Secret Reflection

By Jennifer Brassel

Kelly Reid doesn't believe in ghosts, so when she finds the ghost of Stanford Manor in her bedroom mirror she is determined to prove the apparition is a hoax. Yet how does she deny his soulful plea for help and stop herself falling for a man she will never hope to touch?

Accused of murder, John Tarrant has been trapped in the manor's mirrors for 140 years. Kelly can either save him or damn him, but first she must unravel his hidden secrets.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jennifer Brassel
• Release date: Sep 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781393836322

Jennifer Brassel

Jenny Brassel is passionate about a lot of things: history, mythology and romance to name but a few, and writing allows her imagination to run riot. Creative to the bone, when Jennifer isn’t writing she can be seen with a paintbrush in hand. History, especially ancient history, is her most fervent passion and recently she has spread her writing wings to pen the first in a series of historical sagas based around the lives of her favourite pharaohs. They are filled with the epic stories of life in ancient times, warts, brutality and all.  Her work has won a number of major romance writing contests including the Land of Enchantment Romance Writers’  Rebecca; From The Heart Romance Writers’ Wallflower and Missouri Romance Writers of America’s Gateway to the Best. Jenny holds an MA in Creative Writing and teaches courses and workshops for community colleges and writing centres. Jenny hails from Sydney Australia. Married to her high school sweetheart, most of her days are spent staring at her computer screen under the supervision of a very demanding bichon frisé, Cordy.

Book preview

Secret Reflection

Jennifer Brassel

Kelly Reid doesn’t believe in ghosts, so when she finds the ghost of Stanford Manor in her bedroom mirror she is determined to prove the apparition is a hoax. Yet how does she deny his soulful plea for help and stop herself falling for a man she will never hope to touch?

Accused of murder, John Tarrant has been trapped in the manor’s mirrors for 140 years. Kelly can either save him or damn him, but first she must unravel his hidden secrets.

About the author

Jennifer Brassel is passionate about a lot of things: romance, history and mythology to name but a few, and writing allows her imagination to run riot. Creative to the bone, when Jennifer isn’t writing she can be seen with a paintbrush in hand.

Her work has won a number of major romance writing contests including: Land of Enchantment Romance Writers (Rebecca), From The Heart Romance Writers (Wallflower) and Missouri Romance Writers of America (Gateway to the Best).

Jennifer holds an MA in Creative Writing and teaches courses and workshops for community colleges and writing centres.

Married to her high school sweetheart, most of her days are spent staring at her computer screen under the supervision of a very demanding bichon frisé, Cordy.

Astrological Note

"A Great Conjunction is a conjunction of the planets Jupiter and Saturn. The last Great Conjunction took place on May 31, 2000, while the next one will be in late December 2020. Great Conjunctions take place regularly, every 18–20 years, as a result of the combined 12-year orbital period of Jupiter around the Sun, and Saturn’s 30-year orbital period. The 2000 conjunction fell within mere weeks after both had passed conjunction with the Sun, and it was very difficult to observe without visual aid because the two planets rose only 30–45 minutes before sunrise, depending upon the location of the observer."

– Wikipedia, February 2013

For Tony

First published in 2013 by Harlequin Australia

Copyright © 2013 Jennifer Brassel

Revised edition 2019

All rights reserved

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return it to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Journal of Edward James Ditchley,

Stanthorpe House, Oxfordshire, England.

October 21, 1861

Tonight it shall be done. At midnight. He thought he would escape justice. Murderer! Foul murderer! All these years. I trusted him. My friend. My cousin. How could he have done it? I looked up to him. I cannot fathom it. The miserable bastard.

My poor Elizabeth – he swore an oath to protect you, to keep you safe. I still cannot believe he could do such a thing as that. But the evidence – there is no other answer.

Forgive me not being here to stop him, my sweet Elizabeth, but I will have vengeance for you. I promise, my darling one. His hell will be endless and I swear he will beg for death before I am done with him.

Prologue

October 21, 1861

Stanthorpe House

A tiny trickle of sweat slid down John’s spine.

‘Why do you not fight, you fool?’ Edward sneered, showering droplets of warm spittle over John’s impassive face. ‘The great John Tarrant reduced to cowardice. Killer of defenceless women. You disgust me, cousin!’

