Lathan set his jaw as the reason for this latest visit made sense. “You’re wasting your time,” he said flatly, offering nothing more than that. There was nothing to debate or discuss where the Earl and Countess of Maldavers were concerned. He started back for the stove. The muscles of his leg, destroyed by a deserved bullet, proved more agonizing in the winter and screamed their protest. He limped, cursing that damned weakness he couldn’t always control.
“I don’t believe that,” Ewan said with his usual quiet insistence, using his solicitor’s tones, as Lathan had taken to calling them. “They made a mistake. They want to do right by you.”
He scoffed, focusing instead on the slow-boiling pot. “I have a hard time believing they said as much.” And certainly not to their son. Any of them. As a rule, the Holmans didn’t speak about anything as gauche as relationships and familial bonds.
At his brother’s telling silence, he glanced back.
Color filled Ewan’s cheeks.
Ah, so they hadn’t.
Ewan quickly recovered. “I’m journeying to London now. Lucas and Merry will be hosting a small gathering, and I believe a show of unity—”
This time, a laugh did explode from Lathan, harsh and ugly and devoid of humor. “My God, y-you w-want… you th-think…” It was too fantastical to even finish. He laughed all the harder. Once he’d regained control of his dark mirth, he said to his brother, “That’s why you’ve come early. Not to deliver my notes. You’ve come in the hopes of a joyous family gathering. One with a united front, where we aren’t the splintered, gossiped-about Holmans.”
Ewan sputtered. “How dare you? It has nothing to do with appearances.”
“That is all it has ever had to do with, with the Holmans,” Lathan said calmly, matter-of-factly, as a man who well knew just what his family was… and what they cared about.
“I shall leave you.” Ewan gathered his cloak from along the back of the chair and shrugged into it. “Before I do…”
Lathan hastened to collect the already sealed envelope of his latest attempts at an encryption code that might benefit the Crown. He stared at it a moment before letting himself turn it over to Ewan’s care. “Thank you,” he said gruffly.
His brother made a sound of protest. “Bah, that is what brothers are for.”
What good had Lathan ever been to Ewan, however? Or any of his family, for that matter?
Riddled with a familiar self-loathing and shame, he made himself stare past Ewan.
Ewan touched a hand to his arm, forcing Lathan’s gaze back. “It is my hope that you’ll change your mind and join us in Cornwall.” He lightly squeezed Lathan’s shoulder and started for the entryway of the kitchen. He lingered in that doorless archway for a long moment, wanting to say more. That knowledge came from both an understanding of his brother and also his ability to read people, gained from his work at the Home Office. “Goodbye, Lathan,” his middle brother said in low tones and then left.
The quiet tread of his footfalls filled the quiet, followed by the squeak of the rusty handle as he let himself out.
Then, nothing more than a quiet click, and Lathan was once more alone, with nothing more than his brother’s words lingering there.
He’d spoken of Lathan rejoining the family… a family that had turned their backs on him. It was a fate he deserved, but he’d not also beg them for scraps of affection or forgiveness. He’d not return—the unwanted child, the scapegrace—and be reminded day in and day out of all he’d done wrong. Nay, he didn’t need his parents to do that for him, because he was doing it fine enough himself.
And hopefully one day soon, he’d send the Home Office something so beneficial that they would no longer be able to ignore him or the benefits he might bring to England.
You’re a damned fool if you believe that.
He’d sent ’round three separate deliveries by way of his brother, and not a single one had merited even a note.
And why should it?
Clenching and unclenching his jaw, Lathan grabbed the pan. Boiling water splashed over the rim and burned his hand.
He hissed, the only hint of discomfort to escape him. Ignoring the searing pain, he carried the water over and poured the hot water into the upper pot.
Grabbing a chair, he settled himself onto the slightly off-kilter wooden seat and stared blankly at the coffeepot.
Drip.
There’d been a time when his life had been a purposeful one.
Drip.
A time when he’d done something that mattered.
Drip.
A time when there’d been family and colleagues and people, who, even if they hadn’t cared about him, would have noted his absence.
Drip.
All that was done now.
Drip.
This was all there would ever be.
Drip.
Forever.
Chapter 2
Two months later
Do something you’ve never done before…
In the end, following her godmother’s visit and the letter the duchess had given her, Francesca decided to make the journey to the Duchess of Sutton’s after all.
Which was, of course, the greatest of ironies since she’d likely perish in the hills of… of… wherever she now was for that decision.
Her carriage hit a nasty bump, jostling her hard against the side—again.
With her gloved fingers, she caught the edge of the bench and attempted to steady herself.
She’d almost not come. Despite the guilt, she felt to do right by her father’s memory and the kindness shown her by the Duchess of Sutton, Francesca had still almost decided to forgo this visit… and meeting the gentleman awaiting her there—the potential bridegroom, handpicked by her late father and approved by her godmother.
Of course, the decision hadn’t been entirely one of her choosing. The Duchess of Sutton’s conveyance had arrived, unannounced, with a driver to take Francesca on to the festivities. In quick order, her belongings had been packed and loaded atop the duchess’ gold lacquer carriage. Her maid had been thrust into the duke’s other ostentatious conveyance, and away they’d all gone.
