Why would anyone steal my key to the white lady's bedroom? Ren. It had to be him. The master ring of keys was locked in Manly's office. I braved the dark halls. I let out a breath when I flipped the light on in Manly's office and was greeted with the comfort of his room. No ghosts anywhere in sight. The master key ring was in the bottom drawer of his desk exactly where I'd left it. The key to the white lady's room was missing from it, too. Libby had a set, but it was too late to bother her.

Monday

In the morning, I asked Libby for her key. It was mysteriously gone as well. Undaunted, I called a locksmith before attacking the rest of the tasks on my list. I needed a new black dress for Manly's funeral. Something stunning. Eyes would be on me, after all, even though I wasn't his widow. I was close enough, and the new duchess. I called my favorite designer in London and made an appointment for the next day. London was less than two hours away. I could use the escape.

I called my general contractor and asked him to postpone the start of the renovation. I didn't want the castle torn up until after Manly's funeral. He'd wanted a reception at the castle as part of his final farewell. While I waited for the locksmith to show up, I went back to my sleuthing and my plans for the castle.

I remembered Ren mentioning Manly's diary of ghost sightings. Ren had said Manly kept it in the library. The diary would be perfect to use as proof of hauntings, and maybe even give me a clue about the best times to conduct ghost tours. What stories to tell, that kind of thing. Was there a pattern to the sightings?

The castle had such a rich history. I intended to exploit it fully. Even before the wedding, I was in consultation with a professional ghost-hunting team. I was negotiating to hire them to conduct my ghost-hunting tours. Any data I could provide them about ghostly sightings would be helpful. It was always helpful to know who you were looking for. I kicked myself now for letting Ren take the diary that had been left in my room, and made a mental note to ask him for it.

I found Harris, thinking he might know where Manly's diary was shelved and save me the time looking for it. Fortunately, Harris knew exactly what I was talking about and where it was. By the time I had it in my hands, the locksmith had arrived. I set the diary aside. The locksmith made short work of picking the lock and making me a new key. Several, actually. Just in case.

Whoever had taken the key had only made me more determined to closely inspect the room. But once inside the room, everything was pretty much as I'd left it. The room had been dusted and vacuumed. My things were cleared out, of course. I had no real fear of the room, but Ren's warnings echoed through my mind. Despite my best efforts, I was spooked by the place now. All sense of peace I'd had about the room had evaporated. What was once comfy was now slightly creepy.

The white lady had been thrown to her death from this room. And something had happened here to Will ten years ago. Something that changed the course of Ren's life. I wondered at Manly being so obtuse. Drinking? Alcohol poisoning? A drug overdose? Why dance around the facts?

I pictured three beautiful young people in here, laughing. Getting drunk or high. Watching for ghosts. Telling ghost stories. I searched the room, looking in every drawer, under the bed, in every cabinet, every corner, the closet, behind every painting—nothing. Nothing but what should have been there. I even pulled all the drawers out and turned them over, looking to see if anyone had taped anything incriminating there to hide.

There were no trapdoors that I could find. No bookcases that turned and gave way to mysterious dark passages. Nothing tucked in the fireplace or up the chimney. By the time I was done looking, I was worn out and dirty. I stood in the middle of the room, frustrated. The room appeared to have nothing to hide. Nothing to tell me. There were no telltale hearts beating behind walls. No safes hidden behind pictures. The room was a complete dud. Or I was.

Manly had given the architects and interior design firm all the blueprints he had for the castle. Some of them were ancient and merely sketches. Some of them were more modern sketches from when additions or renovations were made over the centuries. It had been clear from the beginning of my project that the castle was short on secret passages and spooky spaces. Some of them had been destroyed or walled over. Given the size of the castle, there must be more that we didn't know about. But they certainly weren't on any plans. The castle was like an archeological dig—hiding secrets and ready to be excavated. Given the castle's bloody history, past dukes wouldn't have allowed hidden rooms, priest holes, secret passages, or hidden caches to be put on plans. Given all the double-crossing and power grabs, the security risk was too great.

I texted the head architect and asked him to email me the set of plans he had for this room. It was a long shot, but I was grasping for any clue. I went to my room to shower and read Manly's journal.

