Ignoring the taunt, Edmund offered an arm to escort the baroness into the dining room. His usually light voice came thick. “Come, your ladyship, let us take supper.”
Smiling politely at her host, she followed protocol and let him lead her to the seat at his mother’s side.
Wine flowed and the courses progressed. Beside Mr. Harrow, Lilly tried her best to entertain the gentleman, but the girl struggled, Mr. Harrow’s answers short and not conducive to conversation.
In fact, he seemed appallingly bored.
As the dessert course was taken away, Harrow leaned back in his chair. He looked down the table, pointedly ignoring the chatter of the female at his elbow. “Lady Iliffe,” he called, “Do you know why Crescent Barrows carries its name?”
Arabella, conversation with Lizzy interrupted, pursed her lips. “Does the tale of the White Woman figure into the name?”
Table quiet, the color went out of Mrs. Jenkins’s complexion, Mr. Harrow allowing one side of his mouth to curve up in an indulgent smirk.
“From your expression, Mr. Harrow, I must assume the original name was based on something far more romantic and much less morbid,” Lilly sang, slipping into the conversation in an attempt to draw the beautiful black eyes back her way.
“Indeed, Miss Jenkins.” Harrow flattered the girl at his side. “The location of the manor was chosen not only for the view, but for the flowering vines that once covered the hillside. When my ancestors placed the foundation, they unearthed an ancient grave and within it discovered a crescent shaped savage’s ring. Taking it as an omen, they christened the property Bower Crescent for the flowers and the treasure hidden in the ground.”
“Your ancestors?” Arabella could not help but ask. “Crescent Barrows is your family home?”
“Yes.” The gentleman nodded, continuing the story. “As I was saying... the ring was gifted to my ancestor’s bride when the structure was completed.”
Captivated, Lilly cooed. “How lovely.”
“Not exactly. The ring was cursed, you see. Once it was taken, stone began to crack, tools disappeared. In less than a year, the flowers turned to briars and the land grew hard as rock. But my forbearer was proud, relentless, and unwilling to bend to the voices in the wind. At least not until a strange illness came upon his lady. She passed from the world, wasted away.
“Ravaged with grief at the death of his beloved wife, the legend says that the ring was buried with the woman beneath the house, but it did not appease the spirit it was stolen from. The blooms did not return and the howling did not cease. Eventually the locals stopped referring to the fortress as Bower, altering the name to Barrows for the graves: the grave of the unknown owner of the ring, and for the grave of the wife.”
“Is your home haunted?” Lizzy asked, looking at Arabella as if she would be crazy to return to such a place.
Thoroughly amused by the story, Arabella could not help but snicker into her wine. “Do not believe a word Mr. Harrow speaks. He is telling tales now that he has discovered your affinity for stories.”
Acrimonious, pitch eyes glowed, the man countered. “You do me a great injustice, Lady Iliffe, leading the two lovely Jenkins sisters to doubt my word.”
She met the stare of her adversary. “Perhaps I do them the favor by pointing out your falseness.”
“Come now, Lady Iliffe,” Lilly jumped to the gentleman’s defense. “All the neighborhood has heard the tales of the White Woman.”
“Lilly is right. Several locals have seen her carrying her candle past the windows of Crescent Barrows while it lay empty,” Lizzy admitted in a hushed whisper.
Arabella sneered. “You describe that nonsense so poetically.”
“And do you fear for your future wife, Mr. Harrow?” The fan of Lilly’s lashes lowered, the beauty coy as she flirted. “Do you fear she will befall the same fate as your ancestress?”
“Lady Iliffe is correct, Miss Jenkins. It was only a tale told to entice. You need not fear... for my future wife.” He purred the words at his hostess, Lilly blushing with the implication.
How casually he played with people. It disgusted Arabella.
Eager to change the subject to something far less unnerving, Mrs. Jenkins smiled at the baroness. “After so long to be dancing again, what did you think of the exercise, Lady Iliffe?”
Sipping her wine to clear the bad taste Mr. Harrow’s behavior had left in her mouth, Arabella considered the best answer. “It was an interesting experience, but perhaps the minuet is not for me.”
“I believe,” Mr. Harrow offered, looking pointedly at the rather quiet gentleman watching the baroness, “that Mr. Jenkins assumes you would strongly prefer the waltz.”
Something about his words made Edmund’s ears go red, Mr. Jenkins turning toward the only other man in the room with an expressionlessness that Arabella assumed demonstrated anger.
The scowling dark haired antagonist only leered in response.
“I am unfamiliar with the waltz. What is the difference?” Arabella asked, setting her glass aside.