by Alyssa Drake
Miss Randall glided closer, circling the table slowly, staring into Miss Larson’s eyes. Miss Larson glared back as if daring Miss Randall to touch her. Dipping her hand into Miss Larson’s apron pocket, Miss Randall extracted a small vial which she passed to Mr. Shirely.
Opening the bottle, he sniffed, nodding. “Poison.”
A slap echoing through the dining room, a red handprint appeared on Miss Larson’s cheek. Miss Randall raised her hand again, but Mr. Shirely intercepted, grabbing Miss Randall’s arm mid-swing. Shaking his head, he forced Miss Randall to step backward, turning his attention to Miss Larson. “Why did you try to kill Mr. Reid?”
Two large tears dripped from Miss Larson’s round eyes, her lower lip trembling. “I did not try to kill Mr. Reid. He is a nice man.” Her gaze locked on Miss Randall. “I was trying to poison you.”
Gasps echoed around the room. Miss Randall’s jaw dropped, shock radiating across her pale visage. “Why?”
“You are a terrible mistress, vindictive, spoiled, and ungrateful. I hate working for you.” Her eyes slid to Bernard. “My only regret is that poor, sweet dog suffered.”
Miss Randall’s eyes bulged. “You are relieved of your post, Miss Larson.”
“Thank the Lord,” replied Miss Larson, snarling. She struggled against Mr. Shirely. “I hope that angry man does kill you, all of you.”
Stomping on Mr. Shirely’s boot, Miss Larson wriggled free of his grasp and raced toward the foyer. Ripping open the front door, she careened into a messenger delivering a parcel. Knocking him to the ground, she leapt over his body and raced down the drive, vanishing into the darkness.
Mr. Shirely tripped over the messenger, sprawling in the dust. They rolled together for a moment, before detangling, each man rising and brushing the dirt from their clothing. Straightening his jacket, the messenger retrieved the parcel. Clearing his throat, he mustered as much dignity as possible. “I have a package for Miss Charlotte Randall.”
“I am her cousin,” replied Mr. Shirely, holding out his hand.
“I was specifically instructed to give it only to Miss Randall.”
“I am she.” Miss Randall stepped forward, a delicate frown on her lips. He thrust the parcel at her, stiffly turned, acknowledged Mr. Shirely with a gruff nod, and disappeared.
Untying the package, Miss Randall peeled back the paper. She screamed, flinging the parcel. It crashed into the side of the house. A head tumbled from the package, bouncing once on the ground, then rolled across the veranda toward her. It bumped into Miss Randall’s shoe, coming to rest against the toe of her boot. Paling, she stared down at the head—Mrs. Pierce’s empty eyes stared back.
Chapter Nineteen
“Thank you for offering to walk us to the main road, Miss Clemens, but given your current situation, I think it best for you to remain on the veranda.” Mr. Reid squeezed Daphne’s hand, the one he’d been holding the past five minutes, rose from the bench, and bowed. His sons copied him, jostling each other as they bent at the waist.
“Miss Clemens,” they chorused, their cherubic faces pulled into mirroring grins. “It was lovely to meet you.”
“Thank you for your delightful company, Misters Reid.” Daphne nodded to each of them in turn, a mirroring smile on her lips.
“Did we do well, Papa?” asked Simon, craning his head sideways.
“Very well.” He straightened, ruffling his son’s hair. Wrapping his arms across their chests, he glanced up at Daphne. “Have you given any consideration to my question from earlier today?”
“I have.” Daphne paused, wiping her palms damp palms on her skirt. She had been surprised when Mr. Reid took her hand in the middle of his sons’ impromptu play—a well-practiced impromptu play. His thumb had stroked gently over the back of her hand—she felt nothing. She sat immobile, imagining what her life would be like if she accepted Mr. Reid’s proposal and wondered if it were possible to fall in love with someone after marriage.
“You look nervous.”
“I am.”
“Why?”
“I have never turned down a proposal before.”
Mr. Reid tilted his head. “Is that your answer?”
Daphne swallowed, forcing herself to stare into Mr. Reid’s eyes. “I would like to marry for love.”
