leading me and her daughter into one of the antechambers tucked off of the ballroom. Though small, I would not have called it cozy. A series of tapestries hung from the walls by an artist I was unfamiliar with, each portraying a different religious sacrament, while Louis Quatorze chairs were interspersed with chaise longues upholstered in a rich plum fabric.
However, it was the cabinet with the glass-inlaid top near the door to which I was drawn. Inside, a set of surgical instruments from the previous century were displayed—the picks, scalpels, and hacksaw affixed in their slots within a battered leather case. These instruments were not so very different from the ones my late husband had used. Given that fact, I had to wonder whether the duchess had chosen this antechamber of all the others for a particular reason.
Catching my gaze as I lifted it after lingering over the contents of the cabinet, she waved her hand toward it negligently. “Bowmont’s uncle, Lord Robert Kerr, was wounded at sea during the American War of Independence, and those were the instruments used by the surgeons to amputate his leg. Little good it did.” She sank onto one of the chaises, draping her arm over the rounded head. “His leg turned septic and he died soon after. I don’t know why the family insists on making such a gruesome display of the implements of his demise.” Her nose wrinkled. “But I absolutely refused to leave the ghastly painting they had created of his death scene hanging over it.”
“This chamber is dreary enough without it,” her daughter concurred as she perched on the edge of one of the chairs.
“Now, what is this troubling thing that has occurred?” the duchess prompted as I chose the chair across from them—the better to view their reactions.
“As you know, Lord Edward led a number of us on a ghost tour through the castle. He even took us down to the . . . the doom,” I uttered, stumbling over the appellation. “And through the underground tunnel into the catacombs of Kirkbryde Abbey.”
She shook her head, though her eyes twinkled with good humor. “That boy has always had a touch for the dramatic. And let me guess, someone was injured? Who knows how long it’s been since that channel was properly inspected and cleared out.”
“No. We found a body. A new body,” I clarified. “Well, relatively new. I suspect he’s been dead for two or more weeks.”
“Good heavens,” the duchess gasped, pressing a hand to her chest. “How dreadful. It must have been a villager.” She leaned forward. “Or one of those tramps who pass through from time to time to view the abbey ruins. Just south of here there’s an oft-traveled coach road between Moffat and Selkirk, and many walkers detour toward the wilder braes and glens on the route north to Traquair, sometimes passing over our land.”
Lady Helmswick nodded in agreement, her wide-eyed shock fading at this explanation.
“I suppose that is a possibility, but based on the victim’s clothing, it seems he was most certainly a gentleman,” I replied. “And although identification is a bit difficult, we and Lord Edward have strong suspicions who the man may be.”
“Who?” the Duchess asked.
My gaze slid toward her daughter as I hesitantly formed my next words. “Lord Helmswick.”
His wife stiffened as if I’d struck her. “But . . . that’s impossible! Helmswick left for Paris on December Fourth, and he certainly hasn’t returned since then. So he can’t be a two-week-old corpse rotting—”
“At least two weeks old,” I interrupted to say. “But perhaps as much as four or five.”
Her throat worked as she swallowed, her face very pale.
“I’m sorry,” I began, but it was her turn to cut me off.
“No.” She shook her head vehemently. “No. It’s impossible. This is simply too cruel of you.” Her eyes blazed. “I never believed the things they said about you. I discarded it as vicious gossip. But now I see they were right.”
“Eleanor,” her mother cautioned.
“You are a monster, aren’t you?”
“Eleanor.”
“A . . . a siren. A ghoul!”
“Eleanor!” the duchess snapped. “That is enough. I do not believe Lady Darby relished telling you this. Just look at her. Does it look like she’s enjoying your pain?”
I could well imagine what she saw when she looked at me because I was struggling not to tremble as my hands gripped the arms of my chair. The knowledge of the hurt I was causing her, the sharp lance of her accusations and the memories they dredged