My trousseau hadn't been bought with my fiancé's funeral in mind. It was sadly lacking in black. I was desperately in need of black everything, including a suitably scandalous dress for Manly's funeral. He'd left specific instructions for me on how he preferred me to dress—something tight, something low-cut to show off my cleavage, high heels, a fabulous hat. He wanted me to look stunning. He wanted me to have fun at the party sending him off. He didn't want me mourning. Life was too short. He was old. He'd lived beyond his time. He told me not to care what others thought. I had no reason to refuse him. I would do my best on all counts.

Since I absolutely had to go to London anyway, I may as well enjoy myself. Stir up a little more scandal. And why not? Lunch with some of my London friends. Go clubbing. Kill several birds with one stone.

My cabal of London socialite friends could be useful, as well as fun. Titled. Moneyed. They knew everyone, all the gossip, and had connections to other titled families. Like Zoe's.

The paparazzi bored them, but I knew my friends would get a kick out of being seen with the country's newest duchess. The Deadly Duchess was out to feed the flames of scandal, with her friends aiding and abetting. And show Ren that he wasn't the only one capable of escaping the castle, at least for a day or two.

Maybe I'd even meet with my architect while I was in town. It struck me as odd, now that I knew Ren was an architect, that Manly hadn't suggested using him or his firm. We were using one of my mother's. Different specialties? Crap, I was one of those clichéd traditional wives who had no idea what her husband actually did for a living. I laughed at myself. I'd fix that soon enough. I put "Google Ren and his firm" on my list of tasks.

I still had a few days to kill before the funeral, and there was no real reason to hang around the castle. I booked my usual hotel suite and made some calls. Sent a few texts. Within hours, I had a busy social calendar and an appointment with my architect. The only person not on my calendar was my new husband. I didn't even know where he lived in London. I couldn't very well ply my friends for information about him and his past while he was hovering around charming them into silence. I wasn't the most seasoned espionage expert, but that was no way to conduct a clandestine operation.

My architect texted back pictures of the plans for the white lady's room. As I feared, they were basic, with no mention of any secret hiding places. The most detailed one was the plan the firm had drawn up with the modifications I wanted added. It was possible a secret something would turn up once the contractor got his hands on the room. I made a note to keep a close eye and instruct him and his team to immediately let me know about anything they found.

I packed a bag and settled in to research Ren and read Manly's account of castle hauntings. Researching Ren was easy. There were pages and pages about him online. I had to wade through the recent posts about our marriage before I got to something I didn't know about Ren. Those articles about us must have irritated him, overshadowing his professional accomplishments and professional online persona.

Ren was a hugely successful and highly awarded architect. Much more so than I'd imagined. Maybe if I'd followed those things, I wouldn't have been so surprised. I blamed Ren. He was surprisingly modest about it all. But then, when had he really had a chance to brag? Conversation about architecture and his career hadn't been top priority. His personal social media accounts, however, were scant. A very private view of Ren emerged. I wondered, not for the first time, if he was trying to outrun his past.

The online picture of Ren the architect was impressive. He was a partner in his firm, a commercial company with many topnotch architects in many specialties. Ren's particular specialty was commercial modern sustainable architecture. The pictures of the projects in his portfolio were breathtaking. Beautiful works of art. Although I was his wife, it was hard to claim I viewed his work with a biased eye. I was seeing it all for the first time. Even with my rudimentary knowledge and untrained eye, it was obvious Ren was a true visionary and artist. Looking at his work was a little like peering into his psyche. He liked clean lines, glass, and mirrors.

Even so, his projects were remarkably varied and unique. Each client would naturally have opinions, objectives, and design constraints that influenced the final building. The building site provided further limitations on what could be done creatively. But Ren's style, his architectural voice, was like a signature on everything he touched. There was a dark whimsy in the elegance of his designs and the way he chose to accessorize his buildings.

As I was caught up and intrigued by his portfolio, I began to recognize details. I was stunned as I realized Ren was re-creating bits and pieces of Manly Manor in almost every project. A Gothic-esque bit here in the detailing of a window. A gargoyle statue at the entrance to one of his brilliantly modern office buildings. Once I noticed the first similarity, I couldn't un-see them. I went back over every building, looking them up, doing image searches to find more details. And yes, every project of his that I could find had something, some detail, large or small, that was clearly drawn from the castle.

