A Bride by Moonlight by Liz Carlyle Page A

feared, was a chill no fire would mend; it was a coldness of the soul—and one brought upon herself.
    The elderly gentleman scratching out a document deep in the shadows of the parlor stretched forward to dip his pen into his inkwell, the creak of his chair drawing her back to the present. Mr. Bodkins returned to his efforts with utter concentration, as if unaware his client still remained in the room.
    Suddenly, light, quick footsteps came down the stairs and Elizabeth’s maid Fanny poked her head over the banister, holding a large wicker case by its leather strap.
    “Beg pardon, Miss Lisette, but this one for the hats?” she asked. “Or would you rather the boxes?”
    Elizabeth blinked, trying to draw her mind back to the pressing tasks at hand. Away from Sir Wilfred’s pale corpse. Away from Lord Lazonby’s knowing gaze, and the black, soulless eyes of Royden Napier. But all of them had begun to haunt her nights.
    “The wicker, I think,” she said vaguely.
    “And—er—Mr. Coldwater’s things have been sorted.” Something like sympathy sketched over the maid’s face. “Shall I put them in the trunks?”
    Elizabeth stilled her hand on the shawl. “We shan’t have room,” she finally said. “Take them up to St. John’s. The Ladies’ Parish Committee will know what’s best done with them.”
    Fanny cut an assessing look at their caller. “Those old tabbies might quiz me, miss,” she warned.
    “Drop Mr. Coldwater’s things in the vestry,” said Elizabeth flatly. “If anyone asks you why, act as if you’ve been struck dumb.”
    At that, Bodkins snapped shut the latch on his rosewood writing box and rose from the parlor table, a worried crease down the middle of his forehead. It had become a permanent fixture over the last twenty years, Elizabeth realized.
    “Well, that’s that, Lisette,” he said, making a creaky bow. “If I could just have your signature?”
    She went to the table and hastily scribbled upon the lines as he shuffled papers and pointed them out.
    “Very well,” he said when she’d laid the pen aside. “Everything has been signed and your accounts brought current. Now, as to the lease on this house—”
    “Thank you, Bodkins,” Elizabeth preempted, “but I’m quite persuaded to quit Hackney.”
    Bodkins’s crease deepened as he peered at her over his silver spectacles. “But where will you go, my dear, if I may ask?” he said uneasily. “I went to great lengths to obtain this house—and at your insistence. Moreover, Hackney is a quiet, lovely village, and you have the wherewithal to live here in a measure of comfort.”
    “Thank you,” she said, “nonetheless, I insist.”
    Bodkins shook his head. “But my dear, where do you mean to go?” he pressed. “And when?”
    “The day after tomorrow,” she said crisply. “As to where—” Here, her own forehead creased. “Where did you say that old manor house was located?”
    “The one that came to you ten years ago?”
    “Was there another?” she asked mordantly. “Heavens, if we were so flush with them, perhaps Papa might have sold one and paid the bailiffs rather than take the grim alternative of shoving a pistol up his nose.”
    Bodkins paled. “It is no jesting matter, Lisette, your father’s failings. And certainly not his death.”
    She widened her eyes. “Indeed it is not,” she agreed, her voice suddenly husky. “Not to me. For I found him, and had to mop up the blood afterward, since Elinor couldn’t—she could never bear such things, you know—and the servants simply wouldn’t. They’d not been paid, you see. And with no hope of ever being paid, everyone save Nanna left us.”
    “Oh.” Bodkins’s face fell. “Oh, I fear you are very bitter, my dear.”
    “And you are very astute,” she replied, “though well intentioned, I’m sure.”
    “But you have become cynical, Lisette. It breaks my heart.”
    Bodkins held her gaze a moment and then, apparently persuaded no more was