“You are correct, of course. I do not mean to throw away my happiness for the sake of Lady Vawdrey. However, it is not her feelings that concern me but those of my mama and papa.”
“You are a clever young lady. I have no doubt that you shall prevent your parents from denying your happiness.” I smiled, certain that her thoughts mirrored mine.
“I do mean to try,” she said with an answering smile.
It was a beginning, but one that was still miles from what I had hoped. I could not comprehend what held her back. The night prior she had stood in the circle of my arms and now she treated me with such a measure of reserve that I began to doubt. “Come, Miss Woodmansey.” I possessed myself again of her hand. “Let me into your heart. I swear that I shall never give you cause to doubt me.”
“Dear Lord Trevelin,” she said, her eyes more tender than I had yet seen them. “Your affection for me is not in question. Nor is mine for you, if I must say so.”
She loved me! I could hardly credit it. I knelt at her tiny feet, drew her hands to my lips and kissed them with all the pent-up passion that I felt for her. “I shall care for you always,” I murmured between kisses. “I shall see that you have all that you wish, that you are never hurt or lonely.”
She looked into my eyes, which, with me on my knees, was not a journey so far. Her expression held an expression of extreme regret. “How? How shall you ensure that I am never lonely? How shall you convince a patroness of Almack’s that I should have a voucher to their functions? How shall you ensure that my mama would come to our home? I would have you, yes! That should be enough for any woman, my lord, but not for me.”
I stared at her in astonishment. “You believe that I shall be ostracized forever? It is for my reputation that you reject me? For the things I have been said to have done?”
She bit her lip and turned away. Her actions, however, did not obscure the tears that slipped down her cheeks.
I could see the truth of it now, as if it had happened yesterday. It was on account of Evelyn. He had not saved my life; he had taken it.
“What I cannot understand,” I said to my cousin, “is why the Duke of Rutherford should wish to punish me. It was not meant to be a duel to the death; any other would have done the same. Does he hate you so much that he must take revenge on me for not allowing him to kill you?
Evelyn shook his head as if at an errant child. “He is not proud of the fact that he tore into you once you had forced him off of me. What’s more,” Evelyn drawled, “men are not even-tempered when it comes to their wives.”
“I expect there is truth in that. Indeed, I have seen for myself,” I agreed. “And yet, his wife could not have picked me out of a crowd before he made me his personal bete noir.”
Evelyn shrugged. “You must not regret the loss of her acquaintance. She is not worth it.”
I could hardly credit his words. “And what of you, Eve? Was she worth the trouble you caused? When will you learn not to dally with another man’s wife?”
Slowly, I picked myself up off the floor. “No, do not stir,” I said when she turned her face to mine, her cheeks wet with tears. “I cannot bear to see you so distressed.” I began to walk away, out of the room, to never see her again, but something made me pause. “He is a good man, your señyor,” I said. “I wish you joy of him. Truly, I do.” And then I left.
Later that day I found myself in the salon of Canning House, watching from the window as a carriage approached the house directly across the square. Mrs. Woodmansey exited and went to the door. I turned away; it was best not to watch her daughter make her official departure from my life. Two days later I read in the paper that the Woodmanseys had boarded ship for a holiday in Spain where Miss Desdemona Woodmansey would be married to her betrothed, Señyor Juliol Rey of Barcelona.
This news, as were my feelings, was only eclipsed by the small paragraph heralding the death of Lady Clara, wife of Mr. R. Manwaring. I was not as heartbroken as I had supposed. I did wonder how she had done it; wondered where the little muff gun had gone after they had cleared the room free of Throckmorton’s demise.
That night, or perhaps early the next morning, I was wakened from a deep sleep. I could not say why, and then I heard something that made all of the hair on my head stand up on end.
“Trev!”
I recognized the voice, but to have heard it was impossible. I sat up and peered into the darkness. Slumped in a chair in the corner of the room, his head thrown back as if dead, was the figure of a man.
