by Alyssa Drake
A ghostly smirk crossing her lips, Miss Hastings opened her eyes. Tilting her head, she contemplated Benjamin carefully. “I would be extremely disappointed to sacrifice an opportunity for a moonlit walk with my fiancé.”
“Your guardian may not agree to those terms,” Benjamin said. He captured her hand and absently began drawing little patterns in her palm.
Miss Hastings shivered and leaned against him. “I thought,” she paused and choked on a tiny sob. “I thought I would never see you again.”
“I will always come for you,” Benjamin replied, cupping her face.
“Is that a promise?”
“Yes,” he rumbled softly, pressing his lips to her mouth. Miss Hastings shivered, sliding her arms around his neck.
“Benjamin.” She sighed against him, drawing him closer.
He knew to expect the interruption. Yet as inevitable as it was, he was still peeved when Thomas’ buoyant voice reverberated from behind them on the veranda.
“If Miss Hastings is feeling better, Edward would like to open the dollhouse,” Thomas announced with a jaunty bow, remaining a respectable distance from them.
“Thank you, Thomas.” Benjamin ground out his displeasure through clenched teeth. He glared at his brother who grinned defiantly. “We will join you once Miss Hastings has regained her composure.”
“I am well enough to view the contents of the dollhouse.” Miss Hastings’ wispy voice came from Benjamin’s right.
Thomas snickered and stepped forward to offer his arm. “Allow me to assist you, Miss Hastings.”
A rumble grew in Benjamin’s throat. “Thomas,” he warned menacingly.
Thomas held up his hands playfully. “I shall inform Edward of your imminent arrival.” He flashed a cheeky grin and disappeared.
Benjamin blew out an exasperated breath. “I suppose we should not keep Edward waiting.”
“We could…” Miss Hastings smiled.
Sliding his arms around her waist, he nuzzled his face against her neck, his mouth placing a searing kiss on her throat. “May I carry you inside, Miss Hastings?”
She pulled away and frowned. “No, you may not, Lord Westwood.”
“Ah well,” he shrugged. “I did ask.”
Chapter Nine
The faded dollhouse sat innocently in the center of Lord Westwood’s desk, unaware of the tragedy it had caused. A light coating of soot dusted its peeling roof, falling onto the desk and circling the dollhouse with a morbid gray ring.
Three pairs of eyes looked up as Lord Westwood entered the room. Sam wriggled discontentedly in his arms, her mouth screwed up in frustration. He set her lightly on her feet near the doorway.
“Stay.” He murmured the command, turning to close the door.
Sam rolled her eyes and pushed off the door frame, slogging across the floor. She was halfway to the desk when Lord Westwood caught her, scooping her back into his arms.
“My brother will hear of my displeasure,” said Sam, shoving Lord Westwood’s shoulder.
“As your brother has given consent for our marriage, your happiness is no longer his concern.” Lord Westwood grinned, placing his forehead to Sam’s. “It is mine.”
“I am unhappy.” Sam frowned, folding her arms.
“Noted,” replied Lord Westwood, carrying her to the desk. He lowered her to the floor, cupping her elbow to steady her.
“All of this trouble for such a decrepit plaything,” Wilhelmina said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. She poked one of the grimy windows.
“It is not the dollhouse itself, but what is hidden inside,” Sam replied. The words carved up her raw throat, and her stomach rolled. She leaned forward, planting her hands on the desk, inhaling slowly.
“I am fine.” She waved away Edward who rounded the desk to place his hand on her back. Sam lifted her head, rotating it toward Wilhelmina. “What you cannot see, what is hidden inside this dollhouse, is the ancestral jewelry of our family.”
Bile rose in her throat. She swallowed. Cobwebs crawled into the corners of her mind, and the world tilted. Reaching behind her, she fumbled for Lord Westwood. He materialized next to her, pushing Edward aside and wrapping a comforting arm around her waist. Sam curled into him with a sigh.
Edward’s eyes narrowed at their intimacy. He turned toward the desk stiffly, struggling to hold his tongue. Instead, he focused on the dollhouse. “How do you propose we open it?” he asked to no one in particular.
