Chapter 8

Eight

THE CARNATION ROOM

I lay in bed, waiting for the book I’d just bought about the Dorothy Clifton possible murder/possible accident/possible suicide to download on my Kindle.

Ian had shared the Duncroft House Wi-Fi password over dinner.

Ian had done a lot of things over dinner.

For one, he’d charmed the pants (figuratively) off Louella, and in all honesty, me.

For another, he’d exposed us to an entirely different staff of Duncroft. Those who smiled, joked, called Ian by his first name, and were wholly comfortable around him as they went about their business.

Bonnie, the rounded, very pretty, middle-aged, classically trained chef (who Richard had called a “cook”) even sat with us and ate dessert while she bombarded me with questions about my business and pastry-making secrets. All this while I inwardly squirmed because Ian watched as it happened, and he did this with great intensity.

We then moved back to the Conservatory (definitely Ian’s favored space, and I didn’t think it was only because that was where he could smoke). There, we had after-dinner drinks and I watched while Ian beat Louella in a game of backgammon.

I refused to play the winner and not only because I didn’t know how to play backgammon.

No, it was because I didn’t need any more of Ian Alcott’s attention on me that night.

Now, I was in bed, wondering at my sanity for buying a book about a dead woman who had slept where I was sleeping, and also wondering if I wanted the full story, as told by Dorothy Clifton’s great-nephew.

I wanted the full story.

I just wanted Ian to tell me.

Man, I was in trouble.

A soft knock sounded at the door.

“Yes?” I called.

Louella poked her head around the door.

Shit!

I hadn’t come up with a plausible explanation why we were going to move her tomorrow, or a plausible reason why she was in the shittiest room in the house.

And now, that hour was upon me, and I was unprepared.

“Can I come in?” she asked.

“Sure,” I said.

She looked around after she slid into the room and closed the door behind her.

“Uh…” I mumbled uncomfortably.

“I’ve stuck my head into a couple of rooms,” she said, moving to the other side of my bed, then stretching out on her side next to me, up on an elbow. “I also know people like this have a nasty way of communicating things. They did it to your dad all the time.”

That was news.

“Really?”

She nodded. “He wanted to be a Lord Richard Alcott. He thought money could buy that for him. He was wrong, and when he courted their favor, they liked to make sure he knew his place.”

I didn’t know that about Dad.

Still.

“Ugh.”

“Yes,” she agreed. Then she hit me with it. “What’s going on with you and Ian?”

“Nothing,” I said, too quickly.

“He liked his dinner. He’d have preferred to be eating you.”

I batted her with my Kindle. “Lou!”

“Am I wrong?”

“He’s flirty. It’s not like he isn’t known for his killer charm.”

“Mm,” she hummed.

“He’s an ally in this mess.”

She tipped her head to the side. “Is this a mess?”

“Um, wasn’t it you last night at around this time telling me we had to get out of here?”

“No, yes. I mean, this is a mess. This house. Daniel. Portia. Richard. Jane. Ian, though, perhaps not so much.”

“I thought you thought he was unbearable.”

“I changed my mind. Sue me.”

I didn’t need this.

“Daniel’s with Portia for her money,” I blurted.

“Yes.”

I blinked. “You know?”

“Portia is…”

She didn’t finish.

“Not such a catch, if she didn’t have billions of dollars,” I filled in for her.

Lou avoided my eyes. “She’s pretty. She can be sweet. She’s smarter than she gives herself credit for. But she’s difficult.”

“She dated Ian before Daniel,” I told her.

Her gaze shot to mine. “What?”

“A couple of dates. No intimacy. Ian let Daniel think he stole her from him. It’s a game he plays. Throwing Daniel a bone.”

“Portia isn’t a bone,” she snipped.

“I agree. That said, he was very forthcoming about Daniel’s intentions. I don’t think he wants Portia hurt.”

“None of us do.”

“I need to sit her down to talk.”

“You do.”

“I saw Daniel last night, out in the fog, at three in the morning.”

Her chin went into her neck. “Sorry?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing out there so early in the morning?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. He wasn’t here when I was able to question him.”

“That’s weird.”

“It’s all weird, Lou.”

She fell to her back. “I’m upset Portia dated Ian.”

I was too.

“Why?” I asked her, because the reason she was couldn’t be the same as mine.

“Because now it’s icky that you’ll be dating him.”

“I won’t be dating him.”

She turned her head my way. “He’s into you.”

“He’ll get over it.”

“You’re into him.”

“I’ll get over it too.”

“Not everyone is François,” she said softly.

“Yes, they are, honey. Every man is François. All ego, all pride, all cock.”

And if you haven’t learned that yet, God help you, I did not say.

“You’re too young not to reach for happiness, lovey,” she said.

And what was your happiness? My father’s utter devotion that came only when you blatantly showed him yours when he was dying? And then he was dead? Is that what I get? Proving myself time and again, earning their love, but giving it as it’s supposed to be given, freely, without expecting anything in return…except to be honored with the same, but never having a chance at that unless forced by happenstance into some heroic display of undying devotion?

“Did you know,” I started carefully, “it’s a little-known fact, quite a number of husbands leave their wives when they get a terminal disease?”

“Yes. I also know the numbers are not the same the other way around. That’s love, Daphne. For all of us. We decide what to give. What to take. What boundaries to build. When to stay. When to let go. Do you think for a second your father didn’t know at first I married him for his money?”

I wasn’t comfortable talking about this.

“Lou—”

“Answer me.”

I was getting angry. “So you’re telling me he bought your devotion in the end? You may be dealing with some guilt now he’s gone, but I know you better than that.”