Squaring his shoulders, John drew a tortured breath and awaited his doom.

Without warning Edward swung his clenched fist with surprising ferocity.

John didn’t flinch or try to deflect the blow; in his heart he knew he deserved whatever Edward had planned.

But at the last instant Edward danced aside, his fist failing to connect. A taunt only, Edward’s usual way. Instead his cousin spun about and laughed – a manic cackle that chilled John to the bone.

‘You see, Plunkett?’ Edward grinned at his faithful valet who looked on with an equally appalling smugness. ‘A coward. I always knew it.’

John lifted his chin in defiance but he knew any attempt at defence was useless. The madness raged like a fire in Edward’s eyes and he wouldn’t listen to reason even if John tried to explain.

Reason. What reason could he offer? He’d made a solemn vow to Elizabeth. A secret he would honour even unto death. And death appeared likely given his cousin’s fury. In fact, John almost welcomed it. No matter how he tried to justify it – he had taken Elizabeth’s life and, on the slim chance his cousin deigned to spare him, John would have to live with this heavy, breath-robbing stone that filled his chest, the guilt that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

Yet his heart still pounded as he prepared to meet his fate. His bedroom, a place designed for comfort and leisure, would become his gallows. He’d never thought about death, not really. Of course, he’d seen it many times on the battlefield during his short period of service, but its touch always felt far away, remote. Now it was upon him, and all he could think was to have it done and over.

Outside, lightning flashed and the storm that had been brewing all afternoon unleashed its hostile power. Driving rain pelted the panes and the trees beyond bowed as the wind whipped to a frenzy. The cacophony sounded as if the world would soon end. The air inside the room became thick and damp, and John almost smiled at the appropriateness of it all.

A quiet knock had Plunkett’s face contorting with savage pleasure. The valet was a little man with an even smaller character. John often privately questioned why his cousin kept the man so close. Elizabeth had quietly feared the secretive little man and once she’d bemoaned his presence in her house though she’d never challenged Edward on it. Well, she no longer had to be afraid. She was dead and John knew his own life was forfeit. He just wondered how his cousin intended to accomplish the deed.

The knock came again and Plunkett opened the door with an eager grin.

To John’s astonishment, a stranger dressed in what appeared a druid priest’s garb stepped into the room and came to stand before him. His hooded white cloak, covered in rusty streaks of mud, or perhaps even blood, hid his features in shadow.

Druids and their magics are surely relics of the distant past. What madness is Edward up to now?

True to form, Edward turned even an execution into theatre. John could appreciate the paradox. He had to credit his cousin’s sense of the ridiculous ... and he supposed the play-acting would allow his executioner a degree of anonymity.

‘Is this the one?’ the druid asked in an accent thick with the flavour of the West Country. He carried a small copper bowl filled with roots and herbs that smelled rich with the earthy aroma of rotting leaves. At the centre he placed a smooth egg-shaped stone then handed the bowl to Plunkett with a flourish.

At Edward’s nod the druid lifted a tiny silver knife.

Instinctively, John drew a sharp breath and edged a step back, but the mirror behind him left no room to escape the blade. He stiffened and braced for the inevitable stab of pain. But to John’s utter surprise the druid’s hand merely flashed up to deftly slice away a lock of his hair. His head jerked back, more in shock than fear.

He turned to stare at his cousin only to see a satisfied expression light Edward’s face.

‘Just get it over with,’ John said on a tired sigh. His cousin might be enjoying his little game but John was certain that the act of drawing it out would provide no salve for Edward’s grief, nor for his own guilt.

Again Edward cackled as he leaned in close and breathed into John’s face. His breath stank of whisky and though his eyes had seemed crazed, they sharpened and became hard as chips of glass. ‘I have plans for you, dearest cousin. Grand plans.’ He glanced at the knife the druid still held. It glinted in the lamplight. ‘Elizabeth would be delighted if she knew your fate, you mongrel.’

Another spurt of guilt surged through John’s chest at the mention of her name. Why did I promise?

Still, whatever torture Edward planned it was nothing more than John deserved. He turned to face the priest, to face death, praying the knife was sharp and the hand that wielded it quick and sure.

‘Your waistcoat, if you please,’ Plunkett ordered after passing the bowl back to the druid.

