His aide poked his head in. “Mr. Arnold has dropped by, sir.”
Peter rather wished the office had a back door. Mr. Arnold had been scowling at him every time their paths crossed since the Midsummer Ball.
Which was no doubt why Gryff said, “Show him in,” where he usually would have said to show him in after just a moment, giving Peter time to escape.
As it was, his choice was either to run out and appear utterly devoid of manners, try to pass him in the narrow hall and likely knock the old man’s cane from beneath him, or wait here until Mr. Arnold entered, and then take his leave after a polite greeting. “Tyrant.”
Gryff gave him an unrepentant smile.
Folding up the sheet of paper from the investigator, Peter stood, ready to make his escape as soon as he reasonably could.
Gryff stood too. “How goes the deadline, by the way?”
Not that he could give much of an answer, what with Mr. Arnold’s steady tap-step gait coming down the hall. But he nodded. “Nearly . . . finished.” Though after Rosemary’s observation about The Poison Belt last night, he’d lain awake wondering if there was anything he’d written that he oughtn’t. Anything he’d never paused to consider. What assumptions he had been making. What she would say if she knew he was Branok Hollow.
What she would have done had he kissed her lips last night, rather than her cheek.
Mr. Arnold’s hunched frame filled the doorway. He wore a smile on his wrinkled face today—perhaps he hadn’t caught sight of Peter yet.
But no, the old gentleman looked directly at him after a nod to Gryff. “I am glad I caught you, Mr. Holstein. I was hoping I would when I saw you come in.”
Peter shifted his weight from one foot to the other and prayed his smile was all it should be. “Nice t-to see . . . to see you, M-Mr. Arnold.”
“You have been heavy on my heart.” Mr. Arnold shuffled his way to the chair beside the one Peter had just vacated and eased himself to a seat upon it. “I thought I would catch you and see how you are. There have been no more incidents, have there, in the last fortnight?”
Peter shook his head. “All has b-been . . . quiet.” His gaze strayed to the silver coin still sitting on the corner of Gryff’s desk—the one with the inverted triangle and concentric circles. All had been quiet, but the threat was still hovering. He cleared his throat. “And w-with you?”
Mr. Arnold glanced toward the desk as well and narrowed his eyes. But his sight wasn’t very good, was it? He probably thought it only a florin. Gripping the head of his cane, he looked Peter’s way again with his lips together. Peter could never quite find the words to describe the expression, much as he tried. One that managed to convey both hope and sorrow with its simple lines. “Still nothing. I daresay no one considers this old man to be any kind of threat.” But his chuckle sounded sad and faded into a sigh. “Young Pomeroy said his father was grumbling in the pub the other day. Something about how you still have such firm ties to Germany.”
Peter hadn’t remembered that the troublemaker had a son working for Mr. Arnold—perhaps that, too, contributed to the old gent’s safety. If it were locals responsible for the vandalism, either on their own or at the bequest of Mr. Jasper, and if Pomeroy or one of his cronies were leading those efforts, they wouldn’t want to risk his son’s well-being—or livelihood.
Gryff aimed his smile at Peter. “Well, we are in the process of—”
“Looking . . . into it.” He didn’t need Mr. Arnold’s opinion. There was no room for debate. He was going to sell it to his cousins, and that was that. He edged toward the door. “I ought t-to go and . . . and r-review it all a . . . again. G-Good day . . . Mr. Arnold. Gryff.”
He was out the door as their farewells echoed, and soon out of the building altogether. He really ought to get home. Not that he needed to review the offers again, but he did have to finish that letter to King George. And get back to work on his manuscript. Another week or two and it would be finished, ready to send to his publisher.
It wasn’t going to end quite like his others had. It couldn’t. Rosita wasn’t just going to be arrested, as his other villains had been. No, that would never work, not given how Locryn had fallen for her. She was going to have to get away. And he would have to decide if he was chasing her to pursue justice . . . or to pursue his heart.
Peter headed for the open carriage he’d brought today, parked midway between Gryff’s office and the hotel. It wouldn’t be exactly a cliffhanger—the mystery would be solved, the adventure complete. But the ill-fated love story . . . that couldn’t end so simply.