“I see.” Mr. Reid glanced down at his boys, a heavy sigh escaping. His eyes rose to Daphne. “You should.”
Daphne twisted her fingers into knots. “Are you angry?”
“No. I truly hope you find what you are searching for, Miss Clemens.” He nodded to her. “Perhaps you can assist me with my quest to find a suitable wife and mother for my boys… if you would like to remain friends.”
“It would be my pleasure.” Relief ebbing through Daphne’s body, she unclenched her hands.
Bowing a second time, Mr. Reid spun around, and planted his hands firmly on his sons’ backs, giving them a little push toward the stairs. “It’s time to go home.”
“Will we get to see Miss Clemens again?” asked Lucas as they walked through the courtyard. He slid his little hand into his father’s.
“Of course,” replied Mr. Reid, glancing back at Daphne. “She is our friend.”
“Excellent.” Lucas released his father’s hand, dancing down the drive.
“She said we could visit the stables the next time,” added Simon before he broke into a run, overtaking his brother.
“Perhaps her ankle will be healed by then, and we can go riding,” replied Mr. Reid, his eyes locked on Daphne. Daphne nodded her consent. Turning, Mr. Reid raced down the drive after his boys.
“Are you really going to trust Asher to take you horseback riding?”
Screaming, Daphne’s head whipped right. Her hand flew to her mouth, stifling the sound. “Mr. Reid, you startled me.”
“That was not my intention, Miss Clemens.” He stepped onto the veranda, remaining in the shadows.
“Where is the rest of your party?” Daphne squinted into the darkness behind him.
“I came back alone.” Mr. Reid slid forward again, dropping onto the bench next to Daphne, his wild eyes focusing on her face. “Mrs. Pierce is dead.”
“Are you certain?” gasped Daphne.
“Fairly certain. Her head was delivered by messenger to the Shirely’s estate this evening, so one would assume she is not alive.”
Daphne paled, trembling.
His hard posture softened. “Miss Clemens, I apologize for my gruffness. I should not have shared that…”
“Mr. Morris’ depravity is not something you can control.” Daphne waved her hand, leaning forward. She inhaled slowly, fighting nausea which threatened her overtake her body. Mr. Reid’s hand hovered over her back, the heat from his fingers seeping through her dress. Gently, he placed his palm on her spine, a tremor racing through her back. She glanced at him, her stomach somersaulting. How could she marry Mr. Reid when she was in love with his cousin? To be so close, and yet to never… She closed her eyes, her heart shattering.
“Benjamin and Miss Hastings remained behind with Miss Randall. I believe the Shirelys have offered her asylum until Morris is caught,” said Mr. Reid, removing his hand and leaning back on the bench.
“That is very kind of them, but wouldn’t Miss Randall be happier staying here?” Daphne opened her eyes, peering at him.
Mr. Reid stroked his chin, his arm brushing against hers. “I doubt she is comfortable residing in a house where one of the other inhabitants refused her offer of marriage.”
“I suppose you are correct.” Daphne nodded, acutely aware of the proximity of Mr. Reid.
They sat silently for a moment. “I may have a solution to your riding situation.”
“My situation?” Daphne arched an eyebrow.
“Every time you have fallen, I have not been on the horse with you. Therefore, if I am holding you at all times, you will not fall.”
“Your solution is to hold me?”
“Yes, and I have an extremely important question
I want to ask you.” He rose, holding out his arm. “Would you care to take a ride?”
“At this hour?” Daphne gestured at the shadowy courtyard, highlighted by a waning moon.
He leaned over, whispering, “I can see in the dark.”
“And how do you propose to get me to the stables?”
“I will carry you.” Without warning, Mr. Reid lifted her from the bench, folding her tightly against his chest. His unusual scent overwhelmed her, and she curled into his body. “Do not be afraid, Miss Clemens.”
She felt the ghostly sensation of his lips passing over her hair and shivered. Wrapping her arms around his neck, she stared up at him. “I am not frightened. I am merely cold.”
He tightened his hold on her. “It is a short walk to the stables. Can you manage not to freeze during that time?”
“I will try.” She smiled.