“I’m telling you there are ebbs and flows in all relationships. Power shifts. You must know that with how much you love your sister, and how much you put up with from her. You’re in this bed, aren’t you? You didn’t get in your car to drive to London to tell her off or just to go home and let her make her own bed with Daniel.”

“So are you saying I should have forgiven François?”

“No,” she spat. “He was a piece of shit.”

I smiled.

“Why do you think I was saying that?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Because I put up with your father cheating on me?”

Oh God.

I really was not comfortable talking about this.

“Lou,” I groaned.

“That was my bed. And his. And I only mention it because you have to let me lie in it. He was funny. He made me laugh. And oh, how he thought I was beautiful. He’d look at me and convince me I was the most exquisite creature on the planet. Good or bad, right or wrong, that meant something to me. And he gave it to me. In our way, we worked. No one can say whether the way something works is right, or wrong, except the person living it. Just as no one can say when a thing isn’t working, and it should end, except the person ending it.”

“Right, you’re right. But now, are you saying we should let Portia have Daniel without interceding?”

“I think you should tell her what you feel and what you know…carefully,” she warned. “You don’t want to lose her. But then, yes. It’s her decision. This life is her bed to make and lie in.”

“And what about the money?”

“As always, I’ll defer to you on that. Though, I will say your father put a caveat on the money that she can’t have it if she gets involved with an unsavory character.”

“So now you’re saying I should use the money as a weapon to get her to do what I want.”

She shrugged, but then said, “It certainly would be a test of how they feel about each other, both of them, if suddenly that wasn’t part of the equation.”

Oh my God!

Brilliant!

I felt my smile spread so wide, it hurt my mouth. “You’re a genius.”

She pointed to her face, “This is not just pretty.”

“It’s also pretty.”

She pushed up, grabbed the back of my head, kissed the top, then rolled off the bed.

She was halfway to the door when I called, “Lou?”

She turned back.

“My mother was filled with bilious hate, constant. I’d go visit her and that’s all I’d hear, we’d hear when Portia came with me. How much she gave up for him. How much she trusted him. How he’d used her and thrown her away. How men are all evil and selfish. That, coupled with Dad having piles of money, was why she lost custody of me. And then Andrea was a total waste of space.” I drew in breath. “And then there was you.”

I watched her suck in her lips.

She let them go to say a husky, “Stop it.”

“Love you,” I whispered.

“Love you back,” she whispered in return.

Then she left my room.

* * *

I woke.

The room was total darkness.

I threw the covers aside, swung out of bed, went to the window, pulled the drapes back, and looked down, searching for Daniel walking into the mist.

Daniel wasn’t there.

Wearing a pale, beaded, flapper’s dress, Virginia Alcott stood outside, looking up at me, those wounded eyes filled with longing. With pain.

I put my hand on the cold glass.

She lifted her hand to her throat.

Her mouth didn’t move, but I heard her words.

What about Joan?

“Joan?” I whispered.

You’re asking the wrong questions. You’re asking about her. You should be asking about me. About Joan. About Rose.

“Rose?”

Light filled the room.

I turned to look toward the door.

Ian stood there, hand out, palm up, stretched toward me.

Don’t take his hand. It’ll be the end of you. They break us. They’ll break you. They broke me. I couldn’t be fixed. Don’t take his hand.

I turned back to Virginia.

“Daphne,” Ian called.

I looked again to him.

Don’t. Don’t take his hand.

“Daphne,” Ian repeated.

You’re not safe. Leave. Go. None of us are safe.

“Daphne!” Ian yelled.

None of us are safe.

“Daphne, come to me,” Ian bid.

Suddenly, I was in his arms.

His face was stuffed in my neck, he shifted so his lips were at my ear.

“I’m going to eat you,” he whispered there.

I shivered with delight.

“Eat you alive,” he growled, his voice wrong, animal.

I pulled away in fear, and I was falling.

Falling and falling.

All I could see were stairs.

Spinning, never ending, white stairs.

I woke, truly woke, on a truncated scream.

I pushed up on an arm, reaching out to the light, turning it on dim.

The shadows slunk away.

“Holy crap, goddamn it,” I muttered to myself.

The room was freezing.

I pulled the covers up to my neck, but I didn’t lay back down. I needed to take in the room. Assure myself I was alone.

The Hawthorn Room, same as mine, other side.

How would Ian feel if I woke him up and said, “Hey, so sorry. I know we barely know each other, but I need to sleep in here because I’m having creepy-as-shit nightmares.”

I’d tell him the truth. The dreams were so vivid, so real, more of both than I’ve ever experienced (a lot more), that they were freaking me out, and I couldn’t sleep alone. Tell him that I needed his warmth in this cold, damn house. Just his warmth. His presence.

How would he feel if I asked if he minded if I slept with him?

Just sleep.

I just needed some sleep.

I mentally shook myself, and I did that hard.

I could go to a hotel and sleep.

I could go home and sleep.

My first thought being to wake up a guy I barely knew and ask him if I could sleep with him was just as freaky as all the rest of it.

Sure, he was gorgeous and charming and a fantastic flirt, but jeez.

Another important note, I’d spent another day in that house, for the most part alone, and I hadn’t asked anyone about my damned car.

A strange noise sounded, and I jumped a mile.

Then I realized it was my phone vibrating with a text in the drawer.

“Note to self,” I mumbled, “turn on do not disturb.”

I opened the drawer and pulled out the phone, but before I did, I saw the fading text notification was from Portia.

Quickly, I pulled it up.

We’re not going to be back until late tomorrow, but if it’s too late before we can head out, it might be Monday. So so sorry! Love you and hope to be back soon!

I glared at my phone.

Then I stared at my phone.

Because it was three oh three in the morning.

And I hadn’t noticed, but the text she sent that afternoon to tell me she was in London had been sent at the same time.

Exactly twelve hours earlier.