a superb job of it.” For a moment tears misted India’s eyes. “Don’t waste your worry on me. I’ll survive this, just as I have survived everything else, Lord Thornwood. And in the meantime I will thank you to stop interfering in my life!”
India spun about and was nearly at the door when a small figure wandered into the hall, a battered doll clutched in one hand. Golden curls tumbled over the girl’s long, pleated nightgown, and her eyes were full of sleep.
“I heard voices,” the girl said anxiously. “Angry voices, just like before. Why are you shouting? And why is the pretty lady crying, Papa?”
A muscle flashed in a hard line at Devlyn’s jaw as he looked down at the little girl whose nightgown trailed over the floor, three inches too long and two sizes too large. “The pretty lady is not crying, Alexis.” He looked up at India, his dark eyes implacable with a silent command. “You weren’t, were you?”
India stared at him, her heart pounding. Papa , the girl had called him! Sweet heaven, what other secrets had this man hidden from her? But of course, he was right, it wouldn’t do to show her turmoil before this innocent child. India gave a bright and entirely false smile. “Your father was quite right, my dear. I simply had something in my eye.”
The little girl nodded knowingly. “I understand. That happens to me quite a lot, too.” As she spoke she hugged her well-worn doll to her chest. “But why were you talking so loudly? I could hear you all the way up the stairs.”
“Grown-ups do that sometimes, Alexis,” Thorne said gravely. “But now I think it’s time you and Josephine went back up to bed. Nurse will be looking for you.”
The little girl frowned. “Nurse will sleep till midday. She put something from that bottle in her tea again. It always makes her talk strangely and bump into walls when she walks.”
Thorne’s face darkened. “Bottle? What bottle?”
At his harsh tone, the girl shrank back against India’s skirts, her hand unconsciously stealing into the soft folds. “It’s all right,” India murmured. “I’m certain that your papa isn’t angry at you, my dear.”
The little girl sniffed but did not let go of India’s skirt. “I suppose you’re right,” she said finally. “He does shout a great deal. It seems to happen whenever he gets those letters with the red wax seals. Then I hear him talking about blunderers and fools and cloth-brained imbeciles.” Her head cocked and she looked up at Thornwood. “What’s a cloth-brained imbecile, Papa?”
“Not now, Alexis,” Thorne muttered, frowning. “It’s time you were in bed. And I do wish you would stop calling me Papa. We’ve discussed all this before, you know.”
India’s eyes widened. A bubble of relief pressed through her chest. So he was not the girl’s father.
A moment later two more childish faces appeared in the corridor. The taller was a boy of roughly twelve with the clear and steady gaze of someone far older. Beside him stood a gray-eyed girl of about nine, who was frowning at her sister. “How many times have I told you not to bother Lord Thornwood?” The girl put her arm around Alexis. “There’s no one in your room, you know. There never is. It’s all just another one of those dreams you have.”
“There was someone there.” The little girl’s lip trembled. “I saw him. He had terrible eyes and huge teeth and a big black mask to cover the scar across his cheek. He was there, I tell you, standing right at the foot of my bed.”
The boy clicked his tongue. “You were dreaming, Alexis. Now come upstairs with Marianne and me and stop troubling his lordship. You wouldn’t want him to be sorry he brought us here from Brussels, would you?”
“Of course not, Andrew,” the young girl said in a pitiful voice. She looked up at Devlyn, her face troubled. “You aren’t, are you? Sorry that you took us in after our parents—” Her voice broke.
Devlyn sank down until his
India spun about and was nearly at the door when a small figure wandered into the hall, a battered doll clutched in one hand. Golden curls tumbled over the girl’s long, pleated nightgown, and her eyes were full of sleep.
“I heard voices,” the girl said anxiously. “Angry voices, just like before. Why are you shouting? And why is the pretty lady crying, Papa?”
A muscle flashed in a hard line at Devlyn’s jaw as he looked down at the little girl whose nightgown trailed over the floor, three inches too long and two sizes too large. “The pretty lady is not crying, Alexis.” He looked up at India, his dark eyes implacable with a silent command. “You weren’t, were you?”
India stared at him, her heart pounding. Papa , the girl had called him! Sweet heaven, what other secrets had this man hidden from her? But of course, he was right, it wouldn’t do to show her turmoil before this innocent child. India gave a bright and entirely false smile. “Your father was quite right, my dear. I simply had something in my eye.”
The little girl nodded knowingly. “I understand. That happens to me quite a lot, too.” As she spoke she hugged her well-worn doll to her chest. “But why were you talking so loudly? I could hear you all the way up the stairs.”
“Grown-ups do that sometimes, Alexis,” Thorne said gravely. “But now I think it’s time you and Josephine went back up to bed. Nurse will be looking for you.”
The little girl frowned. “Nurse will sleep till midday. She put something from that bottle in her tea again. It always makes her talk strangely and bump into walls when she walks.”
Thorne’s face darkened. “Bottle? What bottle?”
At his harsh tone, the girl shrank back against India’s skirts, her hand unconsciously stealing into the soft folds. “It’s all right,” India murmured. “I’m certain that your papa isn’t angry at you, my dear.”
The little girl sniffed but did not let go of India’s skirt. “I suppose you’re right,” she said finally. “He does shout a great deal. It seems to happen whenever he gets those letters with the red wax seals. Then I hear him talking about blunderers and fools and cloth-brained imbeciles.” Her head cocked and she looked up at Thornwood. “What’s a cloth-brained imbecile, Papa?”
“Not now, Alexis,” Thorne muttered, frowning. “It’s time you were in bed. And I do wish you would stop calling me Papa. We’ve discussed all this before, you know.”
India’s eyes widened. A bubble of relief pressed through her chest. So he was not the girl’s father.
A moment later two more childish faces appeared in the corridor. The taller was a boy of roughly twelve with the clear and steady gaze of someone far older. Beside him stood a gray-eyed girl of about nine, who was frowning at her sister. “How many times have I told you not to bother Lord Thornwood?” The girl put her arm around Alexis. “There’s no one in your room, you know. There never is. It’s all just another one of those dreams you have.”
“There was someone there.” The little girl’s lip trembled. “I saw him. He had terrible eyes and huge teeth and a big black mask to cover the scar across his cheek. He was there, I tell you, standing right at the foot of my bed.”
The boy clicked his tongue. “You were dreaming, Alexis. Now come upstairs with Marianne and me and stop troubling his lordship. You wouldn’t want him to be sorry he brought us here from Brussels, would you?”
“Of course not, Andrew,” the young girl said in a pitiful voice. She looked up at Devlyn, her face troubled. “You aren’t, are you? Sorry that you took us in after our parents—” Her voice broke.
Devlyn sank down until his
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