Mistress of Sins (Dredthorne Hall #3) - Hazel Hunter Page 0,16
Jennet told her friend. “I imagine young ladies who have not lost a relative to war still admire her sense of style.”
“I have reminded you of your poor father, how wretched of me.” Catherine gave her a rueful look. “I should not revile her. Someday this war will end, Jennet, and our men will come home victorious at last.”
“Until the next war breaks out.” Jennet felt an odd sensation of being watched, and resisted the urge to inspect everyone near them. “Do you see Mr. Pickering?”
“Not since we came through the line.” Her friend stood on her toes and looked around them before she pointed at the front of the reception room. “There, he is just leaving.”
“I will return in a moment,” she told Catherine before heading after him.
She caught a glimpse of the straw man as she came out into the center hall, but as she turned to the right all she saw was a wall painted with a large, faded chinoiserie depiction of a garden beyond a white iron fence. As she turned away she saw a shadow appear on the painting, and went closer to discover a pair of door handles painted in such a way to look like part of the gate.
“Very clever,” Jennet murmured as she tugged on one handle, opening a door-size panel in the painting that led into another room. She stepped inside.
The scent of beeswax came from an elaborate silver candelabra in the center of the long dining table. It held a handful of candles that partially illuminated the remarkable décor of the room. Every wall had been fitted with a carved, inlaid panel of dark wood painted with murals. Between them very fine marble columns rose to the ceiling, giving an effect of standing inside a temple.
Jennet picked up the candelabra and carried it over to the nearest panel, which had been painted with a mostly-nude, very strong-looking ancient warrior holding three golden apples in his hand. Behind him three ladies resembling rather peevish nymphs glared at the back of his head. It reminded her so much of the scene with Rose Abernathy she smiled.
“I know precisely how you feel,” she murmured. “I had what they coveted, didn’t I?” Or at least she had for a time.
The door behind her creaked as the shepherd cautiously entered.
“Forgive me the intrusion,” he said, bowing to her. “I thought I might slip in unnoticed to admire the panels.” He glanced around, his mouth bowing. “Why, this is incredible.”
“I think it a tribute to the labors of Herakles, Vicar,” she told him. “He was set the task of stealing the sacred apples from the Hesperides. It required quite an effort on his part, as I recall.”
“Yes, in pursuit of his prize Atlas tricked him into holding up the world for him, at least until he duped the god into removing it from his shoulders.” Jeffrey Branwen removed his mask. “I am glad you recognized me, Miss Reed. I had hoped to speak to you again in less crowded company.”
“So, I have not deceived you, either,” she said as she tugged down her mask.
He chuckled. “Your costume is very good, but you did not conceal your hair. No one else in my parish possesses such a singular shade of red.”
Jennet already knew why he wished to talk to her. “Miss Tindall told me that William Gerard has returned to Renwick, or I should say, Baron Greystone. I believe he is to attend the masquerade tonight as well. That is why you followed me into this room, is it not?”
The vicar nodded. “I have no desire to pry, my dear girl, only to offer my consolation, if you have need of it. Or a willing ear. Often it is good to talk to someone when such unhappy situations arise.”
“Have you known me to be in such need of late?” Jennet asked.
“No,” Jeffrey admitted. “I am not satisfied that I did enough for you after William left. There has always lingered an uneasiness in me on that account.”
A week after Jennet had been abandoned by her betrothed, the vicar had called at Reed Park. A sensitive man, he had probably thought to give her time to get over the first, worst part of being jilted. She remembered sitting with him and Margaret, cradling a cup of tea until it went stone cold, and hardly saying a word to either of them. That tableau had been repeated several times.
“You were very attentive, and a great help to my mother,”