“Is there a key?” asked Wilhelmina. She glanced at Sam, her brown eyes hopeful.
Sam shook her head. “It was lost years ago.”
“We could smash it open,” Edward said.
“Lucy would prefer we try to save her dollhouse,” Sam replied with a tremor. Lord Westwood’s thumb skated over the nape of her neck, drawing small circles over her spine.
“I can open it,” Mr. Reid said, winking at Sam. Humming, he bounded around the desk and bowed to the dollhouse as one would do prior to a duel.
“Watch this,” Lord Westwood whispered in Sam’s ear, his mouth sending shivers over her skin.
Edward studied Mr. Reid with a skeptical frown. “Is this one of your less-than-desirable abilities Benjamin warned me about?”
“Could be,” Mr. Reid replied absently, his tongue trapped between his teeth.
“It has come in handy on more than one occasion.” Lord Westwood murmured to Sam with a smile.
“Mr. Reid, I would be keen to learn that particular skill if you would be a willing instructor,” Sam said to Mr. Reid as he fiddled with the small lock on the front of the dollhouse.
“Whether he is willing is not the matter under discussion,” Edward replied, his exasperation seeping through the room.
“Actually,” Wilhelmina chimed in, “I would like to learn as well.” She winked at Sam.
“The female members of this family do not need an education in the art of lock picking,” Edward roared, a purple shade colored his face.
“Edward, you sound a bit overwhelmed at the moment. Perhaps you would like to lie down.” Mr. Reid glanced up from his task, a smile on his face.
The lock clicked. Edward swallowed his waspish response. Mr. Reid swung open the front of the dollhouse. The hinges creaked, protesting forced movement after so many years of inactivity. The upstairs was a menagerie of faded furniture and little dolls which sat forlornly in their abandonment. However, in the downstairs area, crushing the dining room table against a large picture window, a lady’s purse resided.
“That’s Mother’s,” Edward and Sam said simultaneously.
Edward tugged the velvet bag free from the dollhouse, carefully brushing the soot and dust from the sack. Pulling the strings until they loosened, Edward gently opened the top of the purse. Turning the bag over, he spilled its contents onto the desk.
“Oh,” breathed Wilhelmina in awe.
Sparkling in the candlelight rested a mound of jewelry. Necklaces, bracelets, and rings painted rainbows over the study walls. In the center of the pile rested the diamond and sapphire necklace Mrs. Hastings wore the evening of her husband’s murder.
Sam took a tentative step closer to the desk, reached out slowly, and brushed her fingers over the necklace. Edward laid his arm over her shoulders, drawing her into his embrace and effectively separating Sam and Lord Westwood. Lord Westwood acquiesced without complaint.
Franklin wanted the jewelry, and they had it. If they wanted to catch him, they needed a way to communicate that fact to him. Sam lifted the necklace, holding it to her throat, and glanced at Edward with gleaming eyes.
“I have an idea,” she said, her voice pitched with exhilaration.
“No.”
Edward’s head snapped up. Lord Westwood’s palpable anger rolled across the desk like thunder, his dark face focused solely on Sam.
“No,” Lord Westwood growled, slamming his fist on the desk.
Sam offered him a partial smile and a shrug. “It would work.”
“I am not concerned with t
he efficacy of your plan.” His green eyes flashed. “The answer is no.”
“I do not believe I asked for permission.” Sam rose up on her toes, attempting to match Lord Westwood’s stature. The air crackled between them.
Edward’s head swiveled between Lord Westwood and Sam. “Did I miss something?” he asked Wilhelmina who shook her head with a similar puzzled expression.
“Actually, Benjamin, it is an excellent idea,” Mr. Reid interjected thoughtfully.
Lord Westwood looked as though he would murder his brother where he stood. “I said it was out of the question.”
“Are you forbidding me?” asked Sam with raised eyebrows.
“Careful, Benjamin,” Edward warned with a grin. Clearly, Edward was enjoying Lord Westwood’s frustration.
“You will not find the situation as amusing in a few moments once you grasp the details of her plan,” Lord Westwood replied. He glared at Sam who returned his hard stare unblinkingly.
