Silk & Scars (The Silk Series Book 3)

by Cassandra Dean

  Gwen

  ***

  Sowrithil, Devon, 20 August 1847

  Dear Gwen,

  You give me comfort with each letter I receive. I look forward to your letters, have I ever told you? I sit in my study and I make sure all other work is cleared from my desk before I open them. I’ll read them quickly, and then I’ll read them again, slower and able to smile at your humour and frown at your dismay. Sometimes, I take them on the moors and I’ll climb to the top of a rock formation to read them as the wind howls around me.

  Or rather, I imagine I would do so. My leg prevents the climb of anything higher than a foot. (I must inform you this was intended as humour I am told I can be thought dour.)

  How is London?

  Edward

  ***

  Beecham & Co Chambers, London, 30 August 1847

  Dear Edward,

  I must confess, I hoard your letters upon their receipt. I torture myself with waiting until I am alone in my room, the lamp lit and the day behind me before I savour your words. Is it odd we do this, do you think? Or is it simply a sign our friendship is strong?

  I am certain one day we will meet, whether it is in the smoke and fog of London or the wind-swept plains of Dartmoor. I cannot believe our friendship is one that will never spill from the page to real life. Although this is forward of me, is it not? I suppose the unsettlement I feel at the present is prompting me to rashness. Maybe it will be later I will wish these words unwritten, but I cannot regret it now.

  I could write of Cambridge, of the river lined with trees and the punts on a clear summer’s day, but my words won’t approach yours for beauty. One day, I should like to see the moors as you do. It would be a sight to behold.

  Gwen

  ***

  Beecham & Co Chambers, London, 2 September 1847

  Dear Edward,

  I apologise for this letter, but I feel I must write and vent my anger or I shall explode.

  There has been an Incident here at the chambers. That is how Lord Beecham refers to it, capitalized as if it foretells the end of the world.

  Edward. This is what happened.

  I was working on a transcript when the door to my scribing room flew open to reveal one of Lord Beecham’s most premier clients. Not yourself, of course, but another. I, as you can imagine, was startled. The room set aside for my use is far from the main thoroughfare of the chambers and I rarely receive visitors without some purpose for their presence. This man, he opened the door and, after a brief moment of speechlessness, demanded to know who I was. I, in turn, had lost all semblance of voice. How could I respond, Edward? It had been intimated for the entirety of my career at Lord Beecham’s chambers that I was to remain unknown and hidden. How could I answer his query?

  After what felt like forever, the head clerk arrived and ushered the client from the room. I can only imagine the discussion that took place following our encounter, for when I arrived at work this morning, I was called to Lord Beecham’s side.

  I have been reprimanded, Edward. I have been told I am too forward and I was at fault for the whole encounter. I have been told I am lucky to still have employment, and only the condescension and preference some clients show for my hand has saved me. I have been told, again, that I am employed only by grace of the largess Lord Beecham shows me.

  God in Heaven, I am so, so angry. This is beyond all comprehension. How could I be held at fault for an encounter that occurred purely by chance? How could I be the one to bear this wrong, to be the one who must be circumspect, to be hidden and shunned and then because of one client’s loss of direction, I am to bring the chambers to its knees? How could I—

  I am sorry, Edward. My frustration escapes me. It is the same tune, over and again. I am to be held to a different standard, because I am female. Perhaps Etta has the right of it. Maybe it is we should invade law functions dressed as maids. It seems if we attempt legitimate employment, we are punished for it.

  My apologies again for this letter, Edward. It is only I feel better once I’ve set my thoughts on paper, and it brings me comfort to know you read them.

  Gwen

  ***

  Beecham & Co Chambers, London, 3 September 1847

  Your Grace,

  Please disregard my latest missive. It was poorly done of me. I would understand if you should not wish to correspond with me again.

  Miss Parkes

  ***

  Sowrithil, Devon, 12 September 1847

  Beecham,

  You are to attend me at Sowrithil. Bring a scribe with you.

