Page 25 of The Beautiful Ones

Where are you? I thought fiercely into the quiet, dusty room. Why did you leave me here with them?

The house gave no answer. Outside, the gardenias shifted in the afternoon heat, pouring their sickly, rotting sweetness through the glass, while high above the portico, a single blue butterfly beat its wings against the transom.

CHAPTER FOUR

ELIN

The tension inside Le Champ des Fleurs had reached a point where the air itself felt heavy and brittle, like old glass ready to shatter at the slightest touch.

After Cécile fled the terrace, Madame Lebon had directed her cold fury toward the servants, ordering the silver polished a second time and demanding that fresh linen be laid in the west wing guest chambers—rooms that had stood locked and shuttered since the previous autumn. I carried a stack of fresh, lavender-scented sheets up the narrow rear passage, my apron stiff with starch, my ears tuned to every distant door that opened or shut below.

I found Lucien Lebon standing near the gun cabinet in the rear hall, holding his heavy leather riding boots in one hand and a half-empty glass of rye in the other. His dark hair was disheveled, his cravat loosened, and his eyes held a bloodshot, frantic edge that made him look far older than his twenty-one years. He leaned his shoulders against the carved mahogany casing of the cabinet, staring blankly at the polished barrels of his father's fowling pieces as if searching for something he had lost.

“Did she go upstairs?” Lucien asked quietly as I approached, stepping back into the shadow of the alcove.

“She is in the schoolroom, Mr. Lucien,” I replied, keeping my voice low so it would not carry to the front parlor. “She is very upset.”

Lucien ran a trembling hand over his face, letting out a long, bitter breath that smelled sour with grain alcohol. “Warren Dewey is an arrogant toad. If my father were half the man he used to be, he would have tossed Warren off the terrace an hour ago. He lets that boy parade around our grounds as if he already owns the deed.” He stopped, his glass tilting slightly, his eyes flicking toward the closed doors of his father’s study down the hall. “Something is wrong with my father, Elin. Have you noticed it? The way he looks at the roads?”

I kept my posture rigid, my chin tucked, my eyes fixed on the heart-pine floorboards. “Monsieur seems... preoccupied with our guests, sir.”

“Preoccupied?” Lucien gave a harsh, quiet laugh that held no humor. “He, Dewey, and Reuben George sit in that study like old dogs waiting for a beating. They jump at every creak of the floorboards, every time a wagon rolls down the river road. We weren't always like this, Elin. Three years ago, before the new furniture arrived from France, before father started buying up every acre along the creek, we were an honest house. A quiet house.” He took a deep, desperate swallow from his glass, his knuckles white around the crystal. “And now these strangers—these Fairhavens—are arriving on Nathaniel Vale’s recommendation?”

“Commander Vale was well regarded by the family,” I offered carefully.

“Vale was a naval officer who thought he could play politician,” Lucien spat softly, though his eyes darted nervously toward the passage. “When he left Virginia so suddenly last summer, my father acted as if the man had murdered his mother. He scrubbed Vale’s name from every ledger in the house. Now we are throwing open our doors to three of Vale’s most intimate acquaintances? It makes no sense. Father hated the man by the end.”

“Perhaps your father merely wishes to avoid gossip, sir,” I suggested gently.

“Gossip?” Lucien’s dark eyes flashed with a sudden, sharp intelligence. “No. It isn't gossip Étienne Lebon is afraid of. It’s something else. Something he buried.”

Before I could answer or back away toward the stairs, a soft, dry rustle echoed from the central hall.

It was not the heavy tread of a footman carrying a tray, nor was it the crisp rustle of Madame’s silk skirts. It was a faint, unnatural sound, like dry leaves scraping over cold marble in the middle of a dead winter.

Lucien frowned, setting his glass on a side table with a dull clink. We stepped out of the rear passage into the grand foyer together.

The foyer was empty. The heavy oak front doors remained barred against the stifling afternoon heat, and no servants were in sight.

Yet resting squarely in the middle of the polished mahogany hall table sat the silver calling card tray.

It had not been there five minutes earlier when I carried the linens past the staircase.

Lucien stepped closer, his brow furrowed in deep confusion. “Who put this here?”

I followed him to the table, my heart suddenly beating a frantic, uneven rhythm against my ribs.

Lying on the polished silver surface was a heavy, cream-colored calling card, pristine, smooth, and stiff. No footman stood near it. No carriage had rolled up the gravel drive. No bell had rung.

I looked down at the crisp black copperplate engraving:

ADRIAN, NICHOLAS AND OCTAVIA FAIRHAVEN

Beneath the elegant printed names, written in dark, wet ink that looked as fresh as if the pen had just been lifted from the paper, was a single handwritten word:

Tomorrow.

Lucien reached out to pick up the card, but the moment his fingertips brushed the heavy cardstock, he drew his hand back with a sharp, instinctive gasp.