“It is my life!” Sam stamped of her foot. The corner of Lord Westwood’s mouth twitched slightly. He was laughing at her! She longed to strike his smug face, her annoyed fingers twitching in response. She settled for a seething glare. Lord Westwood tilted his head.
“If Edward agrees to your proposal, I will withdraw my objection,” he stated, smirking and crossing his arms over his chest.
Damn.
“You play dirty.” Sam scowled.
“Miss Hastings.” Lord Westwood bowed and gestured widely. “We are all patiently waiting to hear the details of your brilliant idea.”
Sam took a deep breath and turned the whole of her attention to Edward. “The Shirely masque is approaching.”
“We do not expect Franklin to make any social appearances in the near future,” Edward interrupted.
“I remember the discussion.” Sam cut him off, earning a reproachful glance from Wilhelmina. “The accomplice working with Franklin may attend, however.”
“That is a possibility.” Edward nodded his agreement. “Please continue.”
“The only way to draw Franklin out of hiding would be to show him we have what he wants.” Sam laid the necklace on top of the glittering jewelry piled in the center of the desk.
“How do you propose we get this message to Franklin?” Edward touched the largest stone with his fingertip.
“I will wear Mother’s necklace to the masque.” The words hung between Sam and her brother.
“No.” This time the command came from Edward’s own mouth.
“Are you forbidding her?” Lord Westwood goaded, his quiet anger unnerving Sam.
“I am.” Edward crossed his arms in finality.
Lord Westwood snorted, tilting his head at Sam. Her eyes narrowed.
“Then I shall wear it.” Wilhelmina’s determined voice surprised everyone. Edward’s head nearly popped off his shoulders as he whipped around to stare at his wife, his state of shock so great, no sound came from his hanging mouth.
“If both of you wore pieces from the collections, that would definitely garner someone’s attention,” Mr. Reid said. He remained safely on the opposite side of the desk, out of reach of both Edward and Lord Westwood.
“Thomas, think very carefully about which position you are favoring,” Lord Westwood cautioned, his voice dangerously soft.
“The position which feeds me,” Mr. Reid said evenly.
“Wilhelmina and Sammie would be putting their lives at risk,” Edward replied, his anger equal to Lord Westwood’s.
“Our lives are already in danger.” Wilhelmina placed her hand over Edward’s. “Our children’s lives are in jeopardy. I refuse to spend the rest of my days hiding, sequestered to country estates. I am certain you would never allow anything to happen to Samantha or myself.”
Edward stood quietly for some time, contemplating his wife’s arguments. He locked eyes with Lord Westwood and shrugged. “From a logical standpoint…” His voice trailed off as the dark cloud over Lord Westwood’s features detonated.
Lord Westwood stormed from the room, slamming the study door behind him. The crash resonated through the house, windows vibrating his fury. Sam took three steps after him and paused in hesitation. She turned toward Mr. Reid, a question in her eyes. Mr. Reid nodded and disappeared out the study door without a word.
“I should return the dollhouse to Lucy,” Wilhelmina said quietly, breaking the silence suffocating the study. She gathered the toy from the desk and followed Mr. Reid’s exit.
Edward pulled Sam into a tight hug, resting his chin atop her head. They remained motionless for a moment, each lost in their thoughts. Edward broke the silence. “It is very difficult for a man to allow his heart to walk around outside of his body. He wants to protect it at every moment. Give him time, Sammie. We have asked too much of him. Today was one of the worst days of Benjamin’s life; it may not be the last.”
Sam looked at Edward in sadness. “We must try to capture Franklin before he has the opportunity to murder someone else.” Before he kills you or Benjamin…
“I realize that fact, Sammie. However, offering yourself as bait hours after Benjamin risked his life to rescue you is like slapping him in the face. Does his sacrifice mean anything to you?”
“Of course, it does, Edward. I have already expressed my gratitude.”
Edward pursed his lips but said nothing. His eyes narrowed as he contemplated Sam’s statement.
