Page 4 of One Last Whisper

Still, the cold creeps in, just touching me as I pull the comforter over my shoulders. It’s not threatening me, not yet.

But it’s not letting me forget that it’s there, either.

CHAPTER TWO

The nightlight is successful. I spend the night free of nightmares and awake well-rested five minutes before my alarm goes off.

The castle is far less intimidating in daylight. The sun rises early this time of year in Northumberland, and even through the deeply recessed castle windows, enough light comes through to make the gray of the walls and floor far less threatening than in twilight. A little drab, I suppose, but not so cold and dark.

I save all five of those minutes and arrive downstairs at five minutes to seven dressed in a flattering but sensible outfit consisting of a low-hemmed skirt over black Oxfords, a long-sleeved white button-down blouse and a gray cardigan with a single clasp below the neck. Theresa is dressed similarly, elegant but not so fine as to be accused of putting on airs, a deadly sin among the English.

“They’ll be late,” she informs me when I greet her. “They always are. You know how lords are.”

The closest person to a lord I’ve worked for in the past was Sebastian Carlton, a now-disgraced telecommunications billionaire. I had a large part to do with his disgrace, as it was I who exposed the murder his daughter committed and caught him plotting to cover it up. He wasn’t a good person by any means, but he was always punctual.

Then again, he wasn’t a lord.

The Blackwoods arrive ten minutes later, so they're not exceedingly late. No butler announces their arrival, though, which I find somewhat surprising considering the status Lord Edmund holds. Instead, the Lord and Lady enter the room without introduction, leading a small boy in between them.

Lord Edmund stops ten feet away and looks imperiously at us. He is of average height and somewhat portly in build, although not excessively overweight. His hair is gray, and his eyes are frost blue. He is not difficult to look at, but perhaps not the image most think of when they call to mind the image of an English nobleman.

Lady Cordelia smiles, and for a moment, I am unsure who she is. She is far younger than Lord Edmund, not even thirty. That can’t possibly be the Lady Cordelia. Perhaps Lord Edmund has a daughter he hasn’t mentioned.

I am not a judgmental person, despite all appearances to the contrary. I keep an open mind about love and relationships, and in general, I feel that people are better off not concerning themselves with the affairs of others. But like many people, I can’t help but wonder when I see a wealthy man wedded to a woman young enough to be his child. Were Cordelia ten or even twenty years younger than Lord Edmund, I might excuse it, but she must be nearly thirty years his junior.

It's not your business, Mary,I remind myself.You’re done solving mysteries.

“Good morning, your Lordship,” Theresa says, bowing low. “This is Miss Mary Wilcox. She arrived late last night. I let her in and decided it was best not to wake you, sir.”

Lord Edmund nods slowly. “A pleasure to meet you, Miss Wilcox. I am Lord Edmund Blackwood. You may address me as your Lordship, Lord Blackwood, or sir.”

His voice is resonant and powerful. I can see where he gets his reputation as an orator in the House of Lords. I bow and say, “Thank you for having me, your Lordship.”

He nods again, still slowly. I must say, it’s a bit ridiculous how intentionally regal he makes everything he says and does. Really, itisthe twenty-first century.

He gestures to Lady Cordelia. “This is my wife, the Lady Cordelia.”

Lady Cordelia smiles again and curtseys. “It’s wonderful to meet you, Mary. We’re so glad to have you.”

She truly is beautiful. She has flowing dark brown hair and fair skin. Her eyes are the color of honey, and her full lips and soft but noble features accentuate the radiance of her smile. Her figure is delicate and statuesque, like a work of art. I can see why Lord Edmund is attracted to her. I only hope his love is the sort that brightens the flame in the heart of such a beauty and not the sort that extinguishes it.

“And this is my nephew, Master Oliver.”

Oliver opens his mouth to greet me, but before he can get a word out, a horrible coughing fit overtakes him. He covers his mouth and tries to control it, but his little body shakes with the force of each whooping exhalation. His face reddens, and for a terrifying moment, his lips seem to turn blue. But he recovers, and with an apologetic smile, he says, “It’s nice to meet you, Miss Mary.”

“Oliver is often unwell,” Lord Blackwood offers by way of explanation or perhaps apology. “He should stay indoors to avoid exacerbating his condition.”

It is my experience that staying indoors all day is the worst possible thing someone with trouble breathing can do for their health, but now is not the time to argue with His Lordship. So, I only incline my head and say, "I'm pleased to meet you, Oliver."

“Master Oliver, if you please,” Lord Edmund interjects.

My impression of His Lordship grows sourer by the minute. "Master Oliver," I correct. "I have a feeling you and I will get along famously."

He smiles at me, and I see in that smile an image of the sort of child Lord Blackwood might have been. He is the boy's uncle, not his father, but the family resemblance is clear. The samefrost-blue eyes, the same slightly upturned nose and slightly outturned ears. He's a beautiful child, but he's so small for his age and clearly as sickly as Theresa warned me. My heart goes out to him, and I hope fervently that he will grow to be more like his aunt and less like his uncle.

This is an unfair judgment, of course. I have known all of them for barely a minute. I can’t possibly tell who they are based on this first impression, and I know well enough how wrong a first impression can be. Still, having met them, I can see that I will adore Oliver and find Cordelia charming. Lord Blackwood will be annoying at best and infuriating at worst.

Well, after all, heisa Lord. What do aristocrats exist for if not to remind us how much better they are than we?

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