A Ghost in the Gallery
The great oak doors of Ashworth Manor swung closed behind Lyra Montclair with a sound like a tomb sealing shut.
She stood in the center of the foyer, her traveling cloak still damp from the afternoon mist, and counted the chandelier’s crystals. Forty-three. The exercise steadied her hands. The servants had vanished into the walls the moment the butler dismissed them—efficient, invisible, exactly as Xavier Voss commanded his household to operate.
“You’ll want to refresh yourself before dinner.”
She turned. Xavier stood at the base of the grand staircase, one hand resting on the carved newel post, his expression unreadable. He had changed since the chapel. The ceremonial gravity had been replaced by something sharper, more calculating. This was the man who had built a shipping empire from a single merchant vessel. The man who had broken three rival firms before his twenty-eighth year.
“The east wing has been prepared for you,” he continued. “Separate chambers, as we discussed.”
*As he had dictated*, Lyra corrected silently. She inclined her head. “That suits me perfectly, Your Grace.”
“Xavier. We are married now. The formality will draw questions.”
“Then I shall practice in private until it sounds natural.”
A flicker of something crossed his face—amusement, perhaps, or suspicion. He was difficult to read. His eyes never stopped moving, cataloging her posture, the angle of her chin, the way her fingers gripped the clasp of her cloak. She had the uncomfortable sensation of being appraised by a man who valued precision above all else.
“Cole will show you to your rooms,” Xavier said. “I have correspondence to attend to before supper.”
He did not wait for her acknowledgment. He simply turned and walked down the corridor to the left, his footsteps echoing against the marble floor with a rhythm as measured as a metronome.
The man who appeared at her elbow wore the quiet authority of someone accustomed to violence kept carefully leashed. Cole. Mid-thirties, broad-shouldered, with scarred knuckles and eyes that had learned to see everything while revealing nothing.
“Your Grace.” He gestured toward the staircase. “If you’ll follow me.”
The east wing occupied the entire third floor of the manor’s oldest section. Cole led her past a series of closed doors, each one painted a different shade of muted green, until he stopped at the final door at the end of the hall.
“His Lordship requested that you have the corner suite. The windows face both the garden and the eastern meadow.”
“How considerate.”
Cole’s expression did not change. “Dinner is at eight. His Lordship prefers punctuality.”
“Is there a library I might use?”
“The main library is on the first floor, west corridor. His Lordship keeps it locked when he is not in residence, but I imagine he will provide you with a key.” A pause. “Is there anything else you require?”
“No. Thank you, Cole.”
He nodded once and withdrew, his footsteps receding down the hall with the same measured precision as his master’s.
Lyra closed the door and leaned against it, pressing her palms flat against the wood. The room was elegant—tasteful wallpaper in cream and sage, a four-poster bed draped in linen the color of winter clouds, a writing desk positioned to catch the last of the afternoon light. Everything about it whispered of wealth that did not need to announce itself.
She crossed to the window and looked out at the eastern meadow. Somewhere beyond those rolling hills, in a cottage that Margot had secured with the last of Lyra’s carefully hoarded savings, her son was probably eating his supper at a wooden table too small for his growing frame.
*Jace.*
She pressed her hand against the glass. Seven years old. Seven years of hiding, of moving from village to village, of teaching him to lie about his surname before he could properly write it. Seven years of watching his eyes change color from newborn blue to that peculiar shade of amber-gold that she saw every morning in her own reflection.
Eyes that matched the woman in the portrait.
The thought struck her with such force that she stepped back from the window. She had seen the portrait only briefly, during the wedding ceremony, when her gaze had wandered to the gallery that ran along the second-floor balcony. A woman in blue silk, dark hair swept up in the fashion of twenty years past, her face composed in a smile that held no warmth.
And her eyes.
*Those eyes.*
Lyra had looked away before anyone could notice her staring. But the image had burned itself into her memory, and now it surfaced again with the stubborn clarity of a brand.
She needed to see it again. Up close. Alone.
Dinner was served at precisely eight o’clock in the small dining room, a space that could seat twelve but currently held only two places set at opposite ends of the mahogany table. Xavier was already seated when Lyra arrived, a glass of claret resting beside his untouched plate.
“I trust your rooms are satisfactory.”
“Entirely so.” She took her seat, and a footman appeared to pour her water. “The manor is beautiful. How long has it been in your family?”
“Since 1723. My great-grandfather purchased it from a bankrupt earl who had lost his fortune at cards.” Xavier picked up his glass but did not drink. “The Voss family has always been adept at acquiring what others fail to protect.”
There was a warning in the words, subtle but unmistakable. Lyra met his gaze and held it. “A useful skill.”
“Is it? I find it depends entirely on what one acquires.” He set the glass down. “Tell me about your family, Lyra. You mentioned your parents were merchants. What did they trade?”
