“Well, I like that,” Sarah mutters, while Mr. Holcroft fusses over the blatant display of insolence. “I am your father!”
Sebastian tugs me to my feet. “I wanted you to have an unvarnished picture of what you would be getting if you agreed to plight your troth to mine. We are a rather disreputable bunch: My godfather tried to