Chapter Six

CHAPTER SIX

"T idiness isn't his strong suit, is it?" I asked, nose wrinkling as I stepped into Emmett's cluttered bedroom. The tables were covered with knick-knacks, and boxes were piled upon the floor, although some were labeled "Paris" or "Grandma Edith" here and there. There were paperweights, empty vases, bookends holding up no books, even a ship assembled within a glass bottle. It had the air of a collector rather than someone anticipating actually making use of said items.

"He doesn't allow the maids to organize it," Maxwell said with a shrug as he turned to close the door. "They work around it as best they can." He stooped down to snatch an envelope from the floor. He turned it over with a frown. "This wasn't here before. Someone must have left it recently." He held it up so I could see the name "Emmett" scrawled across the front in a tight, neat script.

Beezle squirmed in my arms, so I released him into the room, where he settled onto a chair to observe our progress.

Maxwell crossed the room to retrieve a letter opener from a desk, although I didn't know how he found it amongst the sea of baubles. With a sure stroke of the blade, Maxwell freed a letter from the envelope and unfolded it to unveil more of the same handwriting. He cleared his throat as his eyes danced across the page. "Most infuriating Emmett, I'm rather cross with you at the moment. Not a word for weeks and suddenly making demands of me? I received your note, and I refuse your terms. If you would like an audience, you may call on me, but I will not put my reputation in jeopardy by meeting you in the middle of the night in such a secluded locale. I've done you a favor, and I detest this secretive business. You know where to find me when you're ready to behave in a more dignified manner."

I peered over his shoulder. "Who is it from?"

He lifted the page for me to see that the signature was missing. "I'm not sure." He hesitated. "Given the conversation we just overheard, I wouldn't be surprised if it was Isabel."

I nodded slowly, brows knit together as I began to walk the room, eyes sweeping over the haphazard piles. I took the time to sift through Emmett's desk drawers carefully and studied his bookcases with care while Maxwell combed through his wardrobe. I paused when I noticed a portrait hanging on the wall. There was Flora and a healthier version of the duke, wisps of thin blonde hair still clinging to his scalp, while younger, skinnier versions of Ambrose and Maxwell grinned wide for the painter. The artist had captured their likenesses quite well, and I wasn't surprised to find that even two or three years ago, Ambrose was already as tall as his father. Between the brothers was a pensive boy, stiff and offering only a hint of a smile. His cheekbones were striking, his lips full like his mother's. This would be Emmett then, a few years removed. He was good-looking like his brothers, but he seemed uncomfortable in his own skin. My eyes returned to Maxwell, carefree and happy with his family surrounding him. It likely hadn't been too long after this had been completed that the duke had fallen ill.

I moved on, picking up a music box with gold trim. I had just begun to lift the lid when the door to the room burst open, startling me so that I nearly dropped it, clutching it against my chest in an effort to save it. I glared back at the door to find a similar glower from Zachariah.

"I know you didn't just leave me to fend for myself with that hell beast."

Maxwell winced. "If anyone can handle Isabel, it's you. And anyway, how was I to know she would interrogate you?"

"So, you were watching." Zachariah narrowed his eyes as he swept into the room. Beezle leapt from the chair and scampered under the bed, likely reading the resentment radiating from the new arrival. "And of course I can handle myself. I just didn't expect to have to." He swept an arm in my direction. "I see how it is. You leave me behind for the first pretty face that comes along."

I beamed, replacing the music box onto the desk, earning a squawk of abrupt, tinny notes. "You think I'm pretty?"

"You know you're pretty," Zachariah said, pointing at me accusingly.

I shrugged. He had a point.

Maxwell scratched the back of his neck sheepishly. "Sorry, Zachariah. If it makes you feel any better, we haven't found anything noteworthy."

"That's because you left your most observant friend behind."

"Okay." I held up a hand in surrender. "Forgive us insufferable fools for leaving you behind."

Zachariah sniffed, taking the seat Beezle had vacated. "Very well. But I refuse to lift a finger to help."

