little partridge. I’d hate to see you wasting away.”
“That’s not likely,” Carmichael announced with brotherly tact. “What’s the news from town? Any scandals? Any deaths? Any engagements?”
“Sophia Parkinson is going to marry the Earl of Hampstead,” Tony said, picking an imaginary piece of lint off his yellow satin waistcoat. Tony was a bit of a peacock, fond of rich colors and richer fabrics, and his clothes were impeccable.
“You’re not serious!” Ellen said. “I thought she was going to manage to bring you to heel. She certainly chased after you long enough.”
Tony shrugged. “Even the most determined young ladies eventually give up on me. They know my heart is already given.” He grinned at her. “To you, sweeting.”
“Of course,” Ellen scoffed. “What else?”
He hesitated. “Good news for you, bad news for me, I’m afraid. We have both a scandal and a death.”
“Jason Hargrove succumbed?” Carmichael guessed.
“Indeed. His widow is already proving herself a merry one indeed. I imagine Nicholas Blackthorne will be heading for the continent the moment he receives the news.”
“And I can go home,” Ellen said, as relief flooded her.
“You can go home,” Tony agreed. “Though I rather hope you won’t.”
“Why not?” She glanced up at him in surprise.
“Because I haven’t seen you since Christmas, and on that occasion you trounced me twice at chess. Now, I consider myself a more than adequate chess player, and to be beaten twice by anyone, particularly by a snip of a girl, is a blow to my monumental self-esteem. You have to give me a chance to redeem my honor. I’ve been practicing.”
She was torn. Hours spent with Tony over a chessboard had to account for some of the most peaceful, happiest hours of her life, even though she suspected he let her win. Her worry over Ghislaine and Ainsley Hall, however, had been driving her sorely. “I really should get back,” she said, hesitating.
“But why? Nicholas Blackthorne will be long gone, and you have a very competent staff. There’s no reason why you should hurry home.”
She considered it. Tony was absolutely right—it was Blackthorne’s presence that worried her. Once he was gone, out of the country, she’d no longer have any cause for panic. If he had run off with the silver, or the footman’s daughter, it would be too late to do anything about it. Besides, Tony was her best, dearest friend. When he was around she no longer felt plump or shy or awkward. She blossomed, and every few months she needed the powerful sun of his personality.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “Long enough to convince you that I really am the superior chess player.”
A secretive smile lit Tony’s handsome face. “Ellen, my dear, prepare yourself for a long siege.”
This must be what it felt like, Ghislaine thought with a noticeable absence of emotion. To walk down the hallway at the prison in Paris, to climb into the tumbrel and be borne through the streets. This must be what it felt like, to walk to your doom, bravely, head held high, prepared for horror. Prepared for death.
She gripped the tray tightly in her small hands, ignoring the valet following close behind her. She knew what lay beneath the silver covers. Solid, unexciting British fare, the sort to appeal to a man like Blackthorne. An egg custard, in deference to his compromised digestion. Hot scones, slathered with fresh butter, and a wedge of pork pie. A slice of apple tart. And a pot of hot herbal tea, made from camomile for the stomach, comfrey for the blood, and arsenic for long overdue justice.
She had the knife in one pocket of her capacious apron. It was not as large a one as she would have preferred, but the butcher knives were too big. The weasel-eyed Taverner would have noticed it clanging against her trembling knees. Nicholas Blackthorne might very well disdain something as bland as herbal tea. So she’d dosed the brandy bottle as well.
Her slippered
“That’s not likely,” Carmichael announced with brotherly tact. “What’s the news from town? Any scandals? Any deaths? Any engagements?”
“Sophia Parkinson is going to marry the Earl of Hampstead,” Tony said, picking an imaginary piece of lint off his yellow satin waistcoat. Tony was a bit of a peacock, fond of rich colors and richer fabrics, and his clothes were impeccable.
“You’re not serious!” Ellen said. “I thought she was going to manage to bring you to heel. She certainly chased after you long enough.”
Tony shrugged. “Even the most determined young ladies eventually give up on me. They know my heart is already given.” He grinned at her. “To you, sweeting.”
“Of course,” Ellen scoffed. “What else?”
He hesitated. “Good news for you, bad news for me, I’m afraid. We have both a scandal and a death.”
“Jason Hargrove succumbed?” Carmichael guessed.
“Indeed. His widow is already proving herself a merry one indeed. I imagine Nicholas Blackthorne will be heading for the continent the moment he receives the news.”
“And I can go home,” Ellen said, as relief flooded her.
“You can go home,” Tony agreed. “Though I rather hope you won’t.”
“Why not?” She glanced up at him in surprise.
“Because I haven’t seen you since Christmas, and on that occasion you trounced me twice at chess. Now, I consider myself a more than adequate chess player, and to be beaten twice by anyone, particularly by a snip of a girl, is a blow to my monumental self-esteem. You have to give me a chance to redeem my honor. I’ve been practicing.”
She was torn. Hours spent with Tony over a chessboard had to account for some of the most peaceful, happiest hours of her life, even though she suspected he let her win. Her worry over Ghislaine and Ainsley Hall, however, had been driving her sorely. “I really should get back,” she said, hesitating.
“But why? Nicholas Blackthorne will be long gone, and you have a very competent staff. There’s no reason why you should hurry home.”
She considered it. Tony was absolutely right—it was Blackthorne’s presence that worried her. Once he was gone, out of the country, she’d no longer have any cause for panic. If he had run off with the silver, or the footman’s daughter, it would be too late to do anything about it. Besides, Tony was her best, dearest friend. When he was around she no longer felt plump or shy or awkward. She blossomed, and every few months she needed the powerful sun of his personality.
“I’ll stay,” she said. “Long enough to convince you that I really am the superior chess player.”
A secretive smile lit Tony’s handsome face. “Ellen, my dear, prepare yourself for a long siege.”
This must be what it felt like, Ghislaine thought with a noticeable absence of emotion. To walk down the hallway at the prison in Paris, to climb into the tumbrel and be borne through the streets. This must be what it felt like, to walk to your doom, bravely, head held high, prepared for horror. Prepared for death.
She gripped the tray tightly in her small hands, ignoring the valet following close behind her. She knew what lay beneath the silver covers. Solid, unexciting British fare, the sort to appeal to a man like Blackthorne. An egg custard, in deference to his compromised digestion. Hot scones, slathered with fresh butter, and a wedge of pork pie. A slice of apple tart. And a pot of hot herbal tea, made from camomile for the stomach, comfrey for the blood, and arsenic for long overdue justice.
She had the knife in one pocket of her capacious apron. It was not as large a one as she would have preferred, but the butcher knives were too big. The weasel-eyed Taverner would have noticed it clanging against her trembling knees. Nicholas Blackthorne might very well disdain something as bland as herbal tea. So she’d dosed the brandy bottle as well.
Her slippered
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