Hopefully readers would like that. Would like seeing deeper feeling in Locryn James than that which was inspired by his quest for adventure, for truth. Peter had certainly enjoyed delving into it, more than he’d thought he would. Had enjoyed digging deep into Rosita’s motivations too, making her at once a villain and a heroine.
Mostly a villain. But a villain, he hoped, that people would almost want to root for, if she weren’t directly opposed to their hero.
He reached his carriage and prepared to climb up. Then stopped, eyes narrowing. The train must have just arrived at the village station, given the dozen or so people making their way toward the hotel from that direction. And one of those people looked vaguely familiar.
A young woman, perhaps near Rosemary’s age. Perfectly average-looking, the kind that struck one as pretty only after one had studied her for a minute and realized she wasn’t not pretty, so she must be. Broader face than Rosemary’s, flatter nose.
Where had he seen her before? Not here, he knew all the villagers. Not in London, no one so normal-looking would ever have stood out to him in London.
Miss Anonymous walked briskly, obviously knowing where she was going. Straight for the hotel. She had one small valise in her hand and a handbag looped over her shoulder. Its strap she clutched, as if afraid someone might try to steal the thing directly from her, just like Rosemary always did. It came, she said, of living in London.
Like Rosemary did. That was it. It was no wonder he cataloged this woman’s features only as a contrast to Rosemary’s—that was with whom he’d seen her the first time. Abandoning his carriage, he hurried toward the hotel. If Rosemary’s sister were back in town, it was either very good news or very bad, concerning Olivia.
Willa, that was who this girl was. The sister closest to Rosemary in age.
He was twenty seconds later entering the hotel than she’d been, which was apparently just enough time for her to have approached the clerk at the counter. As Peter entered, he heard the clerk say, “Good to have you back, Miss Forsythe.”
Peter’s feet came to a halt. “For . . . Forsythe?” But that made no sense. Perhaps this wasn’t Willa.
She turned, gripping both her bags now exactly as Rosemary always did. And when he saw recognition dawn in her eyes, he knew he wasn’t wrong.
Though it still made no sense. He cleared his throat and stepped out of the way of the door. “P-Pardon me. You are . . . you are R-Rosemary Gresh . . . Gresham’s sister. Are y-you not?”
They looked nothing alike, but the mannerisms were certainly the same, even down to the way she held herself. The lift of her chin as she declared, “That’s right. You must be Mr. Holstein.”
He nodded, but he couldn’t quite wipe away the frown that had overtaken his brows. “But . . . Forsythe?” Was that why he’d had no luck finding Olivia? Was neither Gresham nor Parker the family name?
Willa’s lips fluttered up in a smile. “Married name.”
Oh. Of course, that made sense—she looked to be in her mid-twenties, so a husband was to be expected. Though Rosemary had talked as if all her siblings were still at home.
“Widowed,” she added, shifting the bag in her hand. “And not sorry for it, so don’t apologize. He was a nasty bloke.”
The clerk was frowning too. “You said ‘miss.’”
“You wouldn’t claim him either, if you could help it.” Unfazed, it seemed, by airing s
uch laundry, she turned back to the desk and tapped a finger to the clerk’s register book. “My room, if you please? Unless you’ve a policy against renting rooms to widows of blighters.”
The clerk flushed. Peter cleared his throat. “It isn’t . . . I-I mean . . . why not s-stay with . . . with Rosemary?” The cottage had plenty of rooms—though he could well imagine Rosemary not wanting to assume having a guest was allowed. She hadn’t even wanted to leave the electric lights on to welcome herself home on those evenings she was at the house, even though she was only there at his request. He motioned toward the door. “I’ve a . . . a carriage. You c-can come . . . with me.”
“Oh.” For one second, two, her face was utterly blank, no thoughts betrayed in her eyes. Then she smiled and looked perfectly at ease. “All right. Thank you, sir. I appreciate the offer.”
