by Diana Ballew
“Oh.” Cecilia’s attention turned back on her open book.
“My mother may be dead, too,” Irene said.
Lorelei shot her a sharp glance. Yes, her expression was quite serious. “Irene, we discussed—” She stopped at the sudden stillness that came over the room. All eyes were upon Irene. Even Sarah’s brooding gaze, drawn away from the fire, burned with curiosity.
Irene seemed oblivious. Her eyes were trained on her book, flipping the pages in slow, methodical increments. “She could have died by now.” Her solemn tone broke Lorelei’s heart.
“Irene. Please,” she snapped. Please, what? Lorelei was at a loss. How was she to shake Irene from her expectations of doom? The girl’s exposure to violence was something Lorelei had no experience with. She snatched up her embroidery. “We shall talk again later.”
Sarah’s gaze snapped to Lady Kimpton, startled by her severe tone. She would have wagered her last pence that Satan’s little angel would never draw someone’s ire. And certainly not Lady Kimpton’s.
Her stomach fluttered in fear. Blasted rain. How was she to sneak away to meet Lord Maudsley’s demands? She’d never been frightened of him before. But he’d slammed her against a tree. He’d almost killed her. She was so confused. His voice remained congenial. Did he hate her? Love her? No. He was a vicious, vicious man.
She closed her eyes against her last visit to the park. The memory refused to be quelled. She, on her knees, tears streaming down her face, his hand trapping her head while he shoved his ... his thing down her throat. She swallowed back bile, shifting her gaze back to the fire, quickly blinking. If anyone learned what he’d forced her to do, she’d be turned out on the streets, she would.
“Miss Elvin, are you quite all right?”
Lady Kimpton’s kindness turned her stomach. “I ... I’m not feeling quite myself today, my lady.”
“You’re free to retire to your chamber, dear. I’ll have a tray sent up.” She smiled, and Sarah truly thought she would vomit right there on the drawing room carpet.
“Yes. Yes, I think I will, my lady.” Sarah stood, offered a short curtsey, and somehow restrained herself from an out-and-out run from the room. She rushed into the hall and up the stairs to her chambers. She jerked the chamber pot from beneath the bed and cast up her accounts with the force of a violent hurricane.
She swallowed her tears. Nothing could come of them anyway. What good did crying do one besides? She went to the window and cracked it. The damp air cooled her hot face. Once Peg brought her tray, it would be safe to steal away for a time.
The knock sounded. “Enter.”
It was Peg. “Here is your tray Lady Kimpton said to bring you.” Her insolent tone cut Sarah to the bone, but Sarah steeled her resolve. The servants made no secret of their feelings, treating her as if she were the resident leper. Only around Lady Kimpton did they bother to mask their contempt with civility.
Resentment burned, deep in her chest. She lifted her chin, doing her best imitation of Lord Maudsley. “That will be all, Peg.”
The door shut soundly. Sarah rushed to the bed and threw back the covers. She pounded the pillows into shape and hastily rearranged the bedsheets around the mock body.
Fifteen minutes later, Sarah slowed her steps. He hadn’t seen her yet. She modulated her breaths to stave off the panic clawing her throat. Another man stood with his back to her. Edward caught sight of her and smiled. Her stomach lurched in another bout of roiling waves. The man beside him moved into the trees. She couldn’t see him, but she felt his eyes.
“Ah, there you are, my dear. I’ve been waiting”—he flipped out his pocket watch—“as usual.” His smile never shifted, never warmed. How had she ever believed he cared? An urge to run screaming tingled against her scalp. “You have news for me?”
“Y-yes.” She glanced to the trees, wet her dry lips.
“I’m waiting,” Edward said softly.
Her eyes jerked back to him. “Irene told Lady Kimpton that her mother is out of danger.” Her words came out weak.
His chest swelled out, his hands clenched into tight fists.
She shrank away.
He grabbed her hair. “Is that all?” he growled.
Her eyes burned. “She said Lord Brockway would keep them informed. Please, my lord, is t-that all, my l-lord,” she whispered.
His grip tightened in her hair. “Not quite.” His benign tone sent apprehension coiling through her.
