knowledge that the gentlemen and the ladies never breakfasted together, rarely lunched together, and only dined together because of the supreme inconvenience of having dinner at any other hour.
Morini stepped forward into the dining room, sparing not a glance for Abigail. Abigail was not surprised. She’d been trying for weeks to hold a private conversation with the dark-haired housekeeper of the Castel sant’Agata, to no avail. Every time Abigail entered into the kitchen, Morini slipped away on some urgent task, her skirts swishing behind her, the faint scent of baking bread dissolving into the empty air in her wake. Like a wraith, Abigail thought, with just a touch of pique: pique, because surely no one else in the house was better suited to speaking with a wraith—to getting to the bottom of her wraithlike secrets, as it were—than Miss Abigail Harewood.
Even now, Morini was focusing all her solicitous attention on Lilibet. She placed a fresh rack of toast on the table next to the countess’s plate, tilted the teapot above her empty cup, and answered her in a private tone. “Signore Burke, Signore Penhallow, they both had the breakfast, it is an hour ago. Of the duke, I see nothing.”
Abigail set down her fork. Enough was enough.
“Morini,” she said, quite loud, “I wonder if I could have a few words with you on the subject of ghosts.”
Morini’s hands froze in place around the teapot.
“Morini! The tea!” exclaimed Lilibet.
Morini straightened the pot just in time. She stood for a moment, holding the pot with both hands, and glanced at last at Abigail. A short glance only, a tiny stroke of lightning, and then she turned back to Lilibet.
But still, a glance. That was progress.
“Ghosts,” she said. “Of ghosts, there are none.”
Abigail smiled. “Something else, then? Because I think the air’s humming with them.”
“Is nothing, signorina. Only the old stones, the wind rattling the old walls. You are wanting more tea?” She offered the pot, and this time her eyes met Abigail’s with resolution, with intent and dark-eyed meaning.
Abigail tapped her finger against the table and returned the housekeeper’s gaze. Not a muscle moved in Morini’s face, not a flicker. The teapot in her hands, the clothes on her body: everything was still and focused on Abigail.
The tingling began again at the nape of her neck.
“I see,” she said. “Yes, more tea. I like your blend extremely, Morini.”
“But what about the ghosts?” Philip broke in cheerfully, reaching for his mother’s toast.
“Darling, don’t reach. There are no ghosts, Morini says.” Lilibet took the toast from Philip’s fingers, spread it thickly with butter, and returned it to him.
“No ghosts,” said Morini. She shot another glance at Abigail and swept from the room.
Abigail lifted the teacup and rested it against her chin. The shadowed passageway outside the door seemed full of secrets. “She’s lying, of course. Did you see the look she gave me?”
“Nonsense. Philip, for heaven’s sake, don’t lick the butter from your toast. It isn’t considered at all polite.”
Abigail leaned back in her chair and tapped her finger against the rim of her teacup. “Very interesting.”
“I assure you, he doesn’t do it often . . .”
“Not the butter , Lilibet. I mean Morini.”
“Why? Surely you don’t think she’s hiding something.” Lilibet wiped her hands on her stiff linen napkin.
“Of course I do,” said Abigail. She set down her teacup and rose from the table. “And I mean to find out exactly what it is.”
* * *
U pon his return to the castle, the Duke of Wallingford found himself obliged, for the first time in his life, to unsaddle his own horse.
He found he rather liked the exercise, though he should never have let it become known among his acquaintances at the club.
He liked, for example, the little sigh Lucifer gave as the girth loosened and the saddle and cloth slid from his
Morini stepped forward into the dining room, sparing not a glance for Abigail. Abigail was not surprised. She’d been trying for weeks to hold a private conversation with the dark-haired housekeeper of the Castel sant’Agata, to no avail. Every time Abigail entered into the kitchen, Morini slipped away on some urgent task, her skirts swishing behind her, the faint scent of baking bread dissolving into the empty air in her wake. Like a wraith, Abigail thought, with just a touch of pique: pique, because surely no one else in the house was better suited to speaking with a wraith—to getting to the bottom of her wraithlike secrets, as it were—than Miss Abigail Harewood.
Even now, Morini was focusing all her solicitous attention on Lilibet. She placed a fresh rack of toast on the table next to the countess’s plate, tilted the teapot above her empty cup, and answered her in a private tone. “Signore Burke, Signore Penhallow, they both had the breakfast, it is an hour ago. Of the duke, I see nothing.”
Abigail set down her fork. Enough was enough.
“Morini,” she said, quite loud, “I wonder if I could have a few words with you on the subject of ghosts.”
Morini’s hands froze in place around the teapot.
“Morini! The tea!” exclaimed Lilibet.
Morini straightened the pot just in time. She stood for a moment, holding the pot with both hands, and glanced at last at Abigail. A short glance only, a tiny stroke of lightning, and then she turned back to Lilibet.
But still, a glance. That was progress.
“Ghosts,” she said. “Of ghosts, there are none.”
Abigail smiled. “Something else, then? Because I think the air’s humming with them.”
“Is nothing, signorina. Only the old stones, the wind rattling the old walls. You are wanting more tea?” She offered the pot, and this time her eyes met Abigail’s with resolution, with intent and dark-eyed meaning.
Abigail tapped her finger against the table and returned the housekeeper’s gaze. Not a muscle moved in Morini’s face, not a flicker. The teapot in her hands, the clothes on her body: everything was still and focused on Abigail.
The tingling began again at the nape of her neck.
“I see,” she said. “Yes, more tea. I like your blend extremely, Morini.”
“But what about the ghosts?” Philip broke in cheerfully, reaching for his mother’s toast.
“Darling, don’t reach. There are no ghosts, Morini says.” Lilibet took the toast from Philip’s fingers, spread it thickly with butter, and returned it to him.
“No ghosts,” said Morini. She shot another glance at Abigail and swept from the room.
Abigail lifted the teacup and rested it against her chin. The shadowed passageway outside the door seemed full of secrets. “She’s lying, of course. Did you see the look she gave me?”
“Nonsense. Philip, for heaven’s sake, don’t lick the butter from your toast. It isn’t considered at all polite.”
Abigail leaned back in her chair and tapped her finger against the rim of her teacup. “Very interesting.”
“I assure you, he doesn’t do it often . . .”
“Not the butter , Lilibet. I mean Morini.”
“Why? Surely you don’t think she’s hiding something.” Lilibet wiped her hands on her stiff linen napkin.
“Of course I do,” said Abigail. She set down her teacup and rose from the table. “And I mean to find out exactly what it is.”
* * *
U pon his return to the castle, the Duke of Wallingford found himself obliged, for the first time in his life, to unsaddle his own horse.
He found he rather liked the exercise, though he should never have let it become known among his acquaintances at the club.
He liked, for example, the little sigh Lucifer gave as the girth loosened and the saddle and cloth slid from his
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