One Week As Lovers. Victoria Dahl

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СКАЧАТЬ Cynthia chewed thoughtfully on her thumbnail.

      “Stumble over him!”

      “No, of course not. He didn’t see me.” Hopefully.

      “Well, for the love of God, no more sneaking about. Stay in the attic. Surely he’ll leave soon. If he finds you here, he’ll toss me out on my rump without a reference.”

      “He would not.”

      “And stop biting your nails. It’s not ladylike.”

      Cynthia snorted at the woman’s priorities. “You just told me to stay in the attic. I’m hidden away like a leprous mistress. Hardly ladylike.”

      Mrs. Pell nodded in distraction, but then her eyes focused on Cynthia’s woolen stockings and thick robe. “It’s not fair, what’s happened to you,” she said, as she’d said every day since Cynthia had arrived, bloodied and frightened, on her doorstep.

      Cynthia stepped forward to take her hands and clasp them between her own. “I know I shouldn’t have asked you to take me in. I’m sorry. It’s too much to ask anyone. Did you…Did you write to Nick and ask his help?”

      “I wrote, but only to inform him of your death.” She crossed her arms, only succeeding in making herself look more guilty. “It would’ve seemed strange otherwise! And he’s not Nick, anymore, sweeting. He’s Viscount Lancaster.”

      “Yes,” she agreed quickly, and met Mrs. Pell’s eyes straight on. “He’s not Nick anymore. And we’d do well to remember that. We must get rid of him as quickly as possible, or he’ll ruin us both.”

      “Cynthia, your plan is mad, child. And he doesn’t seem so changed. Perhaps he’d—”

      “No. Even if he didn’t turn me over to my stepfather, there’s nothing he can do to help me. I need him gone.”

      Mrs. Pell didn’t nod, but she pressed her lips together and didn’t voice whatever objection she had.

      “Promise you won’t tell him. If he sent me back to my family…That man will kill me.”

      The old housekeeper, more a mother to her than her own mother had been, finally gave a curt nod. “I’ll not tell him. But we will discuss this again, missy. Don’t you doubt it.”

      Cynthia held her tongue, implying consent, but she had no intention of discussing Viscount Lancaster and his imaginary usefulness. If she had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t be around long enough to unpack.

      She needed a few weeks alone, perhaps only a few days. And then she’d be gone from this place as if she’d never existed. A ghost of a girl that no one truly remembered.

      She would be free.

      Chapter 3

      Lancaster had suffered a bad night. First he’d endured strange dreams of a disheveled woman in white, standing over him.

      She’d seemed vaguely familiar and harmless enough. But she’d quickly faded away, only to be replaced by the old familiar nightmares of pain and fear. When he’d awoken, sweating in the cold, he’d regretted ever returning to Yorkshire.

      He was regretting it still, as the bouncing carriage reminded him of all the sore spots he’d acquired on the trip from London. The day was still and dreary, a mist-shrouded landscape that seemed cramped and endless at the same time. But he could hear the faint shush of the ocean and smell the salt tang. The reminder that he was, at least, not in London began to wear away his foul mood. Better to be here, even in the cold. Even on his way to pay respects to a dead girl’s family.

      She was the only Merrithorpe in the house. Her father had died long before, and Lady Merrithorpe had married a stout man named Cambertson who smiled rarely and yelled often. The very reason Cynthia had often fled to Cantry Manor. Mr. Cambertson had not thought much about her as long as she wasn’t in sight, and that was the way Cyn had preferred things. Likewise, Lancaster had not thought much about her once she was out of sight, and now guilt was a burr under the skin that covered his breastbone.

      But he had too many people to worry about as it was. His mother, totally dependent upon him and unwilling to see the truth of their circumstances. His sister, almost of marriageable age, in need of a Season or two and all the spending that came along with it. And his brother, in his youthful prime and happy to be indulging his oats. The bills for clothing, liquor, and “indulgences” had long since become unmanageable. Like their mother, Timothy couldn’t seem to understand the concept of poverty. They had nothing. Nearly all the property was entailed. Lancaster’s name and title were virtually the only assets left. His name, his title, and his body.

      Heat crawled over his skin, and he pushed the thought away with a physical shift in posture. The carriage window was ice against his fingers when he reached to snap it open, but the freezing air was a welcome distraction. He considered asking the coachman to stop so he could walk the rest of the way, but didn’t get the chance. Oak Hall slipped into view and the shell drive crunched beneath turning wheels.

      A thump of familiarity resounded in his chest as they approached from the east. He’d probably only been to Oak Hall a dozen times in his youth, but it was one of those strange old memories that lay forgotten and unknown until it was abruptly recalled by a sight or smell. Here, it was the sight of the three ancient trees that twisted taller than the stone building they shaded. And the unusual dusk blue paint that tinted the shutters and gables of the home.

      For the first time since he’d heard the news, he felt a wash of true sadness for Cynthia. Gone were his own self-absorption and pity. Cynthia was dead, and she’d never scramble up the tree under her room again, never watch him with frustration edging her jaw into obstinance, never roll her eyes as her stepfather blathered on about some controversial topic.

      Once the carriage had rolled to a stop, he stepped heavily onto the drive and trudged up the stairs. Strangely, no servants arrived to assist, but perhaps a pall had fallen over the household. Still, it had been weeks now. Odd. Lancaster was forced to knock on the door.

      And wait.

      He knocked again. Apparently the title of viscount no longer counted for much in this part of Yorkshire. This was twice in twenty-four hours he’d been caught knocking fruitlessly at a front door. And he was quite sure he’d just felt a raindrop.

      Lancaster was glaring up at the sky when the door opened on a whoosh of air.

      “Wot?”

      Good Lord. The servant—if he was, in fact, a servant and not an invading peddler—stood all of five feet tall. His grizzled gray hair grew in a strange pattern. A peninsula descended over his forehead and a ring grew ’round the sides, but there was nothing else. Unless one counted his ear canals.

      “Wot is it?”

      Lancaster blinked from his fascination. “Are you addressing me?”

      The old man glared up at him, blood in his eyes. Literally. Lancaster could see the blood vessels quite clearly. He’d bet a sovereign the man was a drinker.

      And a belligerent one at that.

      Lancaster sighed. “Very well. I am Viscount Lancaster, here to pay my respects СКАЧАТЬ