Peter nodded to the hotel clerk and held the door open for his new guest, who breezed by him. She still wore an expression on her face that declared herself unfazed by the change in plans, like the one Rosemary often donned. But hers, he’d eventually understood, was nothing but a mask. A cloak, as he’d observed during that first dinner at Gryff’s house. Was her sister’s the same?
And where did they learn such things? It was a shame their parents had died—he had a feeling he would have liked to meet the people who had shaped their children into such strong, determined individuals.
He motioned toward his carriage.
Miss—Missus—Forsythe . . . Willa—he couldn’t help but think of her as such, since that was all Rosemary ever called her. Willa tilted her head. “Have you no automobile, sir?”
How had those things so taken over the world in such short order? A decade ago, he hardly knew anyone who had one. Now everyone looked at him as though he were a relic for not. “I d-don’t . . . don’t care f-for them.”
Rosemary did, though. She loved getting to ride in the Penroses’ with Jenny. Perhaps he would . . . A frown creased his brow. Where in the world had that thought been going? He could hardly buy an automobile just for the entertainment of a woman who wouldn’t, as Gryff had helpfully pointed out, be here much longer.
He offered a hand to help her sister up. Maybe Gryff’s off-the-cuff suggestion could work. Maybe he could simply make the librarian position a permanent one.
Willa settled on the seat, positioning her bag at her feet. When he vaulted up on the opposite side, she offered him a vague smile. “Well, thank you for the lift, Mr. Holstein. I promise I’ll not impose long upon your hospitality.”
He returned the vague smile and picked up the reins. And prayed her easy demeanor wasn’t a cloak for bad news. “How is . . . how is Olivia? Improved?”
He waited for an old farm wagon to trundle past and then signaled his horse to join the street’s fray.
Willa frowned. “She told you about Olivia?”
“Of c-course. She was . . . she was v-very distressed. She asked m-me to . . . to pray.”
“Did she?” Willa tucked a strand of straight hair behind her ear. “Forgive me, but that’s surprising. She doesn’t usually air family concerns with strangers. Nor request prayers of them.”
It had been a unique situation, he granted that. And through it, they’d emerged as something far different from strangers. But he wasn’t going to get into all that with her sister—his tongue would never survive it. So he simply nodded, kept his eyes on the road, and said, “I . . . I know.”
“Hmm.” The hum didn’t sound exactly pleased, but it didn’t sound exactly anything. It was as vague as her smile. Then she said, “Well, she is much improved, is Liv. Thank you for inquiring.”
They went over a bump as they left town, and her valise shifted, forcing her feet to do so as well. Peter glanced down to see if he could help in any way and glimpsed scuffed, worn half-boots under her fashionable skirt. Far worse-looking than the ones Rosemary wore. Leaps and bounds worse, as if they might fall apart at any moment. An odd contrast indeed to her clothes.
But then, Rosemary could make the clothes. Apparently none of the siblings had mastered the cobbler’s art.
He had the sudden urge to ask Willa what she did for a living, since all of them must work. And the sudden certainty that she wouldn’t answer him if ask he did. He cleared his throat. Best to focus on another subject. “Did . . . did C-Cressida pass a . . . a good birthday?” He glanced up to her nothing-like-Rosemary’s face.
Said face had incredulity coloring its blank edges. “She told you that too?”
“Was it a . . . a s-secret?”
Another nothing-smile. “Of course not. Though I’m afraid the day was greatly overshadowed by Olivia’s convalescence. We were none of us in the mood to celebrate.”
Rosemary had secrets though, she’d said. Ones she thought would ruin his opinion of her. Peter had turned that statement over every which direction last night, but he kept coming back to the same certainty—unless she were a murderer, he didn’t much care. And even if she were, he was certain she’d have had good reasons for it. She was too concerned with the plight of everyone to hurt anyone. Anyone undeserving, that is. Though had she been there when that villainous gent kicked Olivia into the street, he would have been surprised had she not delivered a blow to his jugular.
He never would have thought the prospect of violence would make him grin. But there was something alluring about that fierce light that lit her eyes when she spoke in defense of the downtrodden, or of her family.
“Is that amusing?”
