“Do not be amusing, Alec. She’s trembling. She’s obviously been ill. Look at her hair.”
God, were they Stark Productions people? Kendra wondered frantically. She scrambled to her feet, her gaze swinging wildly around the room. A part of her accepted and understood that the footman with the silencer had disappeared. If she’d fulfilled her mission and given Sir Jeremy the ricin-laced claret, she would’ve disappeared, too. But what of Greene? He was dead. She was sure of it.
So where was the body?
Even as her eyes locked on the spot where the body had fallen, it began to dawn on her that there was something different about the room. The furniture seemed different, not only in appearance, but placement. Hadn’t the sofa been positioned opposite the fireplace? Her confusion deepened when she realized that someone had lit a cozy fire in the fireplace, orange-yellow flames licking with a greedy pop and crackle against thick logs. Jesus Christ, how long have I been unconscious?
Her chest tightened as a fresh wave of panic crashed through her. She didn’t really remember losing consciousness at all. She remembered the excruciating pain that seemed to peel the skin away from her bones. She remembered the crazy darkness. The dizziness. But she hadn’t actually passed out, had she?
“My dear . . . ?”
She swung around to face the older man. He was dressed in a style similar to Sir Jeremy, except his jacket was a dark brown velvet. His shirt and neck cloth now carried the stain of wine. Her eyes darkened as she stared at it, remembering how the blood had bloomed on Greene’s shirt in much the same way. Where was he? A dead man couldn’t just vanish!
“Alec, she looks like she’s going to faint again!”
“What do you want me to do about it? I don’t have any vinaigrette on hand.” Like the older man, this one had an upper-class British accent, although Kendra thought he looked, with his olive complexion and dark hair, more Italian or Spanish than English. Unlike the other man, he sounded dismissive.
He’d taken up a position by the fireplace, leaning languidly against the mantel. Yet Kendra got the impression that his pose was deceptive. His eyes remained sharp as he watched her, and there was a certain tension in the lean six-foot frame that made her return his regard with an equal dose of wariness.
Kendra dragged her eyes away from the intensity of his. “I’m not going to faint.” A moment later, however, she wondered if that was true when her gaze fell on the candles flickering on the wall sconces, and she suffered another serious case of vertigo.
“My dear, perhaps you should sit . . .” The older man was speaking again, but she barely heard him through the dull roar in her ears. Candles . . .
Her eyes darted around the room, taking in the myriad candles flickering throughout the room. “How . . . ?” she wondered, and stepped toward the candelabra adorning the desk, the long tapers lit with more than a dozen dancing flames. “Candles,” she whispered, reaching out even as her mind rebelled at what she was seeing. Impossible . . .
“What is she about?” the older man said.
“The odd creature appears fascinated by your candles, Duke.”
She ignored the dry voice, too caught up in the mystery before her. How could somebody have replaced the cleverly designed electric bulbs with candles within the space of a few minutes? More importantly, why would anyone do it? It made no sense.
But there they were. They were real. Christ, she could feel the heat against her fingertips.
Suddenly she whirled around, and either instinct or fear propelled her forward to the fireplace. The green-eyed man straightened as she approached, gaze narrowing when she lifted her hands to touch the pristine mantel. It’s not possible, she thought again. Her fingers shook as she traced the grooves cut into the unblemished marble. Closing her eyes, she could see the spray of stone chips from when the bullet scored the surface. Goddamnit, she hadn’t imagined that! So . . . was she imagining this now? she wondered wildly, opening her eyes to meet the younger man’s suspicious gaze.
“Miss Donovan, pray, sit down,” the older man—Duke—urged. “You’re not quite steady on your feet. Alec, we ought to ring for Mrs. Danbury.”
“I, on the other hand, think you ought to ring for Mr. Kimble to inquire after this girl’s character.”
“She’s ill, Alec. Anyone can see it.”