The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (26 page)

My heart sunk. To think, all of this had been brought about by Hawk’s aunt. It must be the same woman. It would explain why she kept watch over his grave. Why she had helped him escape. All these years, such a weight of guilt to bear—such a penance to fulfill.

I could no longer look at the painting on the wall, or the woman’s sad gaze.

“It says here,”—Hawk’s baritone soothed my aching spirit—“that Tobar never knew his wife bore two sons. Nicolas writes that on our fifth birthday, the grief of giving up one of her babies along with that bastard’s relentless abuse, killed our mother. Bitti became my only solace at the gypsy camp. As I grew, the lighter turn of my skin and my unusual eye color reminded Tobar of Mother’s infidelity. I became the object of his hatred until my aunt could no longer stand by and watch. She helped me run away.” Hawk met my gaze, the light gone from his eyes—having slipped somewhere deep within him. “In the gypsy tongue, ‘hawking’ is the term for selling homemade goods. Apparently, that had been my mother’s livelihood. According to the last lines of this note, she was a gifted artisan. That must be why I chose the surname. To honor her.”

There was strength in my ghost’s voice, despite the pain filling his eyes. He strode toward the portrait on the wall. His boot’s toe touched the bottom of the frame where it met the floor’s baseboards. He stood face to face with her, the woman who died to give him life, and ran a finger along the delicate turn of her jaw.

The intimacy of the moment moved me, to witness the tender side of such a powerfully built man. It reminded me of the viscount in the winter garden, when he released the butterfly from his grasp.

I couldn’t help but envision Lord Thornton in Hawk’s place now, paying homage to this missing thread in the tapestry of his past. He must have stood before this portrait countless times once he learned of her part in his salvation—her excruciating sacrifice which bought him a better life than his brother. No wonder he carried such remorse for his ideal upbringing. Could that be what I had seen in him that day at the cemetery? Not anger, but unbearable regret and sorrow for his brother’s broken childhood?

I rose from the cushioned chair and went to Hawk. I would have given anything to nestle my head beneath his chin, press my heart to his, and weep with him. Instead, I could do no more than stand beside him.

He didn’t look at me. To honor his introspections, I occupied myself by studying every intricate line and brushstroke of Gitana’s likeness. When I came to the etchings on her bodice’s neckline, something in the artistic styling struck me as familiar.

I strained to look beyond the flowers embroidered of colorful threads on her dress, allowing my eyes to glaze. Covert images blurred to life within the embellishments. Rats, clocks, and human faces—each of them strangers to me, yet vivid in detail. Indeed, I had seen such hidden pictures before.

Rushing to my trunk, I dug out Chaine’s journal, my fingers tingling with excitement.

I sorted through the pages until I came upon Chaine’s drawings. Standing, I held up the book for Hawk. “There … in this sketch of a vulture, the feathers are a labyrinth of camouflaged images. Just like in the portrait on the wall. There’s a face that matches your mother’s. Here, in the bird’s chest. Do you see it?”

In a blink, Hawk stood before me. He regarded the journal then returned to his mother’s portrait. “Juliet … you’re bashing brilliant!”

I couldn’t stop my smile from spreading. “You’re the brilliant one. You drew them.”

From across the room, he frowned in thought. “I’ve heard you comment on the colors of this painting. How would I have known what scheme to use?”

“Perhaps you had some help. From someone who thrives in color. Could it be you drew the lines and Nicolas filled them with paint, in homage to your mother? Perhaps that was what caused Miss Abbot’s confusion as to whose hand gave it life.”

A dreamy satisfaction softened his features. The theory seemed to please him. “Did you see this one? This image here, in this cluster of fruit in the background.”

Upon returning the journal to my trunk, I hurried over, my boots stirring a wave of petticoats around my ankles.

His translucent finger tapped at a symbol. “Do you recognize it? The rune on the plaque of wood beside the iron gate—the one I couldn’t decipher when we first arrived here.”

