The insinuation did not escape Gabriel’s notice. He mustered a smile and reached out to pat the dog’s head. “A rascal to the end, eh, old boy? That’s my motto.” Turning to Camellia, he offered his arm. “Miss Burke is on her way to Ireland; I was pleased to be able to offer her my escort this far.” He did not delude himself into imagining that the explanation would prevent further speculation about her otherwise unchaperoned presence.
Together, the three of them approached the house, where the housekeeper now waited. She sank into a deep curtsy. “Welcome home, my lord,” she said. “I did not know if I’d live to see the day. And Miss Burke, is it? Welcome. I am Mrs. Neville. I’ve already sent Mary to see to your rooms.”
He heard Camellia thank her, felt her arm slip from his as Mrs. Neville offered to show her up. As Hawthorne walked away, he called over his shoulder, saying he’d be ready to meet with Gabriel in an hour.
Finding himself suddenly alone on the threshold, Gabriel hesitated. But the ghosts of the house whispered to him, reached out their icy fingers, and pulled him in.
* * * *
After she had bathed and changed her dress, Cami followed a maid to the dining room, marveling along the way at the abbey’s splendor. When the maid deposited her before a pair of tall, gilt-trimmed doors, a footman ushered her through into a regal drawing room.
Mr. Hawthorne rose from a nearby chair and bowed. Thankfully, his giant dog was nowhere in sight. “Ah, Miss Burke, good evening. I was just on my way out,” he said with a glance toward Gabriel at the sideboard. An obvious untruth, since the two men had been deep in conversation when the door opened to admit her.
“No, please,” she said. “I did not mean to interrupt.”
“You did nothing of the kind, ma’am. Now that Ashborough has returned, we can talk farming at our leisure.”
Farming? Perhaps that had been the subject of their discussion, though she doubted it. She glanced at Gabriel, who looked as unruffled as ever. Even if he and his steward had been arguing about something, as she suspected, was it still a relief to him to be away from those who insisted on calling him Ash?
Mr. Hawthorne excused himself, leaving the two of them alone in the cavernous room. At least, it seemed cavernous to her, until the footman opened a different set of doors to announce that supper was served and she caught a glimpse of the dining room. She gasped. It was a room fit for kings to dine in—and they probably had.
“Bit much, isn’t it?” Gabriel spoke near her elbow, then stepped past her and said something in a low voice to the footman, who promptly went through into the dining room and closed the doors behind him. “Come.” With a light touch at the small of her back, he guided her to the chair Mr. Hawthorne had vacated. “Mrs. Neville is anxious to entertain me in state, I believe, but I never was accustomed to it. When I was a boy here, I mostly ate in the schoolroom, of course, and my father—well.” He sank into the chair opposite, leaving the sentence unfinished. “I’ve asked them to bring us our supper in here.”
She looked about at the ornate furnishings, swags of cut velvet drapery, and more than a few Old Masters and supposed this was what passed for a cozy, comfortable room in such a house.
While a pair of footmen moved a round, curved-leg table between their chairs, a maid brought in china, silver, and glasses. Over plates of leek soup and savory roast duck, she rolled a pair of questions around in her mind.
“You’re quiet this evening, Camellia,” he said when they were nearly finished.
She let herself study his face. How quickly those features had become familiar to her. Dear to her. “I’ve been trying to decide which of your behaviors is more confounding,” she said. “Staying away from Stoke, or deciding to return now.”
His lips curved upward as he reached for his wine. “Ever the forthright Miss Burke. Come,” he said. After draining his glass, he pushed away from the table and held out one hand to help her rise. “May I show you a bit of the abbey?”
Thinking he meant to ignore what she’d said, she nodded and laid her hand in his. But rather than releasing her hand once she stood, he threaded his fingers between hers, so their hands were clasped, palm to palm. His touch was a kiss, soft and warm. “The reasons for my behavior, like the questions themselves, are tangled together,” he said, raising their joined hands and pressing his lips to her knuckles. “As you were reading this afternoon, it became clear that you knew just enough of my story to craft an explanation for Granville’s villainy. I wonder if you will think the whole story an explanation for mine.”
Still gripping her hand, he led her into the corridor, nodding at the impassive footman who held the door for them. Flickering sconces cast their light over bronze and marble statues and gave their features an eerie sort of life, but no warmth. Cami struggled to imagine growing up in such a place. She could sense Gabriel’s unease too, and wondered again what had called him home.
When they came to a curving staircase, they climbed it. The next corridor that opened before them led to her bedchamber, she thought, but he turned and went the other way, into another wing of the house. “The portrait gallery,” he announced. Candles had been lit