I rolled my eyes for Maxwell's benefit, then frowned, turning to Zachariah. "Why are you even here? You're not competing for Ambrose's hand."

Zachariah straightened. "No, but I'm participating in the games. To offer moral support."

I narrowed my eyes. "You're spying for the family, aren't you? Their eyes and ears when they can't be around."

Maxwell winced. "Well, someone has to look out for the family. We need to be able to identify anybody who's here with less-than-noble intentions."

Zachariah nodded. "People only after the title, or the money."

I raised an eyebrow. "How's that any different from Ambrose looking for a pretty face who can say and do the right things, like some glorified prop?"

"For one, he has everything he needs. Everyone else wants to weasel their way into a life of luxury."

I crossed my arms. It seemed the same to me. Ambrose just had more choices.

"It's a good thing that Zachariah is in the games," Maxwell said. "As such, he has a token."

"Does he now?" I sent him a look of interest.

Maxwell nodded, turning expectantly to Zachariah. "Zachariah?"

"Hmmm?" the boy played innocent. "Oh? My token? I haven't decided who should have it yet. I definitely want it to go toward the suitor most likely to make Ambrose happy."

"He wants the prettiest," I said flatly. "That's me."

Maxwell chuckled, then shook his head.

"You know," Zachariah said, pulling his token from his pocket and lifting it up to the light from the window. "I actually think you would get along swimmingly with Ambrose. You sound just like him."

I bristled at the comparison. Ambrose was nothing like me. He was a spoiled, arrogant, selfish brat who clearly thought of no one but himself. I froze, then frowned. No … I wasn't like that. Was I?

"They are nothing alike," Maxwell said, noting the distress on my face.

"Thank you," I murmured, although I could make out the skepticism on Zachariah's face as we resumed our search.

Finding nothing out of the ordinary after a time, I settled onto Emmett's bed, trying to imagine a scenario where Emmett would disappear without leaving a note for his family, but would reach out to an acquaintance for a favor. "Has your brother gotten into trouble with anyone lately? Is he into gambling?"

Maxwell glanced back over his shoulder from the box he was rummaging through. "No. My brother's vice is … he can't settle down with any one man."

Zachariah snorted at the delicate phrasing.

"Were some of these men already partnered?"

"I'm not sure. It's possible."

"And this boy he may have run off with …?"

"I don't know if there even is a boy. He hasn't talked to me about anyone recently. He brought boys around occasionally, but it's been a while."

I was nodding when I caught the scent of something familiar. A delicate whiff, stale and faint. With a frown, I stood, staring at the bed's comforter, before I pulled it aside, along with the linens beneath, exposing the bare top of the mattress.

While the sheets were pristine on top, the mattress was stained with blotches of brown, the scent stronger now that they were exposed.

Maxwell swallowed. "That's a lot of blood."

"Hardly. It could have been from a bad cut. It's not nearly enough to kill a man."

Maxwell looked at me sharply. "Okay, but what does this mean?"

I touched the bloodstains as Zachariah approached to get a better look. "It's actually relatively fresh. Maybe from within the past two weeks." I considered. "I assume Emmett didn't make his own bed."

Zachariah offered a short chuckle. "Have you seen the state of his room?"

Maxwell sank into a chair. "I'll need to check with the maids. Someone saw this."

I watched him staring off into the distance for a moment before I reached out hesitantly, placing a hand on his shoulder. "This doesn't mean he's …" I let my voice trail off, the unspoken word hanging in the air. Dead. "He may have been injured though," I added.

"If those robed men came for him in his sleep, I doubt he had much of a chance," Maxwell said softly.

"No, but they also didn't try to kill you. They intended to kidnap you. Which means they wanted you alive. Plus, there's the note. It was a reply, which indicates there was an original note from Emmett."

At Zachariah's puzzled look, Maxwell handed him the note to peruse. "So, my brother might be alright." Maxwell lowered his head and rubbed his temples. "Notes can be forged, however, can't they?"