“Canning!” I cried. Who else could it have been? And yet, I was full of dread that it was he, and more if it were not. I fumbled for the candlestick and lit the wick as fast as my trembling fingers would allow. The flame cast the corner into deeper shadow; I held it aloft and was able to determine that the intruder was not my last living friend.
It was Willy.
He looked very much the way he had the last time I had seen him; broken, limp, lifeless. Then, quite suddenly, he lifted his head and laughed.
I felt cold all over. “Willy? Is that…you?”
“Who else?” His grin was full and wide, just as it was before his riding accident.
“You’re not dead?” I threw my feet to the floor as my entire form filled with an emotion just short of joy. (I had known hope so infrequently of late that I could scarce recall its name.)
“Of course I am dead. Has no one told you?” He still smiled and his eyes gleamed with mirth.
I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at him, unsure of what to say. Either he was merely a figment of my imagination, which rendered a reply unnecessary, or he wasn’t. I could think of no suitable response for the latter.
“Come, come, Trev; don’t look so dashed astounded! It twists your mouth so that it seems you are sneering at me.”
“Sneering?” I shook with dismay and, I suppose, pure wonder. “Why should I sneer at you?”
Willy threw his hands, both hale, to a pair of hearty knees. “I don’t know. Perhaps because I’m a spook?”
“Are you?” My voice wavered with the fearful hammering of my heart. He was dressed for riding and looked very much like himself when I knew him best. It alarmed me to no end. “You could merely be a specter in a dream,” I said with a bravado I did not feel. “I am asleep and shall wake to find that this has all been a product of my imagination.”
“I should not have wakened you,” he said with a regretful shake of his head. “I merely wished to thank you for rescuing my name.”
His name! What could that mean to him now? I wondered. I broke out in a cold sweat, sure that he had come to castigate me for my actions. “You died and I did nothing to prevent it. For what do you have to thank me?”
He sighed as one does when a child asks a question impossible to answer. “There is much to tell you, but it shall keep.” He rose from his chair and strolled to the bed. I watched in amazement as his booted feet struck the floor in a brisk and even repeat.
“Willy, you are whole!”
“You begin to comprehend,” he said as he reached for the blankets and drew them back.
Of their own accord, my limbs dragged me towards my pillow and he tugged the bedclothes up to my chin.
“If I fall asleep,” I said in a daze, “the dream will be over, and you will be gone.”
“You needn’t fear, Trev. I shan’t leave you.”
At his words my trembling stilled, peace filled my heart, and I knew no more.
When I woke the next morning, the sun had made another appearance. It shone directly into my eyes; it would seem that Jack had forgotten to draw the curtains. Squinting against the onslaught of light, I considered recent events: Rey, gone; Miss Woodmansey, gone with him; Lady Clara, dead; Throckmorton, dead; Willy—dead. A heaviness settled over my heart. I endured the sorrow as I allowed my lids to open, little by little, until I stared up at the ceiling.
I lay abed and watched the sunlight dance its patterns across the plaster; it was some solace. Soon Jack wou
ld be in to start a fire and warm the room. What’s more, the Cannings would eventually return to restore life to the house. For now, I would dress and start my life anew, one free of the ghosts that plagued me.
I rolled over in the direction of the chair that my imagination had filled sometime during the night. To my chagrin, it was still occupied. Digging the heels of my hands into my eyes, I groaned. “I see that I needs must set up my own establishment, after all.”
“I should think so,” Willy agreed with a quick survey of the room, his perfectly formed lips twisted in distaste. “This house is haunted.”
The End
Trev searches for a killer with the help of a spook and a boot boy, in The Scandal in Honor--coming soon!
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About the Author
Award-winning, best-selling author Heidi Ashworth lives with her husband and three children in the San Francisco Bay Area. She writes sweet, traditional, Regency-era romance and mystery. The Devil in Beauty is the first in her Lord Trevelin Mysteries series. Look for The Scandal in Honor, coming soon!
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
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About the Author
The Devil in Beauty: A Lord Trevelin Mystery (The Lord Trevelin Mysteries Book 1) Page 24