Off to the duchess’ house party.
Off to her houseful of guests.
Invariably, all of the Duchess of Sutton’s affairs were grand. Whether they were intended as intimate dinner parties or holiday gatherings, or in this case, a small house party, the duke and duchess’ properties were crowded with guests. The ones who, if they bothered to notice Francesca, favored her with pitying stares. She stifled a groan. For that had been before. Before she’d been orphaned at thirty, a woman without a parent or sibling or husband about for companionship and support.
The carriage hit another heavy groove and sent her toppling against the side once more. Her head knocked the glass, and the thick, pink velvet curtains slightly muted the blow.
Francesca’s heart hammered erratically with fear. Muttering, Francesca held on for dear life with one hand, and with the other, she rubbed at the offended body part.
You’re fine.
Many people traveled in wintry weather, with their carriages slipping and sliding and swaying. In fact, the terror Francesca had been battling for the past eight hours of her journey was a testament to the staid life she’d lived. “Pfft.” Who else would be scared of a silly—
The carriage lurched forward and then went careening forward at full speed.
Crying out, Francesca grabbed on to her bench.
Her efforts proved futile.
The horses galloped on faster and faster, and the conveyance they dragged behind them tilted back and forth, defying the pace those spooked animals set.
Distantly, she registered the angry shouts of the driver overhead as he cursed his mounts, ordering them to slow. But the urgency of his tone seemed only to compel them onward, faster, and the death grip she had upon her seat was knocked loose.
Francesca went flying, slamming into the opposite wall.
Sh
e groaned and pressed a hand to her throbbing forehead.
The team quickened the already frenzied pace they’d set, and her entire body shaking, Francesca scrambled onto the floor.
Why did I go?
The carriage moved faster.
I should have stayed behind.
And faster.
Because being alone is a misery, but it is vastly preferable to death.
Then everything happened at once, time moving as if in slow motion, and yet, also with a dizzying rapidity.
The Duke and Duchess of Sutton’s carriage shifted course and went sliding sideways, careening, tipping…
Francesca’s screams melded with the driver’s shouts and the team’s furious whinnies.
And then, miracle of miracles, the creatures and the carriage stopped.
They stopped.
Or they’d died. Given the circumstances and the violent storm, that was certainly a real possibility.
Francesca lowered her arms, which at some point she’d raised protectively about her head, and glanced around.
Nay, she was not dead, because neither heaven nor hell would ever be as bitterly cold as this.
The door was yanked open, and wind and snow tunneled through the opening.
Francesca cried out as her father’s letter whipped about. She grabbed the papers up and drew them close.
“Apologies, Miss Cornworthy,” the driver said, his voice emerging as a near shout in the inordinate quiet of the storm that raged around them. “We’ve some severe ice and snow, and well, the horses…”
She waved off his apology and struggled to get herself up onto the bench. “It is hardly your fault.”
“Can’t stay here,” he went on, helping her back into her seat. Doffing his hat, he shook the coating of snow from the brim and returned the high article atop his head.
“No.”
“No, I mean, we can’t… the axle snapped.”
The axle? Her heart dipped. “The other team?”
“Been a while since I’ve heard them. I suspect they might have run into trouble themselves. I was hoping to outrace the storm.” He shook his head, his meaning clear. And then he ducked back out.
For one horrifying, irrational moment, she thought he intended to leave her. “Where are you—?” Her question abruptly died as the driver scrambled atop his bench.
He returned a moment later with several blankets. “Here you are,” he said, handing them through the doorway.
Tucking her letter inside her cloak, Francesca automatically took the heavy wool articles and set them on the bench. “S-surely you aren’t thinking w-we can sleep here.”
He scoffed. “Sleep here? That wouldn’t be safe.” And yet, if that wasn’t safe… Warning bells tinkled. “I’m going to have to set out in search of help,” he went on to explain. “It’s not safe for you to be trekking through this blizzard.”
Her mouth went dry. “Y-you are l-leaving, Mr. Smith?” Fear and cold added a shake to her voice.
“I’ll be back with help,” he promised. “Can’t be far. We’re not far outside Lathom.” He made to shut the door, but then stopped. “Oh, I’ll leave this, just in case.” Reaching inside his jacket, he withdrew—
“A-A p-pistol?” she strangled out.
“You’ve got one shot. I don’t anticipate you’ll require it,” he said, all matter-of-fact business. “No highwayman in his right mind would bother working on a night like this.” He paused. “But if there is?” He held out the gun.
If there is?
A panicky little giggle climbed her throat as she took the weapon.
The driver shut the door.
And then she was alone.
She glanced out the window. Why… Smith had even taken the horses, leaving her, truly on her own.
And here she’d believed herself alone before.
Huddling deep into the folds of her cloak, Francesca set aside her newly acquired weapon, and shaking out one of the blankets, she covered her lap. When the heavy wool did little to drive back the cold, she grabbed for the other. There. That helped… some.