I didn't reply, already having come to such a conclusion myself. I briefly considered a more sinister explanation, such as a vampire attack, but the kidnapping attempt would be too much of a coincidence. Plus, the risk of witnesses was much more likely seeking an invitation into this house, when there was a vast expanse of darkness in the gardens outside.

"I don't know what to do with this, Lucian. I need to know who those men are and why they're targeting my family. Someone we know has to be connected with them in some way, or they couldn't have gained access to the grounds in the first place."

"We need to continue following the clues," I told him.

"I know. It's just …" He glanced over at the stained mattress. "He'd been spending a lot more time by himself lately. He wasn't sad or melancholy or anything, just … distant. He wanted time to himself. Maybe if I'd been there for him, forced my company upon him …"

"You can't do that. What-ifs will lead nowhere. Let's move forward and get your brother back, alright?"

Maxwell smiled softly. "Alright."

We turned our attention to Emmett's studio, which was in the room next door. It wasn't much more organized than his bedchamber had been. Paintings crowded the walls and were stacked in neat rows, leaning on one another for support. Brushes were left strewn about a table, although they were clearly well cared for, while canisters of paint were piled upon each other in the middle of the space. There were more blank canvases and easels heaped together at the back of the room.

"He spends a lot of time here," I observed, taking in the scenes Emmett had crafted, mostly of landscapes. Isabel was in quite a few of them, leaning on a tree or looking out over a stream with a parasol shading her face. "He's quite skilled."

"I think so," Maxwell nodded as he walked around the room.

Zachariah tutted, leaning over a painting of Isabel laughing on a swing strung from a tree. "He's missing her horns and pointed tail."

Ignoring him, Maxwell grazed an unused frame with his hand. "I always encourage him, even if Father gives him a hard time."

"The duke doesn't like him painting?"

Maxwell shuddered. "Hardly. He thinks Emmett's time should be dedicated to more serious matters, like the church and this community. He has no tolerance for art. It's why Emmett's right hand is …" He stopped, as if remembering himself. "But Father rather liked to hunt and those sorts of pastimes before he become an invalid."

Emmett's right hand? My eyes narrowed as I mulled over the implications. The duke didn't seem the sort of upstanding family man he presented himself to be. If the duke was his role model, no wonder Ambrose acted as if everything in the world was there solely for his convenience. "I would think life miserable without art," I said conversationally.

Maxwell looked relieved. "My thoughts precisely. And while I haven't an artistic bone in my body, Emmett makes up for the entire family's shortcomings in that department, wouldn't you agree?"

"I would, actually." I ambled over to a canvas sitting on an easel, a cloth thrown over it. I was careful as I removed the covering to reveal a painting that contrasted with the nature scenes littered about the room. This one was mostly black, shadows coiling around trees and empty fields, although it gave me the uneasy feeling that something was looking out from that emptiness. I turned to another veiled canvas and peered at a dried-up riverbed, trees bare and lifeless as a moon bathed the scene in cool blue.

"Are these his most recent works?" I asked.

Maxwell frowned as he took the pieces in. "I haven't seen them before. Emmett has been very secretive about his works lately. I'm not sure why. It must be because he's experimenting with a new style." He rubbed one of his arms, as if to warm it. "I'm not sure I approve."

"Perhaps he knew you wouldn't," I suggested, stepping closer. The detail was striking; I made out an owl resting in the grasp of a twisted tree branch. The paintings actually reminded me quite a bit of the time I'd spent awake during such hours, when the world was still. There was something romantic about the loneliness of night, and these paintings spoke to that. "I think he's onto something with these, honestly. They may be less joyful, but he's capturing the essence of night in a profound way."

"Is he?" Maxwell stooped to examine the paintings closer. I turned and brushed my shoulder against his, growing still at his closeness. I watched Maxwell's eyes drink in the paintings, scrutinizing every inch of canvas; I did the same to his face, as if to memorize it. He wasn't the beauty Ambrose was, and yet … I felt drawn to him nonetheless, a pull that was hard to shy away from.

