In the Brief Eternal Silence by Rebecca Melvin Page A

skidded to a halt so quickly that
the Squire would have been thrown from the curricle if it had not
been for Tyler holding him. “Was that a lane there, Tyler, on your
right?”
    Tyler peered into the dark. “Aye. And a sorry
looking, over-grown one t'is, too.”
    “That's the one we want,” St. James nodded.
He backed the horses, chirped them around, and then started at
nearly the same ill-advised speed that he had traversed the main
road.

    Chapter Four

    Monday Morning

    Lizzie was roused from her sleep by a
determined knocking on the front door. She peered, confused, from
between the heavy, closed drapes of her bed, noticing first the
still solid darkness beyond her window. It was not dawn, looked to
be several hours from it, at least.
    The knocking came again, proving it had not
been a dream. As she was alone in the house, it was up to her to
fling back the bed-drapes, wrap herself in her robe, thrust her
feet into her heavy wool slippers, and go below to answer the
pounding summons on the door, which was still repeating itself
after every few seconds.
    She hurried from her room and down the long
hallway to the top of the stairs that pitched rather sharply down
to the front of the house and ended a few yards from the front
entrance. In the dark, for she carried neither lamp nor candle,
they seemed more prone to awkwardness than even what they normally
did, and she caught herself once against the wall peeling of paint.
Miss Murdock paused at the bottom stair, then turned and went into
the parlor, pulled the drape back from the window to allow her to
see who was demanding entrance in the wee small hours of the
morning.
    A high curricle stood in the drive, looking
skeletal in the wan moonlight of the night. The team of horses at
its front were lathered and blowing, showing they had been driven
hard. A tall figure was to its side, his cap indicating him to be a
groom, and a portly silhouette of a man was pitched far to one side
on the seat, the groom attempting to help him down. Lizzie
recognized this indisposed man as her father, even in the darkness,
and with a little groan of exasperation, she delayed no longer but
went again to the hallway and to the front door, of which the
pounding had returned with a vigor.
    She pulled her robe belt tighter, ran a hand
through her loose hair, in some attempt to make semblance of it,
and flung the door open. A deep flush took hold of her features as
she recognized the man in front of her. There was no mistaking the
dark, unruly hair, the laconic dissipation of his face, or the
glimmering brightness of his gold eyes. “Milord,” she said, feeling
both shock and resentment that he should forever be seeing her when
either muddy or mussed. She was also certain that whatever
difficulty her father found himself in that this man was directly
responsible. “What has happened to my father?”
    “A bit of drink, Miss Murdock. You are indeed
Miss Murdock?” he asked, and when she nodded, he gave a mocking bow
in her direction. “I apologize, but you were quite unrecognizable
upon our first meeting. But as I was saying of your father, a tad
too much drink. If we can endeavor to get him inside and in bed, he
will be better in the morning, although in all probability, well
and truly hungover.”
    Miss Murdock, smelling a strong stench of
booze coming from her informer also, said, “I will fetch a lamp
then, and be with you,” which she did, getting one from the parlor
and lighting it. When she returned to the door, the duke was beside
his curricle, and between he and the groom, they managed to alight
her father upon his feet between them.
    She hurried to light their way, and with the
Squire's arms slung around their shoulders, an awkward picture, as
the groom was taller than the Squire and the duke was shorter, they
stumbled toward the front steps and the house.
    Miss Murdock said nothing as they made slow
progress, merely listened to a long string of whispered cursing
from the duke, and