His eyes searched the landscape over her head. His lips curled almost like a taunt. He pulled a small brown bottle from his pocket. She began to shake as the horrifying images built in her mind.
She tried to back away, but his hold in her hair gave a painful jerk. “I-I won’t poison anyone,” she whimpered.
He cracked a laugh. It echoed off the trees, and there was no one about to hear except the man in the shadows. And he could have been a statue for all the sound he made. “This is only a sleep potion.” His wandering gaze fell on her then, and there was nothing humorous in his cold eyes. “I recommend a tea party, in the garden. Girls love a tea party, do they not?” He held the bottle by the top, swinging it back and forth. “All that is required of you is to pour it in the tea.” He gave a sharp pull on her hair. “Mind you add loads of sugar to disguise the bitterness.”
Tea party. She was to devise a tea party? At Lady Kimpton’s home?
“Once the guests pass out, you will bring the baby to my man. He’ll be waiting for you outside the garden gate.”
No. Again, she tried shaking her head.
“All of the difficult work has already been worked out, my dear.” He pierced her with a harsh squint. “You will take the child to the man at the back gate. Do you understand? Once you hand him over, you’ll be given fifteen pounds in gold pieces.”
Fifteen pounds. She couldn’t fathom that kind of money. She could disappear forever. She swallowed. “You’re certain they won’t die?”
Irritation flickered across his face, she thought. A smile curved his lips then, leaving her unsure of what she’d seen. He leaned over her, his breath suffocating. “Think of it, Sarah. You’ll be free.” He lowered his mouth to hers, stopping just short. “Think of it. Fifteen pounds, all your very own.” His hand loosened from her head, abruptly, sliding down her arm. He took her hand and pressed the bottle into it, curled her fingers around it. “Now, be a good girl and do as I ask.” His breath feathered her lips. “I don’t require anything else of you today, my dear. Run along, and I shall see you soon.” His arms dropped to his sides.
She gripped the brown bottle so tightly her hand ached. She took a step back, then another, and another. All the while, he watched her with that half smile tipping his lips. Sarah backed up, not daring to look away until she reached the path. She spun and ran as if the hounds were after her. She never looked back.
Chapter 22
“Ah. Lunch.” Thorne made his way around the small table in the morning room. “I see we have the pleasure of the children’s company today.”
“I hope you don’t mind. The entire household is testy with this relentless rain,” Lorelei said. “It may finally be giving way.”
“It’s only been three days, darling.” Thorne spoke too quickly, he realized, as every female member of his household glared daggers at him.
“You get to ride your horse.” Cecilia’s bottom lip protruded into an adorable pout. “While we are stuck indoors. We can’t even walk to the park.”
“Lady Cecilia, mind your elbows,” Lorelei reprimanded. “Young ladies do not sit like heathens if they wish to dine with adults.”
With a cheeky grin, Cecilia quickly removed her elbows.
“If t-the sun comes out, perhaps we could have a t-tea party in the g-garden.” When had Miss Elvin begun stuttering? Thorne smiled, hoping to ease her discomfort. Instead, her face flamed a dark crimson, clashing greatly with her red hair.
“Oh, could we, Lady Kimpton, er, uh, might we, please?” Cecilia bounced in her chair, arms straight at h
er side.
Oswald peered around the door with his shiny silver tray. “A note, my lord.”
Thorne grabbed the contents off the tray. “Ah, I am not the only recipient.” He handed off one card to Miss Hollerfield. “This is addressed to you.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
She dropped the envelope in her lap. With an inward shrug, Thorne stuffed his own in an inside pocket of his waistcoat.
Shaking his head, he rose from his chair and leaned over to Lorelei. He whispered, “Do not lock the adjoining door, my dear, for I shall break it down. I care not whom I wake in the process.” He dared a swift hard kiss, dared her to thwart him. Her color heightened, but she otherwise remained composed.
He laughed. “I’m off, ladies. Enjoy your picnic.”
Grinning like a fool all the way to the stables, Thorne made his way to White’s and tipped his hat to everyone in his path. Fifteen minutes later he’d found a quiet corner, still smiling. Nothing could shake this euphoric semblance.
Brock strode up.
“You look like hell,” Thorne greeted him.
