The air in the house changed in an instant, thick with a strange, unspoken pressure. A gardener visible through the window stopped trimming the hedge.

A kitchen assistant lowered her voice to a murmur. In the hall, a young man carrying fresh linens stepped back against the wall, as if making room for an approaching storm.

Arthur Penhaligon entered the foyer in a black suit, wearing the expression of a man who’d forgotten other human beings existed. He was tall, more imposing in person than in the magazines, with dark, carefully combed hair touched by the faintest silver at the temples.

His face was beautiful in a hard way, all sharp angles and shadows. But it was his eyes that made Maya go still. They weren’t cruel. They were entirely empty.

“Sir,” Mrs. Gordon said, bowing her head slightly.

Arthur removed one leather glove and handed it to a waiting attendant without bothering to look. “Is this the new maid?” he asked, his voice like gravel.