunt in your room? And there’s more behind our father’s absence than he’s letting on.”

Yes. I could not deny that the viscount was keeping things from me. But I doubted it could be any worse than all of the truths I’d been hiding from him.

“
I stole it
,” I said.

The viscount’s brow twitched. “Pardon?”

I strained my vocal cords on my next attempt, in case I had mumbled. “I stole the flower from your brother’s grave.” Judging by the size of the viscount’s widened eyes, I must have yelled the confession.

Across the room, my uncle’s head popped up from his folding. He quickly turned his back to give us privacy.