“You would, too, if you’d been scouring the streets for a no-good bastard.” He shoved a hand through his hair and dropped into the chair across from Thorne. “Maudsley hasn’t been to any of his usual haunts.”
“When did you start looking?”
“Around two this morning.”
“Ah, well. You should have rested. It would have served you better.” Thorne tipped his head towards the common area.
Brock’s gaze followed his direction, his mouth tightening at the corners. Maudsley’s gloves and cane were gripped in one hand, his knuckles white, his stride singularly direct, straight for Thorne’s once quiet refuge. His expression, murderous.
Brock stood slowly. Thorne followed suit. Maudsley stopped, nose to nose with Brock.
His glove flicked across Brock’s face, and just like that, Thorne’s euphoric mood evaporated. Brock didn’t flinch.
“I’ll see you and your seconds at Hampstead Heath. Dawn. I’ll teach you to make off with one’s wife, you bounder.” Spital flew from his mouth, landing on Brock’s reddened cheek.
He wiped it away. “I’ll be there.”
Maudsley turned on his heels and marched out. Thorne watched him go with a sigh. His morning was officially ruined. He and Brock would be settling affairs well into the night. Lorelei was not going to be happy.
Sarah vomited another three times after breakfast. Mostly dry heaves, since she’d only managed crackers washed down with tepid tea in the last three days. Every day, she prayed for more rain because each rainy day was another she could put off the inevitable. And with each additional day, she grew more sick than the previous one. For three solid days, God had seen fit to answer her prayers.
She went to the window. Alas, her luck had run dry, along with the weather. Her pun was not in the least amusing. She bit her fist, choking back tears.
Now she was down to an hour. One measly hour to ruin lives of the very people who’d housed her, fed her. What would it matter? No one would believe she had a shred of decency. She’d been such a fool over Maudsley. And after what Irene had told Lord Kimpton, she hadn’t been alone once with Lord Maudsley’s precious brats.
The hopelessness threatened to suffocate her. She went to the bed and stood. After a long moment she fell to her knees and put her palms together. “God, please. I’m only sixteen,” she pleaded. “What do I do?” The tears fell yet again. She knew what happened to girls like her. They ended up on the streets begging for food, on their backs handing out favors for a pence. And how many others would she bring into the world, with yet another mouth to feed? But what choice had she?
There would be no one to take care of her after today. She rose slowly, went to the basin, and rinsed her face.
The plan was in place. In another hour, she would be fifteen pounds richer and her own woman. With a deep breath, she opened the drawer with her unmentionables, reached into the far back corner, and felt for the small brown bottle. Steeling her spine, her resolve, her eventuality, she stole from the room.
No one looked her way as she made her way down the servants’ stairwell. She paused at the kitchens. Two girls were peeling potatoes for the night’s supper.
Her stomach dipped. Cook was putting the finishing touches on the tea service. The tray was elaborately set. It was to be a grand tea party. Another pot of tea was next to the tray; Sarah assumed it belonged to the servants. The woman was as broad as a house, and as she fussed about, Sarah’s mettle waned. She took a quiet step back.
“Where are those tarts?” Cook's voice bellowed, startling Sarah and the two girls. “Damn me. I’ll get ’em myself.” She glared a warning to the potato peelers and stomped from the kitchen to another room behind.
Her chance. Keeping her eye on two girls across the room, she held the brown bottle at her back and entered the kitchens. “Oh, the tray looks lovely.”
The potato peelers gave one another a smirk and turned their backs on her. Sarah poured half the contents in the beautiful pot and a good portion of the sugar from the servants’ bowl. The rest of the contents of the bottle went in the servants’ tea with the rest of the sugar.
She glided back to the door. “The girls will love their party,” she said softly. She was sorely tempted to rush back up the stairs to her chamber. But there was nothing left in her stomach to expel.
Sarah paused at the library doors that opened out into the gardens. She still held the bottle. She glanced around. The base of a nearby potted plant sufficed. Smoothing her damp palms down her dowdy day dress, she went through the doors.
Unease ate at Thorne. Could the day drag out any longer? Estate planner, steward, banker. So many details and never-ending tasks. Each passing hour set him to wearing down the carpets in Brock’s massive study. The sense of disquiet nagged at him like a sore tooth.
