The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (28 page)

In spite of a rash of nerves, my plan worked beautifully. Enya, still feigning a limp, accompanied me to the third floor of the north wing, having told Miss Abbot I wished to visit my uncle in his chambers. Hawk followed behind us. All the while I had the kitten tucked within my emptied sewing basket where she munched on the remainder of ham. I hung the handle around my lower arm and smiled innocently as we passed two investors going in the opposite direction toward the stairs.

When we came upon the viscount’s room and found the door ajar, Enya assured me with a nod that the maids were inside. She kept watch in the hall as I tilted the basket to empty its furry contents inside, then eased the door closed to prevent the kitten from escaping. On Enya’s signal, I stepped back so she could throw open the door at the last minute. In a flurry of orange and white fur, the cat darted out with three flustered maids chasing her.

Taking the basket from my hand, Enya hobbled after them as if to help. She had insisted she would not stand guard for such nonsense. Little did she know I had a phantom accomplice fit for such a task.

Hawk and I slipped within. I shut the door behind me and leaned against the frame, in awe of the surroundings.

Some say a man’s abode is a mirror of his soul. Were this true, then the viscount was a very direct and honest man with a fair sense of right and wrong, for everything was laid out in black and white. Literally.

Black velvet coverings draped his canopy bed. The pillows and sheets shimmered white as satin clouds. The walls were white-washed with a mottled affect, like the foam of a turbulent sea. The curtains—black and opulent—had been drawn open to allow sunlight to stream through the picture window. An avalanche of pillows with tassels in pristine blacks and whites peppered the cushioned window seat. No grays anywhere to be seen.

On the floor stretched a plush rug, the pile woven in a checked pattern. Not one picture graced the wall. Instead, flat backed baskets—formed of the same black wrought iron as the bed frame—hung upon nails. Each one housed sprays of fresh flowers in welcome splashes of color. The bouquets released a delicate potpourri, and when I closed my eyes, I could almost envision myself in the winter garden.

“Juliet …” Hawk’s voice snapped me back to the present. He stood beside the bed. “You said we had little time.”

I nodded and took stock of the room. A tall wardrobe, a writing desk with two drawers, and a nightstand with a hinged cabinet—all constructed of polished black oak—provided possible housing for legal papers.

First, I pored over the contents of the nightstand’s cabinet and found several scientific, architectural, and legal tomes. Leafing through each one resulted in nothing more than a paper cut on my thumb.

Inside the wardrobe’s drawers, I found the viscount’s underthings. Despite my best efforts, my skin flashed hot to imagine them clinging to his well-built form, a thought which won me a scalding grimace from my partner in crime.

I threw open the doors and an array of prismatic jackets, trousers, and vests danced on wooden hangers as if delighted to be freed from their dark prison. It looked like the entrance to some rainbow netherworld, far removed from the land of black in white in which I stood.

Leaving the wardrobe doors ajar, I checked the writing desk, surprised to stumble upon a small stack of charcoal sketches drawn by Chaine: captured moths, featherless birds, broken-stemmed flowers. I could find nothing significant about them, other than his keen insight for flawed beauty. More proof that the viscount had taken great pains to honor his brother’s memory. At this point, I suspected even the room itself might be a tribute to Hawk’s color-blindness.

“Would you stop finding reasons to like him, for saint’s sake?” Hawk glared at me. “His legal papers must be here somewhere. Look again.”

Frustrated, I made another run of everything … dragged my palms along every nook and cranny, even on the underside of the furniture and beneath the bed’s mattress, in search of some secret compartment. But the only thing I managed to find was a splinter in my pinky to compliment the paper cut on my thumb.

I threw up my arms, defeated.

“You’re not giving up are you?” Hawk asked.

I tried to suck away the splinter. “There’s nowhere left to look … and I’m running out of good fingers.” I held up my reddened pinky to the sunlight. “With the crowd of people now running amok through this house, it makes sense the viscount would send any important papers to his solicitor.” I started for the door to leave before someone caught us.

Hawk tilted his head. “Wait. There … there at the window seat. At the cushion’s base.”

Following his line of sight, I noticed the corner of a quilt sticking out.

Hawk was there before I could blink, tapping the fabric. “The cushion is a lid to a hidden compartment.”

I stepped up and raked the accent pillows to the floor, then hoisted the hinged cushion open. The scent of stale wax, dust, and ochre filled my nose. Moving the quilt aside uncovered a pocket-sized pistol—brown, silver, and sleek—staring at me from a nest of used candles like a snake ready to strike. Next to it was a box of black powder and some lead balls for loading the weapon.

I stepped back, shivers skimming my spine.

“A single-shot derringer.” Hawk’s composure calmed me. “Most gentlemen keep those handy, in the case they’re challenged to a duel. Just be wary.”

I cautiously lifted the pistol and dropped it on the quilt. Next, I shoved aside the box of ammunition, feeling the roll of balls as I exposed some papers beneath.

“That’s it!” Hawk pointed. “The envelope. The left corner is still curled from being pressed against the humidor’s glass.”

Grabbing the envelope, I started to open it. But my eye caught on some blueprints a little deeper within the compartment. I dragged them free and gasped upon seeing descriptions alongside the designs. One was called a
Judas Chair
, an iron throne of sorts, with spikes on every surface and tight straps to restrain its victim. The other was called a
Malay boot
, also formed of iron to fit upon a victim's leg. Like the other device, it was armed with spikes that squeezed the foot, ankle, and leg. As if that wasn’t enough, the metal could be heated to red hot temperatures.

“Juliet,” Hawk’s voice grounded me—brought me out of my dark introspections.

My fingers tightened around the pages. “Are you going to tell me most gentlemen keep these handy, too?” I asked.