Descending the veranda steps, Mr. Reid walked measuredly toward the stables. Although his face remained pleasant, his eyes swept back-and-forth over her head, leaping shadow to shadow. She suspected he was hunting for Mr. Morris. A tremble racked her body.
“It will be just a few more minutes,” murmured Mr. Reid, his mouth brushing over her ear. A second tremor followed. He tucked her body closer as one would do with a newborn puppy, hastening toward the stables. Unlatching the door with one hand, he yanked it open, diving inside. The door swung closed behind them. Spinning, he caught the door, latching it again.
“Are you going to put me down?” asked Daphne as he shifted her weight in his arms.
“No.” He grinned. “How will you walk to the rear of the stables?”
“Why are we going to Phantom’s stall?”
“We’re not. We are adding a warm coat to your,”—his eyes slid over her dress—“inappropriate riding attire.”
“If my tutor had allowed me to change, I might be wearing something more suitable.”
“Your tutor had no intention of informing Aunt Abigail—or any other member of the house—of his plans for a nighttime ride.”
“Is that outside the approved curriculum?”
“It is.” He pushed open a door next to Phantom’s stall, revealing a small room. Ducking inside, he set Daphne on a small bed. Her eyes skipped around the room. A small chair and desk took up the far corner of the wall, next to it a faded armoire with one missing door, and across from her an overflowing bookshelf. Leaning forward, she squinted at the books, unable to recognize a single title.
“Is this your office?” She glanced up as Mr. Reid handed her a thick coat.
“Of sorts. Most of the items in here belonged to my Uncle Benedict; I kept them after his passing.”
Daphne grimaced, her eyes dropping to the coat. “Was this his?”
“It was.” Mr. Reid trailed his fingers over the sleeve. “It is quite warm.”
“Will it bother you if I wear his clothing?”
“No. I have recently had a disagreement with him.”
She choked. “I thought he was deceased.”
“He is.” Sitting on the chair, Mr. Reid removed his hat, placing it on the desk beside him.
“What was the argument about?” asked Daphne, wrapping the coat around her quivering shoulders.
“A secret, Miss Clemens,”—Mr. Reid wagged his finger—“costs you one of your own.”
Daphne considered his request. “May I know the question you intend to ask?”
He leaned forward, his eyes glowing brightly. “You know the question to which I want the answer.”
She did know. He asked if she was in love or more specifically, with who she was in love. Terror seized her throat. “I declined your cousin’s offer of marriage,” burst from her lips.
“You did?” Shock radiated across Mr. Reid’s face. “Why would you do that?”
Daphne glanced down, pulling the edges of the coat closer. “Someone stated to me, a woman should marry for love.” She lifted her eyes. “And now I expect that.”
“While I appreciate your confession, that is not the query I intended to ask.” He slid off the chair, taking residence next to her on the bed. “However, since you willingly shared that secret with me, I shall explain my argument with my uncle before you answer my question. Agreed?”
“Yes.”
“I am certain you are aware of some of my history, having spent a considerable amount of time with Aunt Abigail as well as heard the rumors racing through society.”
Daphne blushed. The rumors regarding Mr. Thomas Reid were salacious, descriptive, and honestly, a bit frightening. However, her experience with him had been quite different from what was whispered, and given her friendship with Miss Hastings, Daphne was inclined to believe the opposite of what the gossips accused.
“The societal rumors are vastly different from what I have heard from Aunt Abigail.”
Mr. Reid snickered. “Perhaps, I am two different people.”
“Or perhaps, society has nothing better to occupy their time than to fabricate lies about its absent members.”
“You surprise me, Miss Clemens.” Mr. Reid patted her wrist, leaving his hand on top of hers. Tingles vibrated through her skin. “A little over eight years ago, I was courting Alana. We were deeply in love—so I thought—and I proposed to her. That evening, she wrote me a letter explaining her acceptance of my proposal had been a mistake, and she was leaving to attend school in France.”
“I am sorry,” said Daphne, unsure what to say to him.
“Your apology is not necessary. There is only one person who should apologize to me.” Mr. Reid’s face darkened. “My uncle.”
“How is your uncle involved in this matter?”
