Page 46 of No Place in Time

“Yes,” he said lightly. “Dance, Isabel.”

The hall became still. All eyes turned toward them.

Cecily rose at once. Julian smiled at her, flashing the dimples she had once found so enchanting, but which now made her recoil. An oily lock of hair fell across his forehead.

“We are not dancing girls,” Cecily said, standing and taking Isabel’s hand. “And she is Lady Isabel.”

For a moment, Julian looked genuinely confused. Then he tilted his head back and roared with laughter. He flicked a hand at them as if to brush the moment aside.

“Forgive me, ladies,” he said, waving his arm. “Too much wine.” Then he sat clumsily.

Benedict did not move. His gaze stayed on Cecily, assessing her.

She turned to Isabel. “Come,” she said.

They left the hall. Outside, the night air helped to steady Cecily. Isabel leaned against the stone wall, her face pale.

“Julian was never like this,” Isabel said, her voice shaking. “Father… he would be so ashamed.”

Cecily thought of all she had heard about their father: a kind man, but a spendthrift. She thought of Benedict’s hand on Julian’s shoulder, of the woman led away, of commands given as if by the hall’s true master.

Cecily asked a servant to bring her carriage. “Don’t go back in there,” she told Isabel before she left. “Go to your room and try to sleep. And lock the door.”

On the way back to Malethurst, the carriage rocked gently over the road. Cecily stared out at the dark fields and could not stop thinking about Isabel, who lived in a house full of people, yet not one of them could protect her. Isabel’s own brother had become a stranger to her.

And she could not stop thinking about Benedict either. The way he had looked at her when she refused to dance. Not angry. Worse than angry.

He had looked at her the way a man looks at a problem he intends to solve.

27

CECILY

1298

Come at once. Catastrophe.

Cecily read Isabel’s note twice. Within minutes, she was ready. She sent word to her uncle that she was riding to Veyron Hall on urgent business, and she did not wait for his response. Isabel was not one to exaggerate. If she had written this, something had gone very wrong.

She rode straight through without lingering, keeping her mare at a steady pace. The winter air cut cleanly, and her thoughts ran ahead of her. What could have happened? Was Isabel ill? Had Julian done something?

Inside the hall, servants moved about briskly, clearing the remains of the previous night’s festivities. Benches were being shifted, rushes replaced, spilled wine scrubbed from the floor. Another night of unbridled revelry, no doubt.

A man’s voice rose above the noise.

“Those cups go back to the high table. You, bring fresh rushes. And tell the kitchens I want no delay at the evening meal.”

Cecily slowed. She knew that voice. It moved through her like cold water—controlled, deliberate, the voice of a man who was always watching.

He stood near the center of the hall, directing the household as if the servants belonged to him. He did not raise his voice. Servants obeyed him without hesitation. He held a list in one hand, consulting it briefly before issuing the next instruction.

Benedict.

He turned and saw her. His gaze sharpened, assessing rather than welcoming. He inclined his head just enough to acknowledge her presence.

“Lady Cecily.”

“I am here to see Lady Isabel,” Cecily said. She kept her tone even.