The question was casual, almost bored, but she recognized it for what it was: an interrogation disguised as conversation. She had prepared for this. She had rehearsed the answers in her mind until they felt as worn and familiar as a favorite dress.
“Textiles, primarily. My father traveled to the Continent several times a year. He dealt in silks from Lyon, linens from Ghent.” She took a sip of water, letting the pause feel natural. “He died when I was sixteen. Consumption. My mother followed a year later.”
“And left you with no fortune to speak of.”
“None worth mentioning.”
Xavier studied her across the table. The candlelight carved shadows into his face, emphasizing the sharp lines of his jaw, the hard set of his mouth. “Yet you arrived in London with sufficient funds to rent a respectable townhouse for an entire season.”
*He had checked.* Of course he had checked.
“I had my mother’s jewelry,” Lyra said, her voice steady. “I sold most of it before the season began. The rest financed my wardrobe.”
“And now?”
“Now I am the Duchess of Ashworth. I imagine my jewelry will be of considerably less consequence.”
The corner of Xavier’s mouth twitched. It was not quite a smile, but it was closer than anything she had seen from him since the chapel. “You deflect well. I’ll give you that.”
“I learned from watching you, Your Grace. You’ve asked six questions in the last ten minutes and answered none of mine.”
For a long moment, he simply looked at her. Then he picked up his knife and fork and began to eat.
The rest of the meal passed in careful, neutral conversation. Xavier spoke of the estate’s history, of the renovations he had commissioned to the west wing, of the tenants who farmed his lands. Lyra asked questions that kept him talking without revealing anything about herself. She had learned, in seven years of hiding, that people who enjoyed the sound of their own voice rarely noticed when others remained silent.
It was not until the footmen cleared the final course that Xavier rose from his chair.
“I have business to attend to in my study. You are free to explore the manor, though I would ask that you avoid the west corridor on the second floor. I keep sensitive documents there.”
“Of course.”
He paused at the door, his hand resting on the frame. “Lyra.”
“Yes?”
“Whatever you are running from—” He did not turn around. “—I trust you understand that it cannot follow you here. This marriage may be a practical arrangement, but I will not allow it to become a liability.”
He left before she could answer.
Lyra remained seated for a full minute after the door closed, counting her breaths. One. Two. Three. When she reached twenty, she pushed back her chair and walked out into the corridor.
The manor was quiet. The servants had retreated to their quarters, and the only light came from the gas lamps that flickered at intervals along the walls. Lyra moved through the ground floor with careful, silent steps, her skirts gathered in one hand to prevent them from brushing against the furniture.
The portrait gallery was dark when she reached it. She found the lamp on the side table and turned the wick until a small flame bloomed, casting long shadows across the paintings that lined the walls.
They were a catalogue of Voss ancestors. Men in military uniforms with stern expressions. Women in lace and jewels, their faces painted with the same distant smile. Children who had grown into adults who had aged into dust.
And at the end of the gallery, in a gilded frame that caught the lamplight like captured gold, the woman in blue silk.
Lyra raised the lamp and stepped closer.
The portrait was dated 1802. The woman appeared to be in her late twenties, with dark hair swept back from a high forehead and a neck adorned with pearls that glowed against the deep blue of her gown. Her features were classical—straight nose, full lips, the kind of beauty that painters idealized and poets lamented.
But it was the eyes that held Lyra captive.
Amber-gold. Warm and deep and flecked with something that caught the light like scattered coins.
*Jace’s eyes.*
“You recognize her.”
Lyra spun, the lamp swaying in her hand. Xavier stood at the entrance to the gallery, his silhouette framed against the dim light of the corridor. He had changed out of his dinner jacket and now wore a simple waistcoat and shirtsleeves, his cuffs rolled back to reveal forearms corded with muscle.
“I—” She steadied herself. “She looks familiar. Who is she?”
“My mother.” Xavier walked toward her, his footsteps soundless on the carpeted floor. “The late Duchess of Ashworth. She died when I was twelve.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. We were not close.” He stopped beside her, close enough that she could smell the soap on his skin, the faint trace of claret on his breath. “You stared at her portrait during the ceremony. I noticed.”
“I was nervous. I looked at the first thing that caught my eye.”
“You’re lying.”
The words hung between them, flat and undeniable. Lyra did not look away. She had learned, in seven years of hiding, that the first person to break eye contact was the first person to lose.
“I am your wife,” she said quietly. “That is what matters.”
“Is it?” Xavier reached out and took the lamp from her hand, his fingers brushing against hers. “I married you because you were convenient, Lyra. Because you had no family, no connections, no past that could threaten what I have built. But I am beginning to wonder if that convenience came at a price I did not account for.”
“You knew my circumstances when you proposed.”
“I knew what you told me.” He turned and walked back toward the entrance, the lamp casting his shadow across the portraits as he passed. “I find that I am no longer satisfied with what you have chosen to reveal.”