  Miss Parkes will suffice.

  Sowrithh

  Chapter One

  Sowrithil

  Devon, England, 29 September 1847

  TAPPING HER FOOT TO a manic beat, Gwen waited.

  Shadows stretched across the stone floor, casting long, spindly fingers broken only by table and carpet. The weak flicker of the lamp a servant had lit a half hour before gave a movement to the shadow, making the fingers flex and retreat as if steepled by an unknown hand. The light threw a garish relief across the visage of a gargoyle, maw frozen in a sneer filled with wicked-sharp teeth. A gargoyle that, for some reason unknown, resided inside the Duke of Sowrith’s principal estate, in the hall connecting the secretary’s room and the duke’s own study.

  At the thought of the duke, her foot stuttered to a stop.

  For an hour or more, she’d been seated in an uncomfortable chair in this hall, steadily becoming more chilled as the light faded. The whole of the day had been spent in travel from London to Devon to the duke’s estate of Sowrithil, and she’d yet to eat or find rest of any description. Sitting in this chair could hardly be termed rest, as she’d been on edge ever since Lord Beecham had ordered her to sit while he conversed with the duke.

  Gwen started tapping her foot once more. The duke. How was she to endure this wait before she met the duke?

  She bit her lip. No, tell it true. Before she met Edward.

  Hands bundled in her lap, she quieted her troublesome appendage, tucking her ankle behind its mate for good measure as a shiver rushed through her. It was an assignment like any other. He was an assignment like any other. She’d written him numerous times under the direction of the solicitors of the chambers, copied legal documents concerning his estate and his business matters. She’d undertaken a hundred tasks for his account, just as she had for dozens of other clients of Lord Beecham’s chambers. She should not make more of this than what it was.

  But then...she’d never before travelled to a client’s residence. She’d never left her small, solitary room at the chambers. She’d never been directed upon her arrival for a day of work to pack a bag and meet Lord Beecham at the train station, had never travelled to Sowrithil, had never walked Sowrithil’s drive, felt the crunch of gravel beneath her feet, been greeted by Edward’s butler, walked Edward’s halls....

  She’d never before met Edward

  Crossing her arms over her stomach, she leant forward, pressing deep. Good heavens, she was nervous, and excited, and nervous. She was going to meet Edward. One moment soon, he was going to open that door, and she would see him. She would see the man she’d corresponded with for over a year, to whom she’d expressed every thought, and who had expressed his to her. It did not matter that he was a duke, so far above her in consequence as to be laughable. He was her friend, and, at last, they would meet.

  Foot tapping wildly, she leant her head back against the wall. This was all so ridiculous. She was ridiculous to have this unbridled excitement rioting through her. Exhaling, she caught the stare of the gargoyle. The gargoyle knew how ridiculous her thoughts. Its stone features laughed at her, and in a fit of pique, she poked her tongue out.

  The study door opened. Leaping to her feet, she swayed as the blood rushed from her head.

  Lord Beecham appeared in the door way and, his eyes lighting upon her, crooked a finger. “Miss Parkes. Come.”

  Heart beating a rapid tattoo, she bent to grip the ha
ndle of her carpet bag. Lord Beecham had abandoned the door by the time she had gathered herself enough to approach, the worn wooden handle of the bag pressing deep into her palm.

  Passing through the door, Gwen stopped, her jaw slack as she looked about the chamber. Lit only by the flame of the massive fireplace dominating one wall and the wan flicker of a lamp seated on the enormous desk, the room was huge, cavernous even, and dark. So dark. The faint light picked up rows upon rows of books while heavy drapes of an unidentifiable fabric covered what she could only presume were windows. The floor was the same stone as the hall, the only carpet appearing before the fire under the clawed feet of a large armchair.

  Her gaze returned to the fireplace. A man stood before it, his back to her, right hand held by his left.

  Her heart, already racing, started a wild thud against her ribs. That was him. The duke. Edward.

