Secrets of Nanreath Hall by Alix Rickloff

the laughing, vibrant woman in the painting and the solemn, rigid features caught by the photographer’s camera.
    What events lay between these two disparate portrayals?
    Would she ever know, or had those answers been lost with Graham and Prue?
    A stir of the dusty air and the creak of a floorboard signaled someone’s approach. Tilly was right. Sneaking was impossible in this place. She braced herself for the inevitable reprimand.
    â€œMiss Trenowyth? Is that you?”
    â€œGood evening, Mr. Lambert.” She straightened, stuffing her bare feet back into her shoes. Combing her fingers through her thick hair. “I know I shouldn’t be here and I’m sorry to intrude, but . . .”
    He offered her a weary smile. “Say no more. I’m relieved it’s you sitting there. For an instant, I thought I’d been snabbled by Her Ladyship and all my sneaking about was for naught.”
    â€œWhy are you sneaking?”
    â€œI was depositing a parcel.”
    â€œAt midnight? A bit late for the post, isn’t it?”
    â€œActually, this parcel was rather the worse for drink.”
    â€œHugh?”
    â€œAfraid so. He should be fine by morning. I think he left most of it along the side of the road between the village and the house. Not all, more’s the pity for my poor borrowed motorcar.”
    â€œIt’s my fault. I shouldn’t have spoken. I suppose my turning up like a bad penny came as an awful shock.”
    â€œLosing his leg came as an awful shock. You are a welcome surprise.” His eyes had a nice way of crinkling at the corners when he smiled. “Besides, Hugh’s love affair with the gin bottle began long before your arrival.”
    He gestured for her to reseat herself while he perched against a table. Pulled a silver cigarette case from his tunic pocket, flipped it open, and held it out toward her.
    â€œNo, thank you.”
    He took one for himself and lit it, settling himself more comfortably. He had a nice face, all sharp angles and straight lines, large brown eyes and a mouth that seemed always on the poise of laughter. That, and she’d always been a sucker for a whisper hint of an accent.
    â€œIs Lady Boxley that bad?” she asked. “The staff makes her sound like a cross between Attila the Hun and Bloody Mary.”
    Tony chuckled. “An apt comparison on both counts. She can be difficult, but Hugh’s been all she’s had for so long, she’s a bit proprietary. Still treats him as if he were in nappies. His injuries in Norway only made it worse.”
    â€œShe doesn’t sound like someone who would welcome a stranger into the fold.”
    â€œI expect His Majesty King George would find it hard to completely meet with her approval, but don’t let her scare you off. She might be able to tell you more about your mother.” He paused. “If that’s what you want.”
    Maybe it was the compassion in his eyes or the humor in hisvoice. Or maybe it was simply the late hour and her own exhaustion, but she found herself confiding in him. Quiet words that fell in the solemn dark of the gallery like a sinner’s confession.
    â€œI’m not sure. I had the chance to ask. The Handleys—the couple who took me in after she died—never hid the facts from me. But when they offered to tell me more, I refused. I did everything but hold my hands over my ears and whistle.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Anna shrugged in helpless incomprehension. “Guilt. Duty. Denial. A desire to be like every other child on my street with normal parents and a normal family. I didn’t want to be different.”
    â€œWhat child does?”
    Talking ripped open a wound barely healed over. Grief pressed against her chest like a weight, and it was as if she were back standing on the sidewalk, staring at the ruins of her world. “I suppose I always thought there would be time.”
    He stubbed out the cigarette butt in