The Architect of Song (Haunted Hearts Legacy Book 1) (14 page)

A thoughtful expression curved his brows. “I concur wholeheartedly.”

I studied his apparel—his periwinkle shirt clashing with his burgundy vest like a black rose stands out in a vase filled with poppies. The rumors of his architectural prowess, the outlandishness of his artistic schemes, appeared to be true. If I were guessing, I would say he used color in brash and stunning ways to unbalance people. To give him power over them.

“And how do you get these to hold their form?” he asked, referring to the strawflowers again.

“It is all in the way you dry them. Bundle them in twine and hang them upside down. If the buds are facing the ground, the petals will retain their beauty. Takes little talent. Only knowledge and patience.”

He secured the bonnet on its holder and smoothed the crape as if petting a child’s head. “Ah. But such patience is a talent in and of itself. And this garden hat is superb.” He tweaked the round, broad brim lined with violet muslin. “Who supplies the plumage?” His breath bent three long feathers of jade and slate green, tucked within a cluster of navy roses. “I understand such embellishments are lavishly priced.”

I shoved away another unwanted niggle of admiration for his knowledge of my craft. Wiggling my feet beneath my hem, I attempted to look bored. “My lord, such flattery is fruitless. I’m satisfied with the customers I have—”

Uncle caught my elbow and I pieced enough of his words together to surmise he was telling the viscount that I raised my own birds and flowers.

With an admiring nod, the viscount turned his attention on me again. “So, I venture you support the recent practice of mounting whole, stuffed birds upon hats?”

I clenched my teeth. “Absolutely not. Better to wait for them to molt and gather the feathers like leaves.” Uncle squeezed my elbow gently, but I eased my arm away. “I do not condone the killing of animals for ornamentation or sport. Lest their meat be dressed for a banquet, it is vanity at its most debase.”

Our guest appeared amused. “Yet you hold the birds in cages, so they can’t fly as their instincts entail. Is this not cruel vanity as well?”

Hot prickles tightened my cheeks. I studied his forehead, hoping to find a bruise from anymore head-banging episodes at the cemetery. Finding no such flaw, I mentally berated how his shirt clashed with his vest and cravat. “Do you have a more suitable solution for containing them,
sir
?”

“I do. And I’ll share it with you, Miss Emerline. Please.” He pointed his cane’s tip toward the settee and I took my seat again, staring miserably at Hawk’s flower.

Uncle stood beside me and the viscount perched on the settee’s arm opposite us, capturing my attention. “Seven years ago, I acquired the Larson Estate in Worthington.”

Intent on the viscount’s face, I noticed a taut tension between his brows upon the mention of the Larson name—a transformation so minute, anyone not attuned to reading faces would’ve missed it.

The viscount tilted his head and the sun highlighted the auburn brushstrokes in his hair. “The mines had been scraped hollow,” he continued. “For three years beneath my watch, the estate grew stagnant. Other than ornamental gardens, I was unable to establish any worthwhile sowing or harvesting. The abandoned mines have compromised the soil’s nutrients. And there are an abundance of hot springs that hinder tilling the lands. But four summers ago, I braved a new vision for the property. Along with the funds of several investors, I’ve put all of my assets into constructing a place where men can play, bringing their ladies along for jollies. It’s called, ‘The Manor of Diversions’.”

I gaped just to imagine the moral misconduct such a venue could encourage, though secretly, couldn’t deny being intrigued.

His hand raised in a reassuring motion. “‘It is nothing unseemly. Whereas, in the past, men have had their gaming sports and ladies their shopping haunts, I’ve brought it all together in one place—shops, billiard halls and clubs, banqueting halls, and lodging, all within one castle. Thus, everyone might be entertained throughout the day, yet not have to brave dark backstreets in the evenings to attend banquets and galas. No highwaymen or gangs, no gaming hells. Each separate edifice is joined to the other by enclosed corridors with gas lights and guards posted throughout for security. I’ve hired lady’s maids, so no guest will be left wanting for a chaperone. There’s entertainment aplenty indoors, which means people can winter there as well.”