"There was never denying his talent," Maxwell said at last, straightening. "But I prefer sunny scenes." He seemed to be aware of our closeness all at once, and his eyes lingered where our shoulders touched. Even though we were separated by fabric, it was like something thrummed between us there. Maxwell must have felt it too, I thought, but then he slid away casually as if nothing had occurred.

Zachariah seemed to miss the encounter, stepping back from one of the grim paintings and cocking his head, studying it. "At least he moved on from immortalizing Isabel. These are more captivating by default."

I swallowed hard, blinking to refocus on my surroundings, on what I was doing here. I caught movement out of the corner of my eye and paused as I met my own gaze in a mirror slightly tarnished from neglect. It was still an odd sensation to behold my reflection after years of walking by mirrors with only emptiness looking back, a void to match a soul growing weary of the decades passing, one after another. I'd had only the reactions of my victims to reflect what I was. And they had informed me that I was a soulless monster.

I took a shuddering breath then tried for a smile, watching my lips curve upward, dimples deepening to lighten my visage. I really was tremendously handsome. But without this face, this body, I was just left with … what I had become. I needed to see this shell to remind me that I was more than cruelty and perverse pleasure.

Stop overthinking things, I chided myself, looking around for a distraction from the mirror. My eyes fell on one last canvas still covered in cloth. I snatched the veil off with little ceremony, exposing a graveyard at night, fog reaching ghostly fingers toward the observer.

"He did have a phase where he devoured penny dreadfuls," Maxwell said, suddenly at my side again. "Perhaps he was inspired by those ghastly stories." He shrugged. "Cecelia would likely approve."

Zachariah snorted. "That she would."

I pointed out a gravestone at the center of the painting. It had words splayed across it. "Together in the next life," I read aloud.

Maxwell snapped his fingers. "That's what this is about. Father acquired several books on reincarnation recently. He's been interested in it, as a dying man."

I sighed. "Of course, death is on your brother's mind, what with your father so close to dying." What had Cecelia said last night? That the family had already started the grieving process?

"I suppose this was a wild-goose chase."

I gestured to his earlier paintings. "I don't know. Isabel spent a lot of time with him. We know she's holding something back. This only confirms that if anyone has the answers, it's her."

Maxwell scowled. "I don't see Isabel being forthright about anything."

"No," I said, frowning. "I don't either."

We locked the studio after us, then ensured Beezle didn't sneak out of Emmett's room between our legs as we secured the door to his bedchamber. I ambled down the staircase after the other two in silence, contemplating the bloody mattress and the mysterious note, before Zachariah turned to Maxwell with a mocking bow. "I will bid you both good day, to make my appointment." He met my eyes as he straightened. " They will likely appreciate me, at least."

I crossed my arms, grinning. "I appreciate your need for attention."

"Look who's talking."

Maxwell bit his lip, which did little to hide his smile as Zachariah flounced toward the doors. "You do like attention," Maxwell told me.

I shrugged. "More like I'm accustomed to it."

We made our way to the library, where I wanted to peruse the texts on reincarnation Maxwell had spoken of. Melbourne and Cecelia were already in the room, the latter with a stack of books on a table before her, while Melbourne drummed his fingers impatiently on the back of his chair. He brightened when he noted our arrival.

"Well, look who it is," Melbourne greeted us. "When we were placed as far from you as possible at breakfast, I thought it might have been a slight."

"No slight was intended, I assure you," Maxwell smiled.

"Cecelia," I greeted. "We were just talking about you."

"Is that so?" she asked, raising her eyes from her books skeptically. "Why do I feel like I'm about to be insulted?"

"Because you know me too well already," I sighed, shaking my head. Maxwell slapped my shoulder good-naturedly and I winked.

"Emmett has been painting some nighttime scenes you would likely appreciate," Maxwell explained.

Cecelia played with a lock of her hair, considering. "Color me intrigued. I'll have to see them." She gazed past us. "Is he back? It was a dalliance with a boy, wasn't it?"

