Read Online Hounds of Autumn by Heather Blackwood - Free Book Online Page A

with you alone.”
    Chloe nodded, cautiously.
    “I’m sorry if our words hurt your feelings the other night at supper. My father was furious with me, and said I ought to apologize.”
    “Think nothing of it,” said Chloe. “It’s forgotten. I know that the difference in ages between Ambrose and I may seem strange.”
    “Not so strange, no. Many widowers marry younger women.” Dora sipped her tea and looked into the crowd. “Marie was a bit younger than Uncle Ambrose. I think by ten years or so.”
    Marie, Ambrose’s first wife, had died while giving birth to their firstborn, a son. The infant had not survived. Chloe knew that after Marie’s death, Ambrose had descended into a darkness so complete that his friends thought he might follow Marie and the child to the grave. It was Chloe’s father who dragged Ambrose from the opium dens and paid for his stay at a sanitarium in the country.
    When Ambrose had first proposed marriage to her, Chloe was certain he only did it in repayment to her father for his past kindness. Why else would a man of fortune and intelligence make an offer to an eccentric spinster? Later, she had accepted his offer. Their marriage was not a great romance, but she thought of it as quite a pleasant partnership.
    She knew that Ambrose was content as well. Even so, on occasion he would see a petite brunette or a little boy and get a faraway look. She would take his hand or ask about a bird or plant, and once she got him talking, he would be himself again.
    “Marie was a good person,” said Dora. “Gentle and quiet. A bit like Beatrice.”
    Chloe had been anything but gentle and quiet the other night. Or on the airship. His first wife had been all sweetness and propriety, painting silk screens and embroidering samplers, decorating their home in pleasant fabrics and colors. When Chloe had taken over the household, she had done nothing more than instruct the housekeeper to do things the way they had always been done.
    Chloe made eye contact with Ambrose across the room and he smiled and lifted the cups of tea and large slice of Battenberg cake that he had balanced on a plate. They found a set of chairs, and Chloe picked at the cake.
    People around her were chatting amiably, plates heaped with pastries. One woman wrapped a teacake in a cloth napkin and snuck it into her handbag. Another was chatting with her husband about the finery of the house. Chloe scanned the crowd for anyone who looked saddened by Camille’s death. Boys dashed past the window outside. Nearby, a man laughed uproariously and his companion fanned herself with her hand, her cheeks pink. It looked like most of the mourners had come out of curiosity. Unless they were from a few select families, it wasn’t often that they would get a chance to see the interior of one of the area’s finest houses. And courtesy would prevent the master of the house from throwing them out for anything less than the most egregious behavior.
    It was appalling that Camille’s funeral would be treated in such a way. Chloe felt a hot surge of anger, wondering if Camille’s killer were here somewhere, stuffing his face with cake.
    At the far end of the room stood a stocky man, with ruddy skin and thinning blond and gray hair. With his thick beard, he looked like an aging Viking, grown fat and soft with age. Make that a disagreeable, aging Viking, Chloe thought. He was scowling at the guests.
    Robert seated himself beside her and, following her gaze, said, “That’s Mr. Granger.”
    Mr. Granger seemed to be looking over the crowd with the same scrutiny as Chloe. His gaze caught on the refreshment table for a few moments, then he suddenly turned and vanished through the door.
    “Would you like to see the greenhouse?” Robert asked, looking at both Chloe and Ambrose.
    “I don’t think we ought to,” said Ambrose and looked at the door through which Mr. Granger had passed.
    “I’m sure it’s all right,” said Robert. “There are some other guests