As Lord Thornton continued to speak, his face glowed with an almost boyish quality reminiscent of little Ian in his rabbit costume earlier. From what I could gather—aside from times the viscount spoke too fast to be read—his estate, surrounded by a forest on all sides, was immense at ninety acres. The front façade itself measured over one-hundred-and-twenty-three meters, and boasted a star tower reaching to the clouds.

Out of everything he described, the glass-roofed winter garden piqued my imagining most, for it was there the viscount proposed—that should I work for him—I could house my birds. It spanned a full ten acres and had an ingenious entrance. Two glass doors, one to enter first, then the other to provide passage to the gardens after the first door sealed shut. This prevented the escape of the butterflies and bees which already occupied the enclosure. There, my birds would be safe to fly free.

By the time he finished his spiel, a new hunger swam in my belly—an unsettling yet enthralling curiosity about what it might be like to visit such a majestic palace. Mama’s pets would love to flutter within the winter garden and nosh upon fresh bugs. And my flowers would thrive there, as well.

“Would this be a permanent arrangement?” I asked, still adrift upon the viscount’s amazing descriptions.

“I am suggesting a trial basis of one month,” the viscount answered as he glanced at Uncle. “That should give us time to determine if we’re compatible.”

I looked at Uncle Owen. Could he not see this man’s deception? This was an obvious ruse to win my estate, to have me settled elsewhere so I’d no longer care what became of my childhood home. The viscount underestimated me. I would never be so calloused with my loyalties.

As if sensing my mental vertigo, Uncle thanked the viscount for coming by, and asked that I be given time to consider the proposition.

“Please let me know by the first of December,” Lord Thornton requested. “I plan to open the Manor the third week of the same month. I’d like you present before the guests arrive, so we might set up your boutique. I do hope you’ll come.” He kissed the back of my hand with warm, soft lips. I half expected his mouth to disappear like his brother’s.

Instead, the soft density of his touch shocked me—like a raindrop falling upon the skin from out of nowhere, when there’s not a cloud in the sky. And not only could I feel him, but I could
taste
his nearness, his almond essence sweetening my tongue.

The shadowy storm I noticed earlier played again within his eyes. I couldn’t decide if it originated from greed, desire … or danger.

Without another word, he turned, gathered his hat and cloak, and nodded a goodbye. A covetous ache weighed upon the back of my hand where his mouth had left an imprint—my traitorous skin pining for another touch.

Uncle escorted him to his black Phaeton outside, leaving me to watch from the window. Four stallions, white as spun sugar, were harnessed to the rigging which added to the fairytale illusion already awhirl in my mind.

After mounting the squab, the viscount wedged his cane between his knees, wriggled his hands into black gloves, and took the reins. He glanced at the house to catch me watching at the window. I ducked behind the safety of the drapes.

As he pulled away, the clouds from his eyes seemed to fill the sky and a heavy rain rolled in. I grabbed Hawk’s flower, gathered my skirts, and fled upstairs, desperate to hear my ghost’s voice once more.

An irrational fear had crept over me, that now that I’d touched the living embodiment of him, his spirit would be lost to me forever.

Hawk practiced no restraint upon his reappearance. He cornered me until my shoulder blades pressed the wall, then he swept through my blood again. This time, as he broke our spiritual kiss with a tug at my lips, he kept his palms on the wall at either side of my head and drank me in with his eyes.

“Say something,” I managed to plead as my body rocked from within, awash with the pleasure of rejuvenation.

“You are a beauty and a wonder,” he said, “within and without.”

His baritone drizzled in my eardrums like warm honey. The pleasure lasted only an instant before he started to fade again. I tripped over my skirts to pluck another fresh petal from the flower sitting on the desk. Opening my locket, I found the petal I had put in moments ago was as black and crinkled as the one before it.