Maxwell adjusted his collar. "Er, no. I'm sorry to say he hasn't returned as of yet."

"A pity."

Melbourne crossed his arms. "Well? Are you going to tell us what happened last night, or are you going to leave us in suspense?"

Maxwell gestured to the sofas at the back of the room and took a seat with them. I, however, felt too restless to sit. I wandered over to the bookcase just beyond them and let my fingers run over the leather spines. I smiled as I noted Jane Austen among the titles. So, Isabel's womanly touch was unnecessary, after all. Just as I imagined. It was a rather well-rounded collection. If anything, Isabel was the one who needed a firm hand.

I grabbed a book on the afterlife as reincarnation, as Maxwell had mentioned, and paged through it as I half-sat on the back of the sofa between Melbourne and Cecelia, forcing them to turn their heads to see me. "Melbourne, you and Emmett both …" I hesitated, trying to phrase what I wanted to ask delicately, but found no way to allude to what I wanted to know without losing clarity. "You both enjoy the company of men quite a bit."

Melbourne chuckled. "We run in the same circles, if that's what you mean. But we never sought out each other's company, should that be your implication." A grin spread across his face. "Why? Has he been asking about me?"

"No," Maxwell said, sending me an exasperated look. "He's still missing. It's not a joke."

"You're truly concerned?" Cecelia asked him, arching an eyebrow.

"Very much so."

"You haven't seen him with anyone new lately?" I asked, glancing at Melbourne.

Melbourne shifted. "New? Heavens no. I haven't seen him at the club or in town at all the past month, truth be told. People have been asking after him."

Cecelia frowned. "You don't know if he's courting someone? Did you have a row?"

"No," Maxwell protested.

"Did he exchange words with the duke?" I asked.

Maxwell met my gaze, understanding crossing his features. "No. They've been perfectly cordial as of late."

I shut my book with a snap. "Do either of you know anything about what Emmett has been up to recently?"

Cecelia considered for a moment. "I did see him about a fortnight ago. He was on the side of the road as my carriage drove by."

Maxwell perked up. "A fortnight ago? What day?"

"It had to have been Friday. The twelfth, I believe? We were late returning from the opera. Mother was with me."

I could see the excitement in Maxwell's eyes as he inched forward in his seat. "Was this after he disappeared?" I asked him.

"It was," Maxwell confirmed. "Three days later. What time did you see him?"

"Perhaps one in the morning, if I had to hazard a guess." Cecelia waved her hand. "I can't be exact."

"Did he look at all distressed?" I asked, standing to lean against the sofa.

"Not in the least. He merely watched our carriage pass by. I remember remarking to my mother that it was rather late for a stroll."

"Where was this?"

"Old Mill Road."

"You know it?" I asked Maxwell.

He nodded, glancing toward the window, as if he would be able to see the road from here. "Of course. It's not far."

"Thank you," I told Cecelia, striding back to the bookcase to select a different book on the same subject. "Would you be willing to show us the exact place where you spotted him?"

"Certainly, at least within a few yards."

"Good," I said, scanning the next bookcase. "We'll go in a carriage together then."

"You mean now ?" Melbourne interjected. "We can't go now. We have archery in an hour."

Cecelia nodded. "It's essential we showcase our skills, and consequently, prove why the others won't be in the competition much longer. Some are bound to seek favors from us in exchange for their tokens if they expect to be dismissed in short order." She paused, tilting her head. "We could go after dinner. Although we would miss mingling in the game room."

"I'll make your excuses," Maxwell assured her. "And that will do. The days are long just now, but we'll bring along lanterns, just in case."

I glanced at Maxwell, his jaw tense, his eyes lined with worry. "You realize this confirms Emmett is alive, or at least was several days after he vanished."

"But why hasn't he sent word?" Maxwell wondered, rubbing his chin. "It's so unlike him. And why hasn't he returned home?"

"Perhaps he fears those robed men will be waiting for him," I suggested.