I nodded in disbelief. In all of our settling in, I’d forgotten to draw it for him so he might study it. “Do you think it has some significance?”

“I do. I believe it might be the key to everything.” He smiled down on me.

“So …?” My pulse quickened. “Do you remember what it means?”

“No.”

I frowned. “Then why the dotty smirk?”

“Because you have captured my brother’s attention and trust, China Rose. Nicolas must know the meaning of the symbol to have placed it upon his gates. Tonight at supper, you will charm it out of him, my alluring little spy.”

I was hard pressed to find a moment alone with the viscount—for spying or anything else—due to unexpected visitors.

Lord Thornton’s five investors and their wives arrived early to oversee the final touches on the Manor, and from the moment they entered the townhouse, the viscount had his hands full giving tours and directing the servants in preparation of guest chambers. He didn’t even make it to supper.

After our meal, Enya, Uncle, Hawk, and I retired to the drawing room.

Several candles flickered on tall, twisted sconces. Light danced upon walls hung in cotton damask the same color as moss beneath a tree. Enya settled in front of the fireplace with a book. Uncle pulled up an ottoman where she could rest her ankle and sat beside her on the couch.

Mama had been helping Enya learn to read just before she took sick. After she hurt her ankle today, Uncle had offered to continue her lessons. They passed the entire afternoon with the activity which worked out nicely since Enya could do little else without casting suspicion upon her
injury
.

Seated on a divan in the corner, I busied myself with a pink garden hood of dotted Swiss muslin, intending to finish the pleated ruffle trim so I could put it on display in the boutique once we opened for business. Pausing, I watched my uncle and his pupil.

In the soft glow of the fire, something wonderful was taking place—a prolonged meeting of the eyes, an accidental brush of the hand upon turning a page, a shy smile hopping like a restless bird from one flushed face to the other. I searched out Hawk and his delighted smirk mirrored the one hidden within me.

“By the look of things,” he said, “Enya has made great strides in her transformation from a child to a lady today.”

I agreed silently. Once out of the element of sameness, in an environment foreign to us all, Enya’s intellect and wit took center stage. Uncle appeared beguiled by this other side to the often stoic and productive young woman.

“Amazing what a difference in perspective can make,” Hawk’s voice teased.

I pressed my lips to stifle a grin, thinking upon the truth of the statement, of the tolerance Hawk now felt toward his brother after realizing their true history this afternoon. And though still discomforted by the dungeon’s secrets, a part of me had come to trust the viscount more, as well.

I slipped a needle through a pleat to baste it in place on the hood. Tomorrow morning, Uncle and I planned to arrange our shop’s displays. An influx of customers were expected to arrive this weekend—only five days away—and we would be open for business come Monday. With ball gown and riding habit fittings scheduled in Worthington, not to mention the riding lessons Lord Thornton had promised, I’d have little time for sewing after tonight.

So absorbed in my stitches, I almost missed the stir of activity at the door. Hawk nudged me mentally just as Lord Thornton entered the room with his investors close behind, each carrying a cigar and a snifter of brandy. Smoke curled through the air on a mix of cloves, cocoa, and vanilla. The wives followed, all five of them dressed in frills and bustles so wide their posteriors almost didn’t fit through the door.

I felt not only inadequate for my status, but underdressed—having not changed out of my wrinkled merino gown all day. Even the viscount had freshened up. He wore a long-tailed coat of celery brocade, a silver vest with navy pinstripes, and a silk puff tie one shade lighter than his orchid fitted trousers. As always, in spite of his clashing attire, twisted foot, and cane, he made a striking entrance—far more elegant and tasteful than the entourage behind him.

Tonight, he looked every bit the Romani prince with firelight glazing his olive complexion. His thick hair was parted down the middle, and the shoulder-length waves knotted at the back of his nape. The style laid bare his hooded eyes—painting him both vulnerable and virile in one sweep.

