Page 89 of A Single Thread of Moonlight

Nick muttered a string of words, all of them unsuitable for a lady’s ears, and I realized that he was in bed, though he sounded awake enough. “Do you walk through walls now?” he asked.

I laughed nervously. “Something like that.”

“Well, sit down over there by the fireplace,” he said, “I’m not exactly dressed for company.” He didn’t sound angry, only amused.

I sat in the chair, my back to the rest of the room, my candle on the table beside me. There were several more soft curses and thumping sounds, and then he was there, in front of me.

He wore dark trousers and a loose white shirt, hastily buttoned, half-wrong, and open at the neck. His feet were bare, and his hair was rumpled.

I swallowed, a flush coming to my cheeks.

“Yes, well,” he said, looking down at himself in the light from my candle. “A bit of notice next time and I can present a more polished picture.”

I thought he looked delicious.

He picked up my candle from the table and walked over to the gas lamp on the wall, using a taper to light it and keeping the flame low.

It was enough to illuminate the room in a soft amber glow.

“You really are here,” he said, turning to look at me. “I almost thought you were a ghost.”

“I’m afraid not,” I said, rubbing my hands against my dressing gown. He didn’t seem upset by my appearance in his room, but my nerves were jumping all over the place.

“What are you doing here, Iris?” He looked over at the wall panel which had now clicked back into place. “How on earth did you even get in here?” He walked over to the wall and ran his hand over it, obviously mystified, before turning to face me.

“That’s a long story,” I murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “One that I came here to tell you.”

Nick leaned against the fireplace. “So that’s it. You know it wasn’t a trade, telling you all that last night? You don’t owe me anything.”

“I know that,” I said quietly. “I want to tell you. I have wanted to tell you for a long time, but I didn’t know how.”

“Then tell me,” Nick said gently, echoing my own words to him.

I fiddled with the tie on my dressing gown.

“Did you know Lord Scott-Holland?” I asked.

Nick frowned at this apparent diversion from the matter at hand. “I never met him, no,” he said. “He died when I was quite young, I think.”

I nodded. “You were probably about fifteen or sixteen,” I said. Around the time he was falling in love with Lila.

“That sounds about right.”

“And when did you first meet Lady Scott-Holland?” I asked.

“A couple of years later, I suppose. Doing the rounds during the London season.”

“Did you know that Lord Scott-Holland had a daughter? Lady Scott-Holland’s stepdaughter.”

Nick’s face changed then. His eyes were wary. “The one that Agatha mentioned,” he said slowly. “The one who drowned.”

“She didn’t drown,” I said. “She ran away. To London.”

The words were out, and I watched them land.

“Iris,” he murmured. “Iris Scott-Holland.”

His eyes locked on to mine. I couldn’t have looked away even if I’d wanted to.