“Hmm? Oh. P-Pardon me.” What a dunce he was, grinning after she’d said they’d no reason to celebrate. “I was . . . I was j-just . . .” He cleared his throat, having a feeling she wouldn’t much appreciate those thoughts of his. Or rather, she wouldn’t like that he knew her sister well enough to think them. Apparently Rosemary hadn’t written all that much in her letters home about the life she’d been living here.
Or . . . or just hadn’t mentioned him and their friendship.
The summer air suddenly felt over-hot. Stifling. Heavy. He sighed. It promised to be a long two miles back to Kensey.
Twenty-One
Rosemary wrote down another sentence, still not quite believing the words she penned. Not quite convinced she hadn’t concocted the whole theory from her imagination.
But her imagination had never been very good—unless it was concocting monsters in the dark. This . . . this was something well beyond her abilities. From the books, she had pieced together the bare facts—that Wilhelm and Aksel Holstein had both been friends of England’s royal family. Though all the mentions of them were vague, the photographic evidence was too great to be ignored. In an unfathomable number of pictures, they were there, somewhere in the background.
It was the journals that had provided the motivation. Assuming she had translated them correctly. She would have to ask Peter to double-check them. Perhaps he would take the day away from his typewriter tomorrow and look at them with her. And she fully intended to spend the evening in the attic—she’d find those documents he needed. They would be there; the journals said they would be. She had only to—
Knock, knock, knock.
She looked up, over to the door in the hallway. And frowned when she saw Peter there rather than Kerensa or Grammy or a scowling Mrs. Teague. Since when did he enter through the hall door? “Did you lock yourself out of your study?”
He smiled. “Let’s . . . let’s hope not. I brought you . . . I brought you something from town.”
She grinned and pushed away from the table. It was just like him, though she couldn’t think what he’d have brought. “Did you? You know you needn’t . . .”
Still smiling, he stepped to the side. And a new figure stepped into the doorway. Rosemary leapt up and flew across the room, shrieking like an utter ninny. “Willa!”
Willa met her a few steps in, laughing as they shared a fierce embrace.
Then Rosemary pulled away and slapped her on the arm. “Why haven’t you written? It’s been ages,
I was getting worried. How is Liv?” She stilled, searching her sister’s face for news. “You wouldn’t come unless she was well. Unless—unless she . . .” If the worst had happened, she wouldn’t write it. She’d come.
But there were no lines of grief in Willa’s face. Certainly not in her smile. “She’s well, Rosie. I swear it. I wouldn’t have come if she weren’t well.”
“Oh, thank God.” That anxiety, so quick to pounce, unwound again, letting her shoulders sag.
Willa frowned. “Not sure what He has to do with it, but all right.”
Rosemary breathed a laugh and looked over Willa’s shoulder. Peter still hovered in the doorway, watching them with a little smile on his face. A bit of it, no doubt, because he’d apparently rubbed off on her more than she’d thought. Listen to her, casually thanking God as he was more apt to do. She glanced back to Willa. “Did you just arrive?”
“On the train. Mr. Holstein saw me going into the hotel and offered me a lift. And to stay in the cottage with you.”
He’d recognized her—from that one glimpse he’d had of her when Rosemary first arrived? She arched a brow at him, impressed. “It really does astound me how you can notice and recall some details so perfectly yet never remember when it’s time for a meal.”
He chuckled and pushed off the doorway he’d been leaning on. “Speaking of . . . would you . . . would you like your s-sister to . . . to join us for luncheon and dinner, or . . . or shall I have Grammy s-send something to the cottage?”
It could be fun to have Willa in the big house for a meal—when else would they ever have a chance to eat together in such opulence? But when she glanced at Willa to verify that, she paused. Willa’s face was carefully blank. And her eyes were absolutely raging.
Rosemary cleared her throat. “The cottage, I think. Thank you. I’ll just show her the way now and then come back to—”
“Take the day.” He nodded, his eyes soft, and backed up a step into the hall. “You . . . you deserve it. Have fun.”
He vanished, his steps heading toward the kitchen. Otherwise the only sound was the ticking of the clock. And the simmering throb of Willa’s temper.
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