Serafina and the Black Cloak - Robert Beatty Page 0,64

Thorne’s hand in gratitude. “Later this evening, I would like to invite you and Mr. Bendel to join me in the Billiard Room for cognac and cigars. Just us friends.”

“Thank you very much, George,” Mr. Thorne said, bowing slightly. “I’m honored. I look forward to it.”

As Serafina watched the interaction, something didn’t sit quite right with her. Mr. Thorne looked somber, as he should at a sorrowful gathering such as this, but she noticed something else, too. As Mr. Vanderbilt spoke with him, Mr. Thorne had the same look on his face that a possum gets when he’s gnawing on a sweet tater he’s grubbed out of the garden. He seemed pleased with himself—too pleased, and not just for his flawless playing and his wonderful story. He seemed delighted by the personal invitation to join George Vanderbilt’s inner circle. Braeden had told her that his uncle and Mr. Thorne had only known each other for a few months, but now she could see there was a stronger connection developing between them, a growing personal bond. The Vanderbilts were one of the most famous, wealthy, and powerful families in all of America, and Mr. Thorne had just made himself a most valued friend.

She looked over at Braeden to see if he, too, sensed something was amiss, but he wasn’t even looking at Mr. Thorne. As everyone was leaving the room, he was walking along the buffet table, discreetly stuffing pieces of breaded chicken into his pocket. Then he snatched a little jar of clotted cream from the scone tray. She couldn’t help but feel her mouth watering at the sight of the glorious food. She’d forgotten how hungry she was, and Braeden seemed to know exactly what she liked.

As he followed his aunt and uncle out of the room, Braeden looked up at her.

She signaled for him to meet her outside. There was much to talk about.

She knew Mr. Thorne was well liked, but to her, he was too talented, too kind, too something. And she still couldn’t figure out why he had called Mr. Rostonov “Papa.”

She couldn’t put it all together, but she smelled a rat.

Serafina met Braeden outside in the darkness at the base of the great house’s rear foundation, where they hoped no one would see them. The forested valley of the French Broad River lay below them, and the black silhouette of the mountains layered into the distance. A mist was rising up from the canopy of the valley trees as if the entire forest was breathing.

“Did you see how well Mr. Thorne played the piano?” Serafina asked in disbelief. “Did you know he could do that?”

“No, but he can do a lot of things,” Braeden said, pulling the bits of chicken out of his pocket and handing them over to her.

“You’re right. He can,” she said as she gobbled the chicken down. “We keep saying that, but how is it possible?”

“That’s just the way he is,” Braeden said as Serafina slurped up the clotted cream.

“But what do you know about Mr. Thorne?” she asked as she wiped her mouth. “I mean, what do you really know about him?”

“My uncle says that he should be an inspiration to us all.”

“Yes, but how do you know you can trust him?”

“I told you. He saved Gidean. And he’s been very helpful to my aunt and uncle. I don’t understand why you dislike him so much.”

“We’ve got to follow the clues,” she said.

“He’s a good man!” Braeden said, becoming increasingly upset. “You can’t just go around accusing everyone. He’s been nothing but nice to me!”

She nodded in understanding. Braeden was a loyal person. “But stop for a second. Who is he, Braeden?”

“He’s a friend of Mr. Bendel and my uncle.”

“Yes, but where does he come from?”

“Mr. Bendel told me that way back before the War Between the States, Mr. Thorne owned a large estate in South Carolina. It was burned and destroyed by the union troops. He’d been born and raised a rich man, a landowner, but he lost every penny and had to flee for his life.”

“He doesn’t seem poor now,” she said, confused by the story.

“Mr. Bendel said that after the war, Mr. Thorne was so poor, he could barely survive. He had no house, no property, no money, and no food. He became a homeless drunk, wandering through the streets, swearing obscenities at any Northerner who happened to walk by.”

Serafina frowned. “This is Montgomery Thorne you’re talking about, the man who can do everything? Your description doesn’t