John frowned at the delay but didn’t argue, silently divesting himself of the garment with an economy of motion. As he took in the unique rasp of silk on fine cotton for the last time, he almost laughed at the covetous expression that crossed the valet’s face as he smoothed his hands over the expensive fabric. John didn’t doubt that the man would make fast with any belongings he could lay his hands on after his demise.

No matter. If such objects were of importance to his plebeian sensibilities, then he was welcome to them.

It is said that one reassesses priorities when death is imminent, and John could not agree more. But he had no time to reflect upon any newfound wisdom: the druid had set the bowl aflame and the room began to reek of burned hair. The man waved the bowl about and chanted in some Celtic dialect that sounded ancient and forbidding.

Again he drew his knife, motioning for Edward to put out his arm.

Edward didn’t move a muscle when the druid sliced his forearm, his rabid gaze almost gleeful as his lifeblood dripped into the bowl with a slow hiss. The stench of burning hair and sizzling blood pervaded the room and John struggled not to gag as acid rose up his throat.

For pity’s sake just do it!

The druid lifted his head and gestured over the bowl as he recited his ancient hex.

Perhaps his cousin had asked for a spell to turn him into a toad or lizard, John thought. Or maybe a hunting bird ... Edward would see the irony of keeping him tethered and almost starved in order to do his bidding.

John understood next to nothing of the druid’s words, though he spoke of celestial spheres and the rising of the sun and moon.

Lightning lit the room as if heralding his end.

Then with a final flourish the druid blew the smoke into John’s face.

Coughing and spluttering, John’s eyes stung as he tried to draw a clear breath.

Another bolt of lightning lit the room like day, cutting through the smoky haze.

‘Fate, cousin,’ Edward growled beside his ear.

Before John could even turn his head, the druid called upon the combined power of Jupiter and Saturn, and as a deafening peal of thunder rolled through the manor, he pressed his open hand over John’s heart and pushed.

Astonished, John stumbled backward and braced for the explosion of glass. The ice-cold mirror resisted momentarily, but instead of shattering, it transformed to the texture of thick mud as he fell back. An instant later, John found himself surrounded by complete blackness. Utter cold pierced his chest.

So this is hell.

*

Journal of Edward James Ditchley,

Stanthorpe House, Oxfordshire, England.

October 22, 1861

It is done, my one and only love.

When I confronted him, he admitted it. Admitted it – the murderer! I have no words to explain the desolation his betrayal has caused me, my darling Elizabeth. Such bastardry cannot be believed. I begged him to tell me why but he refused to speak, he just kept saying that he loved you, too. How much? I asked. How much had he loved you, my Elizabeth? Had he loved you in other ways? – I demanded directly. But still he refused to speak. It is the only answer ... he wronged me! Did he rape you, my poor Elizabeth? Because that is all it could have been – I know you would never have submitted to him, betrayed our love, our marriage. Oh, Elizabeth, why did you not fight him? When I told him that I planned to destroy him, he all but gave his blessing, the murderous fool. It was almost as if he wanted to die.

Little did he suspect my plan for retribution.

So, my darling Elizabeth, our vengeance has begun and his hell will indeed be without end ...

1

May 27, 2000

Stanthorpe House, Oxfordshire, England

Low dark clouds hung with ominous intent as Kelly Reid climbed from the taxi and took in the magnificence of the manor house before her. Tired as she was, a spurt of elation fired through her belly. The massive stone structure looked just as she imagined: ivy-covered pinkish-grey stone with a dark forbidding portal and narrow multi-paned windows – exactly like those from her favourite old-time movies.

To the side and behind the house stood a smaller building, perhaps a stable or garage. A pebbled drive, flanked by colourful rose gardens and low hedges, surrounded both buildings, and beyond those, gently undulating expanses of green spread outward to form fields. In the distance, between patchy stands of trees, she could glimpse a canal or stream with a tiny stone bridge crouched over it. Past the stream she could just make out the cluster of roofs of the nearby village of Garford.

Her nostrils flared as she drew in the unnaturally clean air.

A cool wind whipped around her, tugging at her hair as the taxi drove away.