  He did not turn, though she willed him to. Willed him to turn so she could utter that most important of phrases, the one she’d longed to say for an age now.

  Hello, Edward.

  “Miss Parkes.” Lord Beecham stood before the duke’s desk, wearing a look that spoke of his impatience. He gestured at a chair set before the desk. “Sit.”

  Clutching her bag to her, she did as she was bidden and fought the urge to look to the fire. To Edward.

  Back ramrod straight, Lord Beecham pinned her with his gaze. “Miss Parkes, the Duke of Sowrith requires your expertise in scribing his correspondence for the foreseeable future. I will be returning to London in the morning, but you will remain here at Sowrithil to undertake any direction he specifies.”

  Gwen blinked. She—What?

  “Your presence here has been requested by His Grace himself. If it were my choice, I would have recommended someone with greater skill and experience. However, I cede to His Grace in this matter as will you.”

  She was to… What?

  “If anyone requires contact, you are to give me their notification. I will see it delivered.”

  Finally, she found her voice. “Lord Beecham, I cannot—”

  “Miss Parkes, do not test my patience. You are already employed under extraordinary circumstances, and it would not take much for me to rescind those circumstances. You will do as told.”

  Shock began to wane. She glanced toward the fireplace, but the man standing before it didn’t so much as twitch. “Sir, I cannot depart London for an undetermined period of time. I have commitments—”

  Impatience darkened Lord Beecham’s expression. “Of which you will tell me, and I will deal with them. Your presence is required, Miss Parkes. It is as simple as that.”

  Annoyance stirred, though she fought to keep it hidden. “This is extremely irregular, sir. Surely this is beyond the bounds of propriety—”

  “Miss Parkes, do not presume to know my mind. The usual proprieties may be waived in this instance, but know if you step a foot out of line—”

  “Beecham. Leave us.”

  Both she and Lord Beecham whipped their heads around. The duke stood before the fire, still with his back to them, though the hands at his back seemed held a fraction tighter.

  Lord Beecham recovered his voice first. “Your Grace?”

  The hands at the duke’s back tightened further. “Leave.”

  Looking as if he bit back sour words, Lord Beecham obeyed, sketching a bow though the duke continued to regard the fire. Then he departed, leaving her alone with the duke.

  Moments passed as the crackle and hiss of the fire echoed through the room, overwhelmingly loud. With no other recourse, Gwen studied the duke’s back. The perfectly combed black hair long enough to rest on his collar. The width of his shoulders in his beautifully tailored jacket. The fall of his trousers. His head dipped, and it seemed to her he made as if to brace himself, his shoulders infinitesimally tensing. Then he turned.

  She managed to swallow her gasp. Just.

  She’d known he was scarred. He’d told her, in the briefest way possible, and she’d known, she’d known the brevity disguised the extent of his injury. But even knowing those scant words hid much could not have prepared her for the reality.

  Light threw itself across his face and form to fall upon the thick white scar that snaked across his face, starting somewhere in the thickness of his dark brown hair. The scar bisected his forehead before disappearing under the patch that covered his left eye only to begin again to cut deep into his cheek. Twisting toward the corner of his mouth, the scar drew his lip into a perpetual sneer before ending beneath his chin.

  She bit her cheek to keep from offering words she knew he did not wish. Lord above. So much pain.

  Turning his cheek to display his right side, he made his way to his desk, a slight limp to his left leg marring his step. Lowering himself to the seat, he placed his right hand on the polished surface of the desk and his left on the leather blotter. Then he raised his gaze to her.

  He said nothing, his face impassive, bar that involuntary sneer. His eye was as unrevealing as the eye-patch—a dark, dark brown that gave nothing away. The hand that lay on the leather blotter was twisted and broken, the two smallest fingers frozen while a network of fine white scars ran across the back of his hand to disappear into his coat sleeve.

  “Did you have a pleasant journey?”

  His right hand held for her a strange fascination. Did he write his letters with that hand? “Your Grace?”

  The hand on the blotter twitched. “Your journey. Was it pleasant?”

