elder brother, and why did Lord Darlington refuse to let anyone enter his late wife’s bedchamber?
Today had brought more questions than answers.
Cecilia let out a weary sigh as she stripped off her clothing, hurried into her night rail and dove under the covers, shivering. She couldn’t understand why such a tiny chamber as this should be so unaccountably cold. It was hardly bigger than a closet, but despite her thick coverlet and the blazing fire in the grate, her feet and the tip of her nose were half frozen.
But exhaustion caught up with her despite the cold, and before long her limbs relaxed and her breathing deepened. She was just tumbling off into the oddest dream, where she and Lord Darlington were singing “The Irish Girl” to Isabella, with Cecilia enthroned on Lord Darlington’s knee, when a peculiar sound startled her awake.
It sounded like…scratching? Like fingernails on wood. She struggled up onto one elbow and listened, but all she heard was the crackling of the fire. Cecilia waited, her ears perked for the strange noise, but the silence stretched on, and soon enough she settled back against her pillow. Her eyelids grew heavy once again, but just as she was about to drift off…
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
She opened her eyes and turned her head slowly toward the sound, her heart pounding. It was coming from the other side of the connecting door, the one that led from the lady’s maid’s closet into…
The Marchioness of Darlington’s bedchamber.
A bedchamber that had remained locked since the marchioness had met her mysterious and untimely end there. A bedchamber no one had dared enter since her death, on orders of the Marquess of Darlington.
If you disobey me in this, you will be sent away from the castle immediately.
It wasn’t a loud noise, only a faint scratching. Cecilia wasn’t certain why she’d noticed it at all, unless it was that one didn’t expect to hear such a sound from an empty bedchamber. She huddled into a ball, drew her knees up to her chest, and tugged the coverlet over her head. She squeezed her eyes closed, blocked her ears with her fingers, and ordered herself to go to sleep.
It didn’t work.
No sooner had she closed her eyes than she was awake again, every muscle in her body pulling tight. That sound—
Yes, there it was again!
There was no mistaking that distinctive scratching, as if something had been locked behind a wooden door, and was clawing feebly to be let out.
Something, or someone.
Chapter Six
It was nothing. Of course, it was nothing, just a figment of her imagination—
Scratch, scratch, scratch.
A disturbingly clear, persistent, and distinctive figment, but a figment, nonetheless. She wasn’t going to let a figment frighten her off, was she?
Cecilia swallowed, then eased the coverlet aside, and paused by the bed. A shudder rolled over her and goosebumps chased up and down her arms, but she took a breath, rushed across the room, and pressed her ear bravely against the door.
She didn’t believe in ghosts, no matter if all of Edenbridge swore they’d seen the Marchioness of Darlington’s phantom floating through the woods behind Darlington Castle, here to wreak vengeance on the husband who’d sent her to an early grave.
It was a rumor, nothing more.
Cecilia liked the idea of ghosts as much as any avid reader of gothic romance, but she was skeptical as to their actual existence. Mrs. Briggs had stoutly declared the ghostly gossip utter nonsense, and dismissed it with a scornful wave of her hand. But now here was this peculiar scratching sound, coming from the marchioness’s abandoned bedchamber. If it wasn’t a ghost, what was it?
Mrs. Briggs had mentioned poachers were wandering about the castle grounds, but surely they wouldn’t dare venture inside the castle? Even if they were bold enough, how would they get into Lady Darlington’s bedchamber?
But if they had somehow managed to get inside…
Some say as he smothered her with a pillow…buried her poor bones in the castle walls…he’s the Murderous Marquess, sure as I’m standing here.
Cecilia’s stomach lurched as she recalled the hateful things the villagers had said about Lord Darlington, that first day she’d arrived in Edenbridge. If one of them did manage to sneak into the castle, there was no telling what they might do, or how far they might go to see his lordship punished.
She thought of the pretty pink bed with its silk hangings just two doors down, of Isabella sleeping with her little hand curled under her cheek, and Cecilia’s throat closed.
She turned back to