“Uncle Benedict is the reason Alana annulled our engagement.”
“I do not understand.”
Mr. Reid’s finger traced an abstract pattern across her hand. “Alana admitted to me this afternoon, Uncle Benedict threatened to kill her mother if she did not refuse me.”
Daphne gasped. “Why would he do that?”
“Because she was Irish,”—Mr. Reid crushed his fist into his palm—“and he was prejudice.”
The action startled Daphne, who jumped, leaning away from Mr. Reid’s ire. His eyes caught her movement. One hand snaked out, closing around her wrist. “You have nothing to fear from me, Miss Clemens.” She nodded, sinking her teeth into her lip. Reaching out, he pulled her lip free. “I will not hurt you.”
But you will not love me either… She dropped her head, staring at the floor. “I am glad you were able to work things out with her.”
Mr. Reid lifted Daphne’s chin, forcing her to stare into his eyes. “Alana has decided to visit America.”
“When are you leaving?” she asked, her voice monotone.
“We are not leaving. She is leaving tonight, and I am staying here.”
“Do you not love her?”
“I will always love her; however, I have no desire to marry her…” His eyes blazed. “I want you to answer my earlier question.”
“You.” The word fell from her lips.
“Me?”
“You. I love you.”
“Why did you not tell me?” he whispered
“How could I? Between Miss Randall and Alana, I am plain—” Do not cry, Daphne. She hiccupped, fighting the tears which threatened to roll down her face.
“You are intriguing. You are the most interesting person I have ever met.”
“Do not tease me, Mr. Reid.” Daphne grimaced. “I cannot bear that after my confession to you.”
His thumb drew a soft line down her face. “I happen to suffer from the same terrible affliction, Miss Clemens.” Leaning forward, his mouth gently touched hers, his arms sliding around her waist, drawing her closer. Touching his forehead to hers, he stared into her eyes. “I am in love with you too.”
His mouth captured hers, desire pouring from his lips. His tongue tickled the seam of her mouth, pushing past her lips, extracting a moan. Daphne’s eyes closed. The sensations rolled throug
h her body, overwhelming her mind. An unusual feeling grew in her belly, an unknown desire which begged to be filled. She pressed herself closer to Mr. Reid, enjoying the sensation as it crawled through her skin. His tongue slid along hers, sending a bout of tremors rolling down her back.
Perhaps the rumors regarding his sensual prowess were true because, at this very moment, she could think of nothing but Mr. Reid and the irresistible desire to run her fingers across his bare chest. Her hand twitched.
Slowly, she inched her arm forward, laying her hand on his shirt. He pulled away, his eyes moving to her hand; he arched an eyebrow. A deep blush exploding in her cheeks, she lowered her hand. Silently, Mr. Reid untied his cravat, pulling the material from his collar, unfastening his collar. It gaped, revealing his neck and throat. Reaching down, he grabbed her hand, placing it inside the open portion of his shirt.
“You can touch me,” he said, a small grin on his lips.
Her fingertips skipped across the exposed skin. She marveled at the softness, the muscles moving underneath her fingers. He sucked in a breath as her hand skated over the hollow of his throat.
Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to hers, his tongue thrusting into her mouth again, demanding. She panted against him, her body vibrating. When they broke apart, she dragged a deep breath, her heart hammering loudly. Very slowly, realization of their unsuitable position bled into her mind, and she pushed out of his arms.
“Mr. Reid, unless you wish to draw Aunt Abigail’s anger, I suggest we insert some space between us.”
His eyes gleamed. “Perhaps I am willing to risk her fury.”
He froze. His head whipping up, he sniffed the air. Leaping from the bed, he yanked open the door. Smoke poured into the room. He coughed, then covering his mouth with his sleeve, he turned his watering eyes toward Daphne. “The stables are on fire! We need to run!”
“I cannot.” Daphne gestured to her ankle, hysteria bubbling in her throat. They were going to burn to death! She coughed, bending over at her waist.
Mr. Reid ripped his vest from his body. Yanking her from the bed, he tucked her face against his shirt, draping the vest over her face. His mouth touched her ear as he murmured, “Hold your breath.”