  Forcing herself to drag her gaze from his hand, she instead regarded a region near his chin as was proper for someone so much greater in consequence than her. “Yes.”

  Silence again. How could she have such silence with Edward? How was it they were not conversing, as they did in their letters, with the ease granted to the closest of friends? How was it she was trapped here with this silent duke, who regarded her so dispassionately and destroyed every foolish hope she’d entertained?

  “Your time here won’t be purely work.”

  “Your Grace?” Lord, she sounded the fool, repeating his title, but how else was she to respond when he abruptly delivered a statement as if she should know his thoughts?

  “You may take a half day on Saturdays and a full day on Sundays. Any other time when you are not scribing, you may employ as you see fit under the proviso you are easily contactable should you be required. Is this agreeable?”

  No. Criminy, no. None of this was agreeable. Or sensible. Or…or… She could not make head nor tail of any of this.

  “Miss Parkes?”

  Bewildered, she saw no other recourse but to agree. She nodded.

  It seemed to her the tension with which he held himself relaxed. Slightly. “Excellent. You will tell Dobson what is required for a long term stay. He will arrange to have anything you require brought from your lodgings.”

  How long was she expected to remain? She couldn’t stay indefinitely. She had commitments in London, not to mention a need to collect her wages each week. She had no arrangement in place to send a portion of her earnings to her parents, and she would not speak of such things to Lord Beecham.

  Silence again. Her tongue seemed tied, and she could not unravel it for the life of her. She wanted to speak of their letters, to ask if he were their author, but that steady, dispassionate stare forbade such a familiar question. It could not be him. He could not have written those letters. Surely he would say something? Surely, if he had, their acquaintance would not have started with a decree and a complete disregard of her opinion. And he hadn’t answered her last letter, hadn’t said whether he wished their correspondence to continue. Oh Lord, he hadn’t said.

  The smallest twitch to his expression, and she wondered if he wanted to say something. Would he speak now of their correspondence? Would he smile and become Edward?

  He said nothing.

  Disappointment burned through her. She ducked her head, and hoped he wouldn’t notice the sheen to her eyes.

  “You shoul
d rest. A tray will be brought to your room.” He straightened his back, his posture rigid. “You may go.”

  She nodded again. Clutching her bag, she started toward the door. Finally remembering the manners her mother had taught her, she turned and curtsied. “Good night, Your Grace.”

  Something again flickered in his dark, dark eye. “Good night, Miss Parkes.”

  Chapter Two

  THE WIND SCREAMED ALONG the unseen windows. Gloom shrouded the chamber in a heavy presence that crept over the furnishings and slid down the walls. The bed hangings offered a protection of sorts, a barrier between the unknown terrors of the dark and safe haven.

  Gwen stared at the canopy above her bed, doing her level best to ignore each shriek of the wind. Even after the day of travel, after sitting unoccupied for hours, even though she was so tired her eyes felt like they were full of sand, she couldn’t sleep.

  It wasn’t only the wind, though. The chamber she’d been given unnerved her. It was by far the largest and grandest room she’d ever slept in, the bed so big she could stretch out both arms and not touch the sides. She’d spent a good hour examining every inch of the chamber, opening every cupboard, investigating the room reserved solely for clothes. Lord above, a wardrobe you could walk into. In London, her clothes were kept covered by a sheet on a rail in one corner of her lodgings. Truth be told, her entire lodgings would probably fit in the wardrobe room.

  It also unnerved her she’d somehow become an unwilling guest at Sowrithil.

  Outrage, a steady rise since this afternoon, erupted and she hit at the sheets. What was she doing here? She should be back in London, in her own bed, ignoring the sounds of the street below, not jumping every time the Dartmoor wind screamed past. There was no indication of how long she would remain here or even what her duties were to be. Oh no, she was supposed to be a good little girl and do as she was told. We’re upending your life, Miss Parkes. Be damned to propriety and only be grateful, for we can take it from you with a word.