Maxwell stilled. "That must be it. And when they realized they couldn't have Emmett, they turned their attention to me."

"You still haven't told us what happened," Melbourne pointed out, and I allowed Maxwell several minutes to explain the attempted kidnapping in the garden.

I flipped through the book in my hands impatiently until he finished the story. "Have you seen anything like the moth symbol anywhere?" I asked, hoping for some clue as to the identity of the hunters.

"I have not," Cecelia said, glancing expectantly at Melbourne.

Melbourne chewed on his lower lip. "I feel like … I may have. I just can't for the life of me remember where."

Maxwell met my eyes. "Think on it, Melbourne. If you remember, call on me with due haste."

Melbourne smiled at him. "You would have me call on you, good sir? I'm honored."

I sighed heavily.

After Melbourne and Cecelia had gone, Maxwell lingered in the library, seemingly lost in thought. I was paying more attention to him than the tome in my hand, so I was startled by the sharp bite of a papercut. I grunted, watching the blood well up along my left index finger before bringing it to my lips and sucking on the blood. I knew it would be the same as the robed man's blood, but I was disappointed nonetheless at its blandness.

"Are you alright?" Maxwell asked.

"Quite." I removed the finger, putting light pressure on the cut with my other hand. "But I should really be asking you that question."

He shrugged, looking away. "I'm not sure how I feel. I realize it's only been a fortnight and no one else is especially concerned, but if Cecelia did see him on the side of the road alone, with no captors dogging his steps, why hasn't he returned home?"

"His circumstances may be hard to overcome," I pointed out. "He was likely attacked in his room, if the mattress is any indication. Somehow he escaped their clutches, either while they were attempting to seize him in his bedroom, or as they were transporting him somewhere." I paused, thinking. "If he could send word to you without fear of a message falling into the wrong hands, I believe he would have. He clearly sent word to someone else."

"I know. I feel a bit like a fool since he's been seen, like I'm making something of nothing."

"Those kidnappers were not nothing, Maxwell. If your assertions about someone in your circle allowing those men entry to the grounds is correct, then I think that further explains why Emmett hasn't contacted you. Perhaps he knows someone is on their side. Perhaps he even knows who they are, which could be even more dangerous for him." I chewed on my lower lip, realizing that if that was the case, and Emmett knew who those men were, then this could be the perfect avenue to collect the information I required to meet Vrykolakas's terms, all while keeping in the family's good graces. "We need to keep our guard up. Ambrose is surrounded by people all the time, but you … you're vulnerable. That's likely why you were targeted and not him."

Maxwell sent me a wry smile. "Don't tell me you're worried about me."

"You would rather I lie?" The words were out before I could stop them, and I was startled by them myself. Maxwell softened, but there were mixed emotions in his eyes. I was courting his brother after all, not him. We were becoming friends, but … perhaps he desired more? I wouldn't let myself ponder such possibilities. He was only going to be part of my life for a very short period. I might like him, but I could not become entangled in anything with a human, especially one from a distinguished family, if it wasn't part of Vrykolakas's plan. "You're one of the few people I find I can stand. I would hate to see someone whose company I enjoy so much kidnapped by bandits."

Maxwell seemed to relax even more at my words. Or did he deflate? I tried to discern disappointment in his countenance, but it eluded me. I'd thought I was good at reading people, prided myself on it, but it turned out that emotions were more complicated than I'd given them credit for. It was easy to see anger, lust, greed … but matters of love were truly another beast altogether.

How I hated it.

"Then perhaps you can be my escort while I'm here," Maxwell suggested in a teasing tone.

"I think that would be wise," I agreed, surprising him as I pushed the book I'd been holding back into its place on the bookshelf. Already the bleeding from the papercut had stopped, but I found its persistent sting annoying. "At least whenever you leave the manor. If you can't go with someone reliable, take me with you."

"I'll do that." He bestowed a genuine smile upon me. "I'm glad you joined the competition, Lucian. Things are much more interesting with you around, and dare I say, I feel much safer."

Safe? With me? I snorted in response.