Without realizing it, I was smiling. I felt a little lighter. Manly was right. Ren loves this place. I can win him back to it.

It was a stunning revelation. I pushed aside the worry that Ren was merely exorcising demons, trying to get Manly Manor out of his psyche. His projects were too gorgeous and meticulously designed, the details from the castle too intricately interwoven. He wanted the castle to be remembered. He wanted it to be part of who he was.

The firm's website bragged about the awards their designs had won. The overwhelming majority were Ren's.

Good news and bad news for me. Ren hadn't lost his love for the castle. He was still obsessed with it. But how would I ever pull him away from this career he apparently loved and excelled at? Would he ever be happy living here?

I paused, letting my imagination run. Manly may not have liked the idea of sustainable housing on the far edge of the estate property, but my breath caught at the idea of Ren's beautiful designs scaled down for residential use. Of people living happy, fulfilled lives in them. Of preserving the village as well as the estate. Of establishing an architectural mark on the village from the here and now, this century. Future people could look at them and point to a specific period in history—ours—and see the designs of our era. Why should everything here be thatched cottages and old Georgian, Elizabethan, or Victorian designs?

I realized with a start that I was bonding with Ren and coming around to his way of thinking, and he wasn't even here. His work spoke for him, maybe even more powerfully than he did in person. With great reluctance, I set aside any further search of his work.

Had Manly and Ren really been so estranged that Manly hadn't recommended Ren for the job, even though he was one of the most talented architects in the country? Or had he simply known Ren would refuse? And why had my mother never used Ren's firm?

Questions for another day. I still had to read through Manly's journal and make a copy of it for my ghost-hunting team. I opened the yellowed pages of the journal gingerly, smiling through sudden tears at the sight of Manly's handwriting. Afraid the journal would disappear on me, I took pictures of each page as I carefully leafed through it. Manly's writing was strong and vigorous at the beginning. Gradually, it became an old man's writing. It was clear he'd written later entries with arthritic hands. Whether Manly gave up recording, or the castle had quieted, in recent years, there had been no sightings. Bad for my business.

Come on, ghosts! Throw me a bone. Give me a sighting. Scare me.

I read through the entries, taking notes for my own information with a chill up my back. I was going to have to sell this place to the public if I was going to make a go of the business. The paranormal experts would make their own notes and draw their own conclusions. One thing stood out to me very quickly—this diary was very different from the one that had been left in my room. All of the entries in this one were clearly Manly's. The other had only been added to by Manly. Someone several generations before him had started it.

And some of the entries in this diary were different from the original one I'd read. I was sure of it. I'd been tired when I read the first diary, but I was certain I remembered correctly. This one had been edited. The mention of Manly's second wife seeing the white lady was missing. I wasn't likely to forget that.

Secondly, the white lady's room wasn't as haunted as Ren had claimed. The last sightings were ten years ago and very vague. Manly's notations about them were brief, and reported secondhand sightings by Ren, Will, and Zoe. But none that Manly personally witnessed.

And then the room had quieted, along with everything else.

I frowned. Manly's skepticism was clear in his brief notations. The young people were obsessed with the white lady and spent night after night looking for her. But Manly claimed to have seen her only a few times in his hundred years. He noted that it was creepy enough that he didn't want to repeat the experience and run into her again. The young people's reaction to her confused him. She wasn't a presence to mess with, in his opinion.

Were these passages the ones Ren had offered to show me to prove his point? Did he think I'd be fooled?

During his life, Manly had seen many apparitions and felt many of the sensations that guests and other dukes and family members had mentioned and recorded over the years. Seen and heard doors close by themselves. Felt the presence of someone when no one was around. He'd seen the knight in the lake a dozen times or more. Manly speculated that was because he loved the lake and took regular walks there in the evening and early morning, the times the knight was most known to appear.

My skin prickled and my heart raced when I finally closed the diary and uploaded my pictures of it to the cloud for my ghost-hunting team. I frowned as I thought hard about Ren's reaction to the book I'd found on my dresser. He'd been taken by surprise. He hadn't recognized it. Not at first, anyway. He'd expected it to be Manly's. Ren was smooth. On the pretense of comforting me, he'd taken it away. Either he hadn't wanted me to have it, or he wanted it—why?

Too many mysteries.