Page 49 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

“I told you to trust me,” I said at last.

Silence.

Then, finally, “It seems I was right about one thing,” he murmured, treating me to a long, unreadable look. “You certainly don’t ride like a lady.”

The laugh that erupted from me then was one of pure delight, and when I looked over, I thought that even he was smiling.

CHAPTER TWENTY

The rest of the day was uneventful. Percy’s enthusiastic retelling of my race with Stefan went down as well as one might imagine with Helena, who proceeded to spend the entire evening making small, sharp comments as skilfully as a surgeon with a blade. It was death by a thousand cuts, as I smiled at her and she smiled at me.

In the end, I didn’t have to feign a headache to retire early. I winced as Matilda pulled out every pin, and collapsed into bed. My muscles ached from the riding, and from being squeezed into such a tight corset while I ate dish after dish at dinner. Wouldn’t it be heaven to eat dinner in my nightgown? I thought dreamily. So much more room. Tonight, there had been brown bread ice cream, and sherry syllabub with cherries, and lemon trifle wrapped in a cage of intricate sugar-work. Despite my best efforts I had been unable to do it justice.

I lay there, my mind ticking over. I hadn’t realized how time-consuming being a society lady would be – there had been no opportunity to investigate my father’s death, and time was something I didn’t have the luxury of. I frowned, gazing up at the ceiling, and my mind returned to what Tookes had said about the will.

I hadn’t been at the reading of the will – I was too young. No one had been in a hurry to explain it to me, and so while I knew the general terms were as Cassie had said, I had no other ideas as to the specific bequests. I thought about the horses, my mother’s jewellery … surely Father wouldn’t have wanted that to go to my stepsisters?

I rubbed my nose absently. I had been looking at this through the eyes of a child, but I wasn’t one any more. Maybe there was more to my father’s will than I knew. And if Tookes was right, the will might well be at the centre of Helena’s machinations.

I groaned. It didn’t make any sense – surely Helena had a handsome allowance whether my father lived or died. Why had they been arguing about it?

Then I sat upright. Here was something tangible that I could do. I could try and find a copy of that will.

But how to go about it? The family solicitor was hardly going to disclose it to Serena Fox, nor could I waltz in declaring myself Iris Scott-Holland. Perhaps there was a copy somewhere. Perhaps Father had kept a copy.

Perhaps there was a copy in the house.

And, I thought, if Father had kept a copy, then I had an idea where it might be, and there was also a pretty good chance that Helena had absolutely no idea about it.

Of course, it did mean another late night.

With a tired sigh I settled in to wait.

I was almost dozing off, my romance novel in my hand, when the clock in my room chimed one o’clock. Surely that was late enough for everyone to be in bed. As I had the night before, I drew my dressing gown around me, tying it tight, and I picked up my candle.

This time, though, it wasn’t the servants’ quarters I was heading for. It was the library.

I crept through the winding hallways until I reached the right door. I paused, listening, to make sure no one was around, and then I slipped inside.

“Oh, god,” someone groaned as I stepped through the doorway, illuminated by the light in my hand. “It’s you.”

“Lord Wynter?” I asked, dismayed, moving around so that I could see the figure sprawled in an armchair in front of a fire that had burned down low. He had discarded his jacket and his hair was rumpled. He did not look at all like his usual polished self.

“Lord Wynter?” He raised an eyebrow. “I thought I told you to call me Nick.”

I took a step forward. “What are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same question.”

“I couldn’t sleep. I came to get a book.” I gestured around the room at the walls lined with shelves, filled with thousands of books. Some of them, I knew, even had the words Iris Scott-Holland written inside their covers in uneven calligraphy.

I loved this room. It smelled of leather and wood and burned earth, and, despite its size, it still felt cosy. My father had an office but he had always preferred to work in here, often with me playing at his feet. I glanced around; his desk had gone, though that didn’t worry me – it wasn’t his desk I had come to search. Not that it mattered now… I could hardly do any sleuthing with Nick here.

“Your turn,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

He held a glass in his hand, full of something that glowed like amber, lit from within in front of the fireplace. “I couldn’t sleep either.” He frowned into the glass. “I tried a different solution.”

“Drinking and glaring into the fire?” I laughed. “You really can be a cliché, Lord Wynter.”