Mr. Smith would return soon enough. She just needed to occupy herself… alone… in the middle of a snowstorm…
Not allowing herself to linger on those thoughts and wander down the path of panic, she bent down to gather up all the items that had gone flying from her valise. She gathered up her notebook and the spare articles of clothing she’d carried with her, as well as the pencil…
Her heart fell.
“Nooooo,” she whispered as she lifted the writing utensil and fixed her gaze on the broken tip. “It is fine. There were others.”
In the carriage with her maid, who might or might not herself be stranded on the side of the road somewhere behind.
After she’d tidied her makeshift shelter, Francesca took out her father’s instructions for life to give her fingers and mind something to focus on other than the precariousness of her circumstances.
Do something you’ve never done before, poppet. Stretch your wings and soar.
She sighed. “Well, this could certainly classify as that.”
Gathering her notebook, Francesca proceeded to make notes on the requests Papa had made.
A good while later, when it was nigh impossible to bend her fingers because of the cold, she paused in her efforts and consulted the timepiece affixed to the front of her cloak.
“An hour,” she whispered.
It had been a full sixty minutes since Mr. Smith had gone. Granted, it was likely not that very long, given the weather, and yet, stuck outside as she was, alone in a carriage, it might as well have been an eternity.
Another gust of wind buffeted the carriage, the chill penetrating.
Shivering, Francesca rubbed her palms in a search for warmth.
At least she was indoors. The duke’s driver would certainly return. He very well couldn’t go running off and leaving his employer’s goddaughter to perish on the side of some godforsaken country road. Could he?
Surely he’d not leave her in the middle of…?
Francesca drew the curtain back a tiny fraction to peer outside. Of… somewhere just outside of Lathom, he’d said. That was all she knew.
Ice coated the glass, making it near impossible to see anything. She rubbed one gloved palm in a little circle. The warm leather barely melted the frost. Tugging off a glove, she used the tip of her nail to edge away some of the ice until she’d created a small area that she could look through.
She needn’t have wasted her efforts. A heavy blanket of white hung like a curtain as flakes of snow whipped about. Ice mingled with the snow and pinged the glass and lacquer, like sharp little pistol balls being fired.
Suddenly, there were only three certainties. One, her driver had gone off for help, leaving Francesca here alone. Two, it was questionable as to whether he’d find his way back. And three? She was a good deal safer in the carriage than out there in the heart of a raging snow and ice sto—
Ping.
Craaaaack.
Her heart fell.
Mayhap she’d imagined that faint splintering of glass.
Her stomach muscles twisting with dread, Francesca reached for the curtain with her still bare, now freezing fingers and drew it back…
Her heart sank more.
A large crack the length of the panel stretched across the pane.
“It i-is fine.” The cold lent a tremble to her voice. “J-just because it is cracked doesn’t mean it will b-break,” she assured herself. “N-not anytime soon, that is.” Or rather, she sought to assure herself.
A violent wind slammed against the carriage, and the cracked lead gave.
Francesca glanced down at the uneven, lightning bolt-shaped shard now lying in her lap.
“S-so much for anytime s-soon,” she muttered as the wind kicked up another notch. It sent the curtains whipping wildly, and snow came flying through the opening.
Hurriedly pulling on her gloves, she drew her cloak closer.
>
Not for the first time since her father’s passing, she was filled with an overwhelming urge, nay, a need, to cry.
For, despite her earlier resolve to remain inside and sit in wait for the driver to return or the second carriage to catch up, the universe appeared to have altogether different plans.
Much like the decision to join the duchess, the decision to stay or escape the carriage to go in search of shelter was ultimately made for her.
Grabbing the small valise from the floor, Francesca hurriedly snatched up the beloved notebook and letter she was never long without. She stuffed them inside, and thinking better of it, she added the two blankets and snapped the valise shut.
This, then, was to be a night of continued firsts. “D-do s-something you’ve never done b-before,” she muttered, needing to hear her voice aloud so that there was something more than the heavy quiet of a winter storm and the sharp gusting of wind. Something to ground her. Well, this was certainly doing just that. Going off and about in the middle of a raging storm was most decidedly something she’d never, ever done before.
Of course, the alternative was remaining here and waiting for the duchess’ shockingly reckless driver to return. Or staying where she was in the hopes that the carriage carrying her servant and the duchess’ footman showed up in quick order.
Before her courage deserted her, Francesca pressed the handle, and pushing her spectacles higher up on her nose, she peered past the whorl of white, but could make out… nothing.
A heavy quiet hung outside, the stillness so very much at odds with the tumult of the snow coming down. Squinting, she peered into the distance. Searching for her maid’s carriage. Praying for her maid’s carriage. But then she assessed the drop down.
The wind had created a drift that sloped upward toward the carriage, but thankfully it had left some of the earth bare beyond. All it required was that she jump.
Spread your wings and soar!
“J-jump.” She shook from the force of the cold going through her. Had she ever even done something as lighthearted as jump? Surely when she’d been a child she had. And yet, why didn’t she have memories of it? She tossed her bag down. It hit the bare earth with a loud thump. Taking a deep breath, she held on to the sides of the carriage and then jumped.
The Spinster Who Saved a Scoundrel (The Brethren Book 5) Page 3