He snatched a piece of parchment from Brock’s desk and penned a short note, bawdy enough to warrant a response. It drew a small laugh, loosening some of the tightness in his chest.
“My last dying breath at dawn, and you snicker like a school lad.” Brock shook his head.
Thorne tugged the bell pull. “How much longer shall we be?” A servant Thorne didn’t recognize materialized. He thrust the note at the man. “Have someone deliver this to the Kimpton townhouse on Culcross.”
“Very good, sir.”
The door clicked shut. “Where’s Punkle?”
“Taking care of Virginia.”
His grim tone left little room for questions, but Thorne would not be put off. “Is she conscious?”
“Barely.” Brock let out a heavy sigh, leaning back. “She has twenty-four stitches on her head. I don’t think she’s even aware that part of her hair has been shaved. She suffered a broken wrist, maybe a rib. Her face is a mess. It’s a wonder she survived.”
It sickened him. “Good God. And the girls saw her like that.”
“She didn’t have stitches yet. The bastard tried to kill her.” Cold steel glazed his eyes. “And I shall kill him.”
Sarah sat so still, a bird flew within inches of her feet, pecking at the ground. True, Lady Cecilia was running about and screaming like a banshee, so perhaps the bird was looking for refuge. Its dark brown head bobbed and jerked, pausing intermittently at the four-year-old's infuriating shrieks. One more high-pitched squeal, and Sarah would pour the drugged tea down Cecilia’s tiny throat herself.
Lady Kimpton gathered the troops. “Lady Irene, would you care to do the honors?”
The table was set for six. Sara was glad to see Bethie, Lady Kimpton’s terrifying maid, absent. Mrs. Wells held Nathan, while Lady Kimpton and Irene arranged serving plates filled with lemon tarts and biscuits.
Sarah cleared her throat with a small cough. “Um, where is Miss Hollerfield?”
“I’m not certain. She should be down shortly.” Lady Kimpton frowned. “Liza, Lady Cecilia, come. We are ready to begin.” She tu
rned to Lady Irene. “I don’t know what is keeping Miss Hollerfield, but we shan’t wait.”
Panic skittered over Sarah. “But...” She clenched her hands tightly in her lap and forced herself to speak calmly. “She would want to be here.”
Lady Kimpton glanced at her, her smile gentle, sympathetic. “Yes. But she has much to occupy her mind. She’ll be along when she is ready.” She turned to Irene. “Ready, dear?”
Irene rose and began pouring out the tea.
“Leave Miss Hollerfield’s cup, dear. It would be impolite to serve her cooled tea,” Lady Kimpton said.
Sarah willed herself from watching the doors for Miss Hollerfield’s arrival. Lord Maudsley had been most specific.
“Delicious,” Lady Cecilia said. “It’s sweet, just like I love.”
Lady Kimpton sipped from her cup and frowned, but refrained from commenting. It would be too impolite; Sarah heard her as clearly as if she’d spoken aloud.
Sarah dropped her eyes, picking up her own cup. What would happen if she followed the others? Could she drink enough to do herself in? If she survived, Maudsley would hunt her down and cut her up in tiny pieces. She didn’t drink. Just pretended, then reached for a biscuit and nibbled. It tasted like dust.
Over the course of the next twenty minutes, the constant chatter migrated to utter and complete silence. Lady Cecilia’s head fell against Liza’s arm, eyes drooping.
“Goodness,” Lady Kimpton said. “I feel as if I’ve gorged myself and only a short nap will do.” Her laugh fell short.
Proper Lady Irene nodded, smiling.
Sarah’s gaze cut to Mrs. Wells, suddenly frightened at the scene. “Might I hold Nathan for you, Mrs. Wells? Just for a moment whilst you enjoy your own tea?”
“Aye, Miss Elvin. I’d much appreciate it. The little scamp grows heavier by the day.”
Sarah jumped up and took the baby from Mrs. Wells. “He’s right sweet, isn’t he?” No one answered. Sarah walked the length of the terrace, the baby’s head on her shoulder. The hush over the garden was eerie. No maids rushed out to assist. Had she killed them all? She turned back to the group. Lady Irene’s head lay on crossed arms on the table.