see your wife’s portrait.”
Numbness, starting at his fingertips, spread up his arms and reached inside his chest. “Curiosity is a natural thing.” His voice sounded hollow even to his own ears.
“I don’t think she will relent until she has all the answers.”
His jaw tightened and his teeth clenched. “What answers?”
Mrs. Essex drew back, visibly surprised. “Forgive me. It is a sensitive subject and I… I did not mean to overstep.”
“You should go.” He knew his voice was harsh and he knew he was being unfair when all she was trying to do was help him, to warn him.
Something disturbing flickered within her blue eyes. There, then gone. She’d composed herself completely. Her smile was back in place. “Very well, my lord. I shall leave you to ponder your decision.”
Randolph leaned back in his chair and did precisely that. Angelica was inquisitive and direct. She liked to know things and if she suspected there might have been foul play involved in his wife’s death, she’d want to look into it. She’d want to know every detail.
Steepling his fingers, he considered the possible dilemma she posed. If she were his wife, would she stand by his side and protect his secrets, or turn him in for murder?
A gentle knock at the door drew him out of his reverie.
“Enter!”
It was she. The woman who filled his every thought, the one he wanted to make his own. He stood in order to greet her.
“Angelica. Is everything all right?”
She looked strange. There was a haunted look about her, an eerie disquiet.
“Where’s your wife’s portrait?” Her voice was precise, calm, completely at odds with her expression. “It is not in the gallery. I’ve already looked.”
His gut roiled with ominous concern. Every muscle in his body tightened to the point of snapping. “Why do you ask?” He ground out the words without any finesse.
“Because I want to see it.” She glared at him, her eyes hard and determined.
Randolph tried to breathe. He tried to tamp down the rising panic. Each thump of his heart sent a painful jab straight through his chest. “It’s in the attic,” he managed. “I packed it away for a reason.”
“Because her death broke your heart.” He almost laughed. Yes, it had broken his heart all right, though not for the reason she thought but rather for countless others. “It must have been terribly difficult,” she continued, “but it wasn’t your fault. It was—”
“Stop.” He couldn’t bear anymore. “Is seeing the portrait a stipulation?”
She didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
He didn’t understand her reasoning, but it hardly mattered, did it? If seeing Katrina’s likeness was what it would take, then so be it. He grabbed an oil lamp and lit it. The flame lurched to life. “Come with me.”
For reasons she could not begin to fathom, Angelica sensed she was pushing the bounds of what Randolph was willing to accept on her account. It made sense, she supposed. If he’d loved Katrina as much as she thought he had, then her death must have been truly devastating. Just the thought of her out there alone, freezing to death while he remained ignorant, unable to help. It must have been awful.
But after her vision, for she knew not what else to call it, she wished to look upon the face of the woman who’d been so dear to him. She wasn’t sure what she hoped to accomplish by it, but perhaps the painting would offer some insight. Maybe seeing Randolph’s wife would let her know whether the woman was seeking her help or attempting to chase her away.
A shudder scraped her spine. She didn’t believe in ghosts but neither could she explain the strange encounters she’d been having or why no one else felt or saw the same things she did. Angelica glanced over her shoulder. The candles in the wall sconces flickered. Icy air curled around her ankles. Oblivious, Randolph marched ahead with clipped footsteps. His posture was rigid and utterly devoid of the warmth he’d shown toward her during the previous days. If anything, his demeanor was wrought by a carefully held control she feared might turn into full-blown anger if she wasn’t careful. Her heart beat faster, not so much with the fear of the unknown this time but because she worried that being alone with this man might be very unwise.
“Perhaps we should do this some other time,” she tried. “My mother ought to come with us. Or Lucy.”
Ignoring her, he pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked a door at the