Staring back at Stanthorpe House she felt a little like a character from some story by Poe or Du Maurier and wondered what secrets might lie hidden deep within its past. Quiet but for the occasional chirp of a bird, the silence wrapped around her like a comforting shawl and the travails of the past few months, her divorce from Frank, suddenly seemed a lifetime away.

The thought of Frank made the bile begin to rise up her throat so she was grateful when Nancy’s high-pitched squeal stole her attention. Nancy emerged from the shadowed portal and raced down the steps with her arms spread wide. Kelly dropped her bags and ran to meet her. She was a teenager again: the lonely little rich girl flying into the embrace of her English friend after a summer vacation that lasted far too long.

Just as they used to, she and Nancy hugged and spun and jumped in unison, babbling unintelligible nonsense at each other. To anyone else they’d appear silly, but Kelly didn’t care – it had been a couple years, a lifetime of change. For both of them.

‘I’m so pleased you’re here! I’d begun to think you’d missed your flight,’ Nancy said after they’d both caught their breath.

With a swift glance at the taxi as it faded into the distance, Kelly shrugged. ‘I think the driver decided to take the scenic route; the trip seemed to take a heck of a lot longer than you said it would.’

Nancy laughed and reached up to affectionately tuck a stray dark strand of hair behind Kelly’s ear. ‘Never mind, you’re here now and that’s all that counts.’

‘The weary traveller finally arrives!’ Tom, Nancy’s very English husband, stepped into the sunlight looking exactly the same as when Kelly had last seen him, nearly two years before. In a checkered work shirt, and towering above her at over six feet three inches – he seemed more like a lumberjack than the owner/manager of a chain of exclusive hotels.

‘Hi, Tom,’ she said as he enveloped her in a big, protective hug. ‘I’ve missed you.’

‘I don’t believe that for a minute, Kel, you always have too much going on to miss anyone.’ He lifted her heavy case as if it were filled with Kleenex, and tilted his head toward the portal. ‘C’mon, Nancy’s eager to show off our latest acquisition.’

Kelly followed her hosts through a short covered portico into a dimly lit foyer and her jaw dropped. The cathedral-like space seethed with whispers of the past. The scent of beeswax and lemons filled the air.

The staircase before her drew her eyes upward.

A profusion of small circular portraits adorned the walls alongside the stairs. At the landing, a massive mirror in a gaudy, gold frame took pride of place below a high clerestory, providing a distorted reverse image of the second floor gallery.

For just a second the world tilted.

‘Through here to the small salon,’ Nancy said, tugging Kelly along.

The sitting room, though cosy and seemingly informal, was no less mesmerising. All along one wall stood bookcases of dark wood, filled with old-looking volumes with titles that Kelly could only guess at, though she suspected she’d probably find all the classics. Several leather club chairs were strategically placed to catch the light of a window or the warmth from the marble fireplace. There were lamps, side tables of every shape and size, and blue Chinese vases filled with budded roses. Lots of brightly-stitched cushions were scattered about the furniture and ornamental plates or vases filled every niche. The room was rich and warm, and immediately Kelly felt that it would be the perfect place to capture the atmosphere she so wanted to convey in the gothic screenplay she’d begun to draft.

‘Sit,’ Nancy ordered. ‘Tom’s organising afternoon tea, and then we’ll show you to your room.’ She busied herself with the fire. ‘It might be spring but some days are still bitter.’

Kelly strolled about and inspected the artworks and knick-knacks. ‘How old is this place?’ she asked as she took a step back and tipped her head to survey a portrait of a stiff-looking young man whose torso seemed too long for the rest of his body.

‘About 400 years, I think. We’ve bought an unlimited twenty-year lease from Lord Stanthorpe who found the taxes a bit too steep. His place is about half a mile south along the river.’

Exhausted, Kelly all but threw herself into the nearest chair and made use of the ottoman with a deep sigh. ‘A lord – does that mean he’s royalty?’

Nancy snorted as she poked at the kindling. ‘Not at all – Lord Stanthorpe’s a viscount but his real name is Richard Ditchley. I’m sure you’ll get to meet him while you’re here.’

A silver tea trolley materialised in the doorway and Kelly giggled at the incongruous image Tom made as he drove the delicate cart into the room.

‘Aren’t you supposed to have servants to do those jobs, Tom?’ Kelly teased.

