desperately longed for a tub of hot water, so I could sink into its comforting heat and feel the soothing bath salts cleanse my skin free of dirt, perspiration, and cleaners. I even went though the difficult task of washing my hair in the basin, using up every ounce of water from the ewer.
When I finished and had smoothed rose and milk cream over my chafed skin and reddened hands, wincing at my blisters, I slipped on an old cotton dress I’d brought with me and put my father’s pistol into the pocket. If Mrs. Frye continued to keep me and Bridget working so hard during the day, I would have to accustom myself to investigating at night.
Stuffing my hair into my mob cap for appearances, I quietly tiptoed downstairs as the massive mahogany clock in the center hall chimed the quarter hour. Bits of silver moonlight shone through the portal-like windows, lighting the servants’ stairs in gray shadows. The kitchen that bustled with frenzied warmth from dawn to dusk seemed like a dark, shadowed sea after midnight, a place where dragons might lurk, waiting for a tasty meal.
Butterflies flurried in my stomach, as if trying to warn me to go no further, and I almost turned back, but then shook my head and determinedly snatched my imagination back from the folly of its wandering. I could only blame my grandfather’s stories for my fanciful thoughts.
Turning down an unlit corridor off the center hall, I nearly jumped when booming male voices reached me in the dark. I ventured closer down the carpeted corridor, wondering if Sean Killdaren was in the room just ahead. My pulse leaped at the thought of seeing him. Flickering light spilled from the room, accompanied by the snap and crackle of a fire in the hearth. After a moment, I realized it was Sir Warwick and the earl, and they were well in their cups, which would explain why I hadn’t recognized their voices from earlier. I backed into the shadowed doorway of a room across the way to listen.
“The bloody idiots are determined not to wed. Made a pact to have no heirs so the bloody curse will die with them,” the earl said.
Sir Warwick laughed. “It’s ironic. Your by-blows will likely leave you a dozen brats and your heirs none.”
“There is nothing amusing to the situation. Alexander is as determined as Sean. Were that chit Helen alive today, I’d murder her myself for ruining my sons’ lives.”
“Why don’t you outsmart them and arrange marriages for them both?
“I may have to if I expect to see an heir before I die, though my sons would more likely murder me than wed if I did betroth them. Unfortunately, few fathers will let their chits marry men suspected of murder, at least none with worthy enough dowries.”
“I’ve heard the Bow Street Runners have solved impossible cases. Hire a man to clear the boys’ reputation.”
“I would if I was sure neither of my sons had killed the chit, but I’m not. The evidence was entirely too damning. I’ll—”
A leather gloved hand clamped over my mouth and nose from behind. An arm wrapped around my stomach and arms, trapping me, and jerking me back against the hard body of a large man. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t reach my pistol. I could barely move. Terror flamed in my breasts and fired through my veins. The man pulled me deeper into the darkened room, shutting the door. Dear Lord. Is this how Mary disappeared?
Wrenching violently, I tried to free myself, but the man clamped me tighter to him, crushing me with his strength. I pressed my head back, fighting to ease the pressure on my face enough to breathe. In my panic I remembered the size of Jamie Frye, his anger, the veiled threat that if I were to die none would care. Then the hand covering my mouth and nose loosened enough for me to suck in blessed air. I smelled leather, mint and something frighteningly unknown, but compelling enough that I drew another needed breath.
“The scent of roses,” a deep, cultured voice with a hint
When I finished and had smoothed rose and milk cream over my chafed skin and reddened hands, wincing at my blisters, I slipped on an old cotton dress I’d brought with me and put my father’s pistol into the pocket. If Mrs. Frye continued to keep me and Bridget working so hard during the day, I would have to accustom myself to investigating at night.
Stuffing my hair into my mob cap for appearances, I quietly tiptoed downstairs as the massive mahogany clock in the center hall chimed the quarter hour. Bits of silver moonlight shone through the portal-like windows, lighting the servants’ stairs in gray shadows. The kitchen that bustled with frenzied warmth from dawn to dusk seemed like a dark, shadowed sea after midnight, a place where dragons might lurk, waiting for a tasty meal.
Butterflies flurried in my stomach, as if trying to warn me to go no further, and I almost turned back, but then shook my head and determinedly snatched my imagination back from the folly of its wandering. I could only blame my grandfather’s stories for my fanciful thoughts.
Turning down an unlit corridor off the center hall, I nearly jumped when booming male voices reached me in the dark. I ventured closer down the carpeted corridor, wondering if Sean Killdaren was in the room just ahead. My pulse leaped at the thought of seeing him. Flickering light spilled from the room, accompanied by the snap and crackle of a fire in the hearth. After a moment, I realized it was Sir Warwick and the earl, and they were well in their cups, which would explain why I hadn’t recognized their voices from earlier. I backed into the shadowed doorway of a room across the way to listen.
“The bloody idiots are determined not to wed. Made a pact to have no heirs so the bloody curse will die with them,” the earl said.
Sir Warwick laughed. “It’s ironic. Your by-blows will likely leave you a dozen brats and your heirs none.”
“There is nothing amusing to the situation. Alexander is as determined as Sean. Were that chit Helen alive today, I’d murder her myself for ruining my sons’ lives.”
“Why don’t you outsmart them and arrange marriages for them both?
“I may have to if I expect to see an heir before I die, though my sons would more likely murder me than wed if I did betroth them. Unfortunately, few fathers will let their chits marry men suspected of murder, at least none with worthy enough dowries.”
“I’ve heard the Bow Street Runners have solved impossible cases. Hire a man to clear the boys’ reputation.”
“I would if I was sure neither of my sons had killed the chit, but I’m not. The evidence was entirely too damning. I’ll—”
A leather gloved hand clamped over my mouth and nose from behind. An arm wrapped around my stomach and arms, trapping me, and jerking me back against the hard body of a large man. I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t reach my pistol. I could barely move. Terror flamed in my breasts and fired through my veins. The man pulled me deeper into the darkened room, shutting the door. Dear Lord. Is this how Mary disappeared?
Wrenching violently, I tried to free myself, but the man clamped me tighter to him, crushing me with his strength. I pressed my head back, fighting to ease the pressure on my face enough to breathe. In my panic I remembered the size of Jamie Frye, his anger, the veiled threat that if I were to die none would care. Then the hand covering my mouth and nose loosened enough for me to suck in blessed air. I smelled leather, mint and something frighteningly unknown, but compelling enough that I drew another needed breath.
“The scent of roses,” a deep, cultured voice with a hint
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