His face reflected my own trepidation. “They must be for his dungeon.”

My lips trembled. Each time I started to see some light in the viscount, shadows swarmed in to suck the breath from me. “What does he
do
down there?”

“I’m not sure … but look. There’s more of my artwork.”

Sure enough, underneath an empty ink well and some broken quills, there were drawings painted in red ochre like the Rat King picture.

Balancing the deed and the blueprints on the compartment’s ledge, I explored the depths of the compartment. The drawings were leading me to something else. Something toward the bottom—a trio of handwritten pages, identical to the ones in Hawk’s journal. It was the missing entries that we had been so curious to find. The ones that spoke of Chaine’s sky-fallen angel.

Hawk’s chin fell. “My brother
is
after the journal. He tore out those pages and wants the rest of it now. That must be why he sent our aunt to your room.”

The thought sent anxious pulses through me. I squinted at him. “But why would he have torn these out? Is it possible you tore them out and gave them to him before you died?”

Hawk’s only response was his hand motioning toward the door. “Someone’s coming.”

For a split second, I considered diving into the window compartment. But I’d never fit. I rolled up the journal pages, tucked them between my cleavage, then put everything else in place, panting as the air thinned around me.

No sooner had I propped the accent pillows on the seat than I twirled to see Lord Thornton in the doorway—hair unruly and damp shirt clinging to his muscles. He held a basket in one hand, the other clutched around his cane. He took one look at his opened wardrobe and exposed desk drawers, then snapped his gaze to me. Sparks of distrust rained from his stormy eyes like brimstone.

Without a word, he stepped across the threshold, shut his door, and locked it, trapping me alone with his silent rage.

I gulped my heartbeat from my throat. It fell into my chest and hammered the journal entries rolled within my bodice.

I’d been caught again like the white butterfly of earlier, and this time I had no doubt my wings were to be crushed. What would he do? Take the pistol from beneath the seat and shoot me? Flog me with his cane? Lock me in his dungeon of horrors?

Lord Thornton wore his usual discordant attire—lavender shirt, crimson trousers—yet I was the one conspicuous against the room’s backdrop of black and white, even in my mourning weeds. Though the sunlight reflecting off of the snow outside warmed my shoulders, I sat upon the seat, stiff as a statue of ice, with an accent pillow cradled in my lap.

“Find what you were looking for?” The viscount’s lips formed the silent accusation with such exaggerated restraint, my ears burned as if he’d yelled it.

Hawk gravitated to my side, speechless for the first time since I’d met him.

A lot of help you are,
I snarled inwardly.

He found his voice. “You’re alone, here for the taking. And you’ve turned his room upside down. You must think of an excuse lily-white, or you’ll be bedded before the hour’s out. You’re already compromised. Should anyone find you together, you will
have
to marry him.”

Of its own accord, my imagination supplied a detailed fantasy of what being bedded by Lord Thornton might entail. My breath twisted within me, hot and frantic, like a vagabond flame. A sensation not entirely disagreeable.

Hawk growled. “Damnit Juliet. That wasn’t meant to entice you. Have you lost all reasoning? Need I remind you of the torture chamber blueprints? Now fix this before your uncle comes looking and finds you here.”

That sobered me. If by some chance there was a logical explanation for the viscount’s torture chamber, Uncle would never forgive a violation of our host’s privacy. Especially knowing how I’d stolen the flower.

“A kitten,” I blurted with such fervor the journal entries between my breasts shifted.

The viscount’s shadowed chin twitched. “A … kitten.”

Hawk slipped to the corner adjacent from where his brother leaned against the door—cane tapping in silent rhythm as he awaited my answer.

“Yes, my lord.” I dropped from the window seat, still clutching the pillow like a shield. “I-I found her running about the house. Befriended her. With a piece of ham.”

Lord Thornton lifted an eyebrow—a glimmer of interest breaking through the clouds of his gaze. He nodded for me to continue while thumping the closed basket against his thigh.

Splotches of dirt muddied the damp shimmer of his forearms and palms—indicative of spending time in the garden. What might he have in the basket?

“No doubt the bones of the last person that crossed him,” Hawk offered. “Perhaps they’re our father’s. You did ask to meet him, after all.”

My stomach balled to a knot. “I-I tried to keep the kitten in a basket,” I addressed my captor again. “So she would be out of the way … but she escaped. The maids were chasing her up and down the stairs. I thought I saw her come in here.” I exhaled, squeezing the pillow between my fingers.

Hawk grinned at me from his corner and I felt a rush of pride. I’d managed to conjure an excuse with very little lying. Most of what I said was an accurate account of the morning’s events. Events that could be substantiated if our host questioned his servants.

The viscount’s lip turned on a half-grin, amused. “And you closed the door … why?”

The rolled up pages itched between my breasts as if ants crawled along them. “To keep her in one place, until I could capture her.”

The other side of his lip drew up slightly. “Ah.”

Hawk applauded as the viscount appraised the messy room again.

“So. Where is the basket?” Lord Thornton asked, skepticism creeping back into his brow.

“Um … right there.” I pointed to the one he held.

“No. Yours. You said you had a basket for the kitten.”

“Oh. I dropped it when she first escaped. I intended to carry the kitten out wrapped in a swatch of fabric.” I gestured to the disheveled room. “I was looking for something that would suffice when you came in.”

There. Perfect. I’d explained the opened drawers and the wardrobe. What could possibly be left?

“The kitten.” The viscount limped forward a step. “You found her, I assume. You wouldn’t have been so foolish as to open up an abundance of new hiding places unless you had her contained.”

Waving his hands to get my attention, Hawk motioned toward the window seat behind me.

I swallowed. “Contained, yes. She’s inside the window seat.”