‘Actually, we have hired a full staff but most are currently training in London. Only Martin, one of our porters, is on site – so we have to make do until a few days before the opening.’

Tom handed Kelly a translucent china plate with teacakes and cookies before pouring tea from a gilt-edged pot adorned with pink cabbage roses. ‘Eat up, Kel, you’re skinny as a rake.’

*

The heavy brass hinges screeched in protest as the door swung inward. John Tarrant had heard the commotion downstairs a short while ago and knew the person he awaited had almost certainly arrived. From his narrow vantage he watched intently, every muscle taut in anticipation as the aged oak swung away again to reveal his visitor.

A woman.

Praise his maker! A woman was always easier to convince, always more open to the possibility than a man. Only a child proved more willing – though children, he had found, were always slower to overcome their fear. No – while he couldn’t smile quite yet, at least he knew that he had hope. Perhaps, after all these years, this time ...

*

Turning in a slow circle, Kelly’s intent gaze darted from the gilt-edged 18th-century landscapes to what looked to be an antique cello that rested in a small circle of sunlight by the window.

An odd piece of bedroom furniture, she thought. Perhaps it belonged to an earlier occupant – though knowing Tom and Nancy, more likely a prop they’d placed there to add to the ‘historic’ ambiance of the room.

An uncomfortable ache filled her chest as she caught sight of her travel-worn reflection in the monstrous mirror, some six or seven feet tall and just as wide, that filled almost half one wall. Opposite sat the largest four-poster bed she had seen outside a museum. An intricately carved writing desk with its matching tapestry-upholstered chair sat beside it.

‘Oh, Nance ...,’ Kelly marvelled, ‘you actually own this place?’

Nancy stuck her blonde head through the doorway and grinned. ‘Leased ... but as of last month, yes.

‘Just dump the bags on the bed, thanks, Martin. The garment bag can be hung in the dressing room.’

Martin, laden with Kelly’s suitcase, garment bag and attaché case, followed her through the room. ‘Will do, Mrs Wentworth.’

Kelly intercepted him and took the attaché case from under his arm. ‘This stays with me,’ she said with a wink for the dour-looking young man as he struggled under the weight of her suitcase. She preceded him into the walk-in closet muttering exclamations as she went.

‘What’s through here?’ she called, though she’d already turned the knob to the door at the opposite end of the closet.

‘Heck, Nance, have you seen the size of this bathroom?’ Kelly’s voice echoed in the enclosed space.

‘Of course,’ Nancy replied as she entered the brightly lit chamber. ‘It still needs a bit of work, and if you look closely, you’ll see that almost everything is fake. The bath and toilet are obviously recent additions ... but the tiles and cabinets are as close an approximation to the 1700s as we could manage with our budget.’

‘Well it is all stunning. The cello is a great touch, by the way.’

Nancy shook her head. ‘Not our doing, Kel. Like the bed, it belonged to someone who occupied the room more than a century ago.’

‘I’m going to sleep on a bed that’s over a hundred years old?’ Kelly asked as she headed back to the bedroom.

‘Probably two hundred, if the assessor is correct.’

Kelly shivered. The idea of sleeping on a bed with such a long history seemed slightly irreverent, but then again, perhaps it would inspire her when she wrote.

‘When the hotel opens this room will be kept for display purposes only.’

‘Why are you putting me here then?’

Nancy grinned. ‘Right now it is the only room, besides ours, that’s habitable. Unless you want to sleep with the smell of turpentine and wallpaper glue?’ she raised one brow in query.

‘This is fine by me,’ Kelly said. As she placed her attaché case on the writing desk and glanced about, she acknowledged this room was an ideal location.

‘What are these?’ she asked, approaching the mantle where a row of egg-shaped objects sat as if on parade. Stretching out a hand to touch the closest, she almost jumped when a jolt of static electricity arced through her fingertips.

Nancy laughed at Kelly’s reaction. ‘I’m told they’re called druid’s eggs.’

‘Druids ...? Surely not ...’ she glanced at Nancy with furrowed brows.

‘Your guess is as good as mine. Like the cello, they were already here.’ Nancy shrugged. ‘It was stange though, we put them in the foyer downstairs, but when we got up the next morning, they were back on the mantle. I guess someone thinks they belong here.’