He stopped at the door and looked back at her, his face half in shadow.
“Good night, Your Grace. I trust you will find your way back to your rooms.”
He left her standing in the darkness, surrounded by the painted eyes of dead Vosses, her heart beating so loudly she was certain he must have heard it.
—
The village of Thornwood lay three miles east of Ashworth Manor, a cluster of stone cottages gathered around a green that was currently occupied by a flock of geese and a single, muddy cart. Lyra arrived on foot, having slipped out of the manor before dawn while the household still slept.
The cottage at the edge of the lane was indistinguishable from its neighbors, save for the small garden of lavender that grew along the front wall. Lyra knocked twice, paused, knocked once more.
The door opened to reveal a woman with copper hair and a face that had weathered too many disappointments to still hold hope.
“Lyra.” Margot pulled her inside and closed the door. “You shouldn’t be here. If anyone saw you—”
“I was careful.” Lyra embraced her friend, feeling the bones beneath her thin shawl. “Is he—”
“Sleeping.” Margot’s voice softened. “He asked about you last night. Wanted to know when you were coming back.”
Lyra closed her eyes. “Soon. I just need a little more time.”
“He’s seven years old, Lyra. He doesn’t understand why his mother keeps leaving.”
“I know.” She opened her eyes and looked toward the narrow staircase that led to the upper floor. “I know.”
Margot watched her for a moment, then reached into the pocket of her apron and withdrew a folded piece of paper. “This came for you yesterday. A boy delivered it from the village. Said it was from a gentleman who didn’t give his name.”
Lyra unfolded the paper. The handwriting was sharp, angular, written with the kind of pressure that punctured the page.
*Lady Ashworth—*
*Congratulations on your recent marriage. I wonder if your new husband knows about the debt you left behind in Bristol. I would be happy to discuss the matter discreetly. Meet me at the Thornwood Inn, tomorrow at noon.*
*—A friend.*
There was no signature. There did not need to be.
Lyra folded the paper and slipped it into her sleeve. “Did you see who delivered it?”
“A boy. No older than twelve. He said a man paid him a shilling to bring it.” Margot’s face had gone pale. “Lyra, who is this? What debt?”
“It doesn’t matter.” Lyra moved toward the door. “I’ll handle it.”
“Handle it how? You’re the Duchess of Ashworth now. You can’t just—”
“I said I’ll handle it.” She stopped with her hand on the latch. “Keep Jace safe, Margot. No matter what happens. Promise me.”
“I promise.”
Lyra opened the door and stepped out into the gray morning light, the folded paper burning against her wrist like a brand.
—
The intelligence ledger sat open on Xavier’s desk, its pages filled with the meticulous observations of three different investigators he had commissioned over the past fortnight. They had traced Lyra Montclair’s movements back through the last five years, from London to Bath to a dozen small villages whose names blurred together on the page.
She had kept moving. Always one step ahead of something.
Or someone.
Cole entered without knocking, a habit Xavier had long since forgiven. “My Lord, I have something you need to see.”
Xavier looked up from the ledger. “Speak.”
Cole placed a single sheet of paper on the desk. It was a receipt from a foundling home in Bristol, dated seven years ago, stamped with the seal of the Bristol Parish Charitable Trust. The payment was recorded in the name of Lyra Montclair—then Miss Lyra Ashford, a name she had used during her time in the city.
The sum was modest. The purpose was not.
“The orphanage payment from her account,” Cole said, his voice flat and professional. “It matches the birth year of your assignation at the Ravenwood Masquerade.”
Xavier stared at the paper. The masquerade. Seven years ago, before he had inherited the title, before he had learned to build walls around every vulnerability. One night, one woman, one moment of carelessness that had haunted him in ways he had never admitted aloud.
“Go on.”
“I traced the records forward. The child was moved from the orphanage six months later. The trail goes cold after that.” Cole paused. “But I found a woman named Margot Haskett who made inquiries about a private cottage in Thornwood three weeks before your marriage. She paid in gold, from an account that matches the same originating signature.”
Xavier rose from his chair, his hands planted flat on the desk. The ledger. The receipt. The name.
*His assignation at the Ravenwood Masquerade.*
“The child,” he said, his voice low. “Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Boy, my lord. Their records listed him as Jace.”
Jace.
Seven years old.
With eyes the color of amber-gold.
Xavier closed his eyes and saw his mother’s portrait. Saw the eyes that stared out from the canvas, the same eyes he saw every morning in his own reflection.
The same eyes he had seen in the face of the woman he married.
“Bring me his location,” he said. “Tell no one.”
Cole reports to Xavier: “My Lord, I traced the orphanage payment from her account. It matches the birth year of your assignation at the Ravenwood Masquerade. The child lives.” Xavier’s jaw tightens: “Bring me his location. Tell no one.”