Realizing her admittance, Sam rushed on. “I cannot sit here and do nothing. What if Franklin attacks again?” Sam swallowed a mournful lump, fighting the tears springing to her eyes and burying her face in Edward’s checked waistcoat. “I cannot endure your death nor his.”
“It appears Benjamin cannot bear yours either,” Edward replied softly, stroking her head.
“What should I do?” she asked, her muffled voice hiccupped.
“Allow Thomas to handle this matter. He understands Benjamin best,” said Edward, resting his chin atop Sam’s curls. “You have had an extremely long and trying day Sammie. Perhaps you should go upstairs and rest.”
Sam nodded and detangled herself from Edward. She dragged toward the study entrance and paused in the doorway. “Mother hid some letters in her desk. When Franklin and I struggled, they scattered all over the study. Do you think you could send someone to fetch them? I very much would like to read them.”
“I will see to it,” Edward said, giving Sam a little shove toward the staircase. “Now, please go to bed. At least I will not have to worry about you there.”
“Are you certain about that?” teased Sam as Edward closed the study door.
“Samantha!” Edward, nearly ripped the hinges from the door frame as he jerked open the door, but she had vanished up the stairs, ignoring his echoing fury.
Chapter Ten
He watched her sleeping form, restless and tense, evidenced by the continual clenching of her hands as they twisted the sheets. She whimpered, agony echoing around the room, and jerked suddenly, flinging a pillow to the floor. Screaming, Miss Hastings shot up, nearly falling from the bed. Her arms flung out, covering her face as she twisted away from her invisible attacker.
“No!”
The word vibrated down his spine, breaking his heart. He’d failed her.
Lowering her arms, Miss Hastings took several deep breaths to slow her heart rate and swiped the tendrils clinging to her sweaty forehead. He remained motionless in front of the door so as not to startle her. She glanced around the bedroom, her expression a mixture of terror and mortification, and gasped when she caught sight of him—bruised and broken—hidden in a half-shadow. He held up one hand, the gesture more to prevent Miss Hastings from flying off the bed than as a greeting.
Interestingly, she obeyed his command. Pressing her lips together, she wordlessly waited for an explanation as to why he chose to visit her at such a late hour, no hint of surprise or shock at his appalling appearance, as though she expected him.
His tongue tied itself in knots. Pacing several times
in front of the door, he muttered unintelligible words to himself. He jiggled the door handle twice to ensure the door remained locked, then glanced toward the fire, still flickering around a single log. On his third pass, he finally looked at Miss Hastings. She studied him curiously, her hands folded on top of the blanket.
“You are late,” she announced, her tone calm and slightly peeved.
He laughed and approached the bed. Sitting on the edge, he lifted her hand to his lips and placed a chaste kiss on the back of her fingers. “Please accept my most humble apologies for my tardiness, my dear Miss Hastings. I shall endeavor to correct my egregious behavior in the future.”
“Thank you,” she replied with amusement, tucking the sheet around her hips.
The movement captured his attention. Tilting his head, he regarded her for a moment, her hand somehow trapped under his, its warmth traveling through his fingers. “Was it a nightmare?”
Darkness passed through her blue eyes, a cloud covering the sun. “Yes,” she replied, her face haunted. “How long were you watching me sleep?”
“For a while,” he replied and squeezed her hand, falling silent. His thumb rubbed circles on the inside of her wrist, the softness of her skin distracting him. He allowed the memory of other soft parts of her body divert his thoughts.
A tear landing on his thumb, his head snapped up quickly. Miss Hastings blinked rapidly and turned her head, staring at the curtains. He reached out and gently tugged her chin until she stared into his eyes, sadness pouring from her eyes.
“When are you leaving?” The whispered question pierced his heart.
“In a short while,” he replied. He did not ask how she already knew his intentions.
“Thank you for coming to say goodbye.” She tried to remain aloof. A second fat tear escaped the corner of her eye. Wanting to hide her face, she attempted to turn away again but could not. He still held her chin.
“Please,” she begged softly, and he released her. Twisting away, Miss Hastings scrubbed the betraying tear. She hiccupped but refused to turn back, glaring unhappily at the pillow, previously flung to the floor during her horrifying dream. He stroked his fingers tenderly over her hand.