Our gazes met and something darkened his features, as if he bore a heavy weight. I wondered if he regretted sharing the secrets in his note, exposing his heart to me. If he could read my thoughts as his brother did, he would know he had nothing to fear. For where I assumed it would give me power over him, somehow I was now at his mercy.

“Careful, Juliet.” Hawk’s voice drifted in beneath my musings. “He’s still harboring secrets, and could yet be a dangerous man.”

I agreed inwardly.

My uncle stood to greet the investors and their wives. After introductions, Lord Thornton patted Uncle’s back, set his half-drank brandy on a passing servant’s tray, and made his way to me. Hawk followed the investors on the other side of the room to see if he could pick up any information while they were free to speak outside of the viscount’s earshot.

I forced my attention to the hat in my hands as my host settled himself on the other end of the seat. His scent surrounded me. It was becoming entirely too familiar.

Noticing the rhythmic tap of his cane against the floor a few inches from my foot, I turned my attention to his lips.

“A bit ragged around the edges, I see.” He offered the unexpected observation, propping the cane between his knees.

Heat prickled from my neck to my cheeks as I pulled a shawl tight around my shoulders. “I-I was not aware we were to be in full-feather tonight.”

Tucking wayward strands of hair behind my ears, I regretted my decision to leave it down for the evening. I’d brushed it smooth, but had I known there would be other guests, I would’ve had Enya make me more presentable. I pressed my palm over my bruised cheek and sunk deeper into the cushion.

The garden hood waited in my lap with the needle still attached by a thread. The viscount lifted the hat, forcing me to face him.

He grinned. “I did not refer to you, Miss Emerline.” He gently pulled my hand from my face. “That paltry bruise cannot mar your beauty. I referred to the hat. I noticed you were trimming it. ‘Ragged around the edges.’ It was meant to be a joke.” He held up the hood and drew the thread tight so I could cut the needle free and tie a knot.

Afterwards, I perched the hat next to the sewing basket at my feet and tucked away the scissors, needles, and pins.

Lord Thornton’s cane tapped the floor next to my foot again and I looked up, intrigued. It appeared he’d developed this subtle trick to claim my attention without making my deafness a spectacle for his guests. He was honoring my privacy without my even asking.

“I shall introduce you to them, when you’re ready.” The viscount gestured his cane toward the investors. All of the men gathered around the fireplace with Uncle, laughing at something he said. “I didn’t wish to spring them on you after your reaction to my initial invitation to work here.”

Chagrined, I considered how I’d cowered weeks ago when he first invited us to open a shop. Looking at the ladies now, they seemed so cordial. They sat, three on a fainting couch in the corner opposite me and two next to Enya, inviting her—a lower class maid—into their conversation.

Could it be, all these years, I’d misjudged them? Could it be that they had treated me like a fragile doll because I acted like one … introverted and inadequate?

As I pondered this, one investor strayed from the others. Hawk stuck close to him. The man appeared to be Uncle’s age—gangly, with hair so black that when combined with his beakish nose, gave him the semblance of a crow. He seemed very interested in the viscount’s possessions. His mouth moved with each step, as if speaking to himself as he wrote upon a small square of paper.

“Who is he?” I asked my host.

Disdain flashed across the viscount’s face, so fleeting I barely caught it. “Lord Larson.” He cringed on the name—like he tasted something unpleasant. The same reaction I noted at our parlor in Claringwell that day, when he spoke of his manor.

Miss Abbot had said Larson was secretive about Hawk’s death at the mines. No wonder Lord Thornton didn’t like the man.

“He appears rather … sluglike,” I said.

The viscount grinned. “Sluglike? You mean sluggish?”

“No. I mean there is slime trailing his every move. He is not trustworthy.”

The viscount propped his hands on his cane and watched me, openly fascinated. “How can one so unworldly, know so much of the world?”