It confirmed my worst dread. That just as each spirit-kiss made me feel more alive—even had the benefit of healing my wounds—it killed a small part of the blossom. And since I had yet to see the flower sprout any new petals, we would have to be frugal with such intimacies.

Once I had the freshly filled locket in place against my skin, and Hawk had materialized, I held the evidence in my upturned palm. “We must choose our moments with care, at least until new buds form.” The crinkled petal trembled beneath my breath.

Comprehension creased his forehead, and I marveled again at the incredible likeness he shared with our earlier guest.

“What guest?” Hawk turned with me toward the desk.

Skirts gathered beneath me, I sat in the chair.

“Did someone come with Enya’s family?” He perched on the desk’s edge. His long legs stretched out next to me so my left elbow should have raked his right thigh.

Opening the deepest drawer of my desk, I took out a black velvet toque perfect for a mourning traveler, and nestled it in my lap. “No. Lord Thornton visited today. He came early.” I fished through the drawer’s contents, pushing aside rolls of various colored ribbons, spools of thread, and stray laces in search of a cluster of burgundy ribbon roses to embellish the cap’s crown. Finding this, I pinned it above the hat’s mourning veil and threaded a needle.

Hawk’s expression grew somber. “To buy your estate?”

“No. He’s using a new tactic. He wishes to distract me from my home. Make me forget it.”

“How?” Hawk’s fingers kneaded wrinkles in the knees of his breeches.

“Uncle and I have been offered couturier positions at his holiday establishment in another town.”

“So, we are to move?”

I paused, mid stitch. “I-I don’t wish to. I have no desire to be the clay pigeon for the upper class’s insult shooting. I do not belong in society.”

“Shush.” Frowning, Hawk rushed a fingertip across my lips—a silken wisp of air. “They would all be stunned by your acumen and talent. You might find they are not as judgmental as you deem.” He paused then. “And just think of it … we could finally uncover the viscount’s link to me.”

“I already have.” I paused, then
He’s your brother
echoed in my mind as an afterthought.

Hawk’s mouth gaped. “I-I have a
brother
?”

Studying his pocket watch, my ghost sat wordless as I sewed the roses and told him of the morning’s experience while we were apart—leaving out the more indecorous details of my behavior upon his brother’s arrival. When I had finished my spiel along with my stitching, Hawk’s shoulders slumped.

“My twin. Age twenty-seven. Which means I’ve been dead for six or so years.”

I paused mid-stitch, wanting to get back that time for him. If only I could.

He gripped his hands on his knees. “How is it that someone so young owns the quarry where you had your accident? Do I come from great wealth?”

“You appear to, but …” I sat the velvet toque atop the desk, snipping leftover strings. “There’s something amiss. To all of society, the viscount is known as an only child.”

“He’ll give us our answers. I’ll make sure of it.” Hawk stood in front of his potted plant. “Take the offer. Immediately.”

I glared at him. “Oh, of course. Now that it holds something of gain for you, I should pack up all of my belongings into a trunk without a thought. I should gather up all of my misgivings and shut them away, for apparently, my feelings matter naught. To you or my uncle.” I scooted the chair back and strode to my bed, plopping onto my belly atop the quilt.

Hawk joined me. “Why, Miss Emerline. I believe I’ve ruffled you. I do apologize.”

“Don’t patronize me. And do not call me Miss Emerline. It is what
he
calls me.”

“My brother?”

I buried my face in the quilt.

“Look at me, Juliet.”

I rolled over, sighing.

“You’re flushed.” Hawk frowned. “What did he do to you?”

I refused to answer. Refused to even think. Made my mind a swimming, black void.

A slow-burning flame sparked my ghost’s eyes, and I thought for a moment he might press me. Then he looked at his watch again and clicked his teeth together. “You’re right. Your future rides the tide. It is your decision to make. Perhaps there is another way we can uncover my past. Without any outside help.”