‘Weird. Will I be able to plug in my laptop somewhere?’

Nancy grinned. ‘Sure – it’s 2000 here in England too. There’s a data outlet just behind that pot if you need it,’ she pointed to a large porcelain vase of oriental design beside the fireplace.

Kelly crouched next to the pot to assure herself that she’d indeed be able to go online.

‘We had to have the whole place cabled for the internet. But,’ she wagged her finger at Kelly, ‘this is supposed to be a vacation, so I don’t want to see you working. Unless, of course, it’s on Tom’s little project.’

Kelly turned sharply. ‘Project? Tom didn’t mention anything about a project.’

With a wave of dismissal, Nancy headed for the door. ‘Don’t sweat it, Kel. No biggie. Tom will explain over dinner. Now I’ve got some chores to do, so I’ll leave you to settle in and maybe take a relaxing bath. We dine at eight. Martin will come up and fetch you. Okay?’

‘Sounds great,’ Kelly agreed as she followed Nancy to the door and threw an arm around her shoulders. ‘Thanks – thanks for understanding and thanks for giving me somewhere to hide.’

‘Hey, what are best friends for? Just throttle back and forget all about Frank and the divorce, and concentrate on getting some colour into those cheeks, huh?’

Feeling the unwanted tears prick at the back of her eyelids, all Kelly could do was nod.

Nancy gave her a brief squeeze then let her go. ‘Get some rest. You’ll feel much better.’

After the door closed, Kelly stood for a long moment, staring into the mirror. Nancy was right. She looked pale and drained and in need of a few round meals. She’d lost more weight than she’d realised. Her jeans and blouse hung limp; if it wasn’t for the fact that her eyes had aged immeasurably, she would have thought the reflection she saw was some little girl playing dress-ups in her big sister’s clothes.

Extending her view, she studied the room in reverse. Now Nancy had gone, it looked heavy and almost oppressive in its opulence. In two dimensions the abundance of reds and golds in the drapes, the busyness of the striped wallpaper and the contrasting floral of the carpet, all seemed to crowd in on her. The intricate gaudiness of the picture frames and plethora of objets d’art cluttered the room to the point that a feeling of insignificance, of claustrophobia, swept through her. She supposed she was more exhausted than she thought.

Shaking her head, she marched into the bathroom to prepare her bath.

*

‘So,’ John mused as he watched the tiny, raven-haired woman from his hiding place, ‘a divorcee?’

While he wasn’t prudish, the revelation disturbed him somewhat. She would, in the way of women, undoubtedly be over-emotional and fixated upon her own problems, and would thus have little time or sympathy for a tired man who sought her help to find peace. Well, he would make do, as he had done each time in the past. God had dealt him his just reward and he could only hope that this time He would be merciful. And if this woman could not, or would not, render him aid ... then he would simply go back to his waiting.

After all, time was the one resource he had in abundance.

The woman returned momentarily to fetch another pair of faded blue trousers from the portmanteau sitting open on the bed before she again disappeared through the dressing room and into the bathing chamber.

Kelly – an odd name for a woman – he’d known an Irishman called Kelly once, a groom, when he spent a brief time with the Queen’s Cavalry. He was a nice enough fellow, though if memory served, the man had a lot more meat on his bones than this slip of a woman.

The object of his thoughts returned again, clad in a white robe that scraped the floor as she moved, muttering about finding her ‘cosmo’, which was, he assumed once she’d extracted a colourful and shiny booklet from her smaller case, reading matter of sorts. He had once seen advertising for similar booklets on the viewing box in his mother’s old sitting room.

When Kelly had gone again, he took himself off to the main dining room where he knew young Martin would be about setting the table for dinner.

*

‘You’re kidding me, right?’ Kelly barely kept a straight face. She looked from Tom’s earnest blue eyes to Nancy’s equally serious amber ones. Neither so much as flickered an eyelid. She expected Tom to be the first to crack but he just stared back at her. She turned to Nancy with raised brows. ‘He’s kidding.’

Nancy swallowed a morsel of her bread roll before dropping the rest to her side plate. She placed her cutlery at forty-five degrees on her empty dinner plate then elegantly wiped her lips with her napkin before facing Kelly.

The smile she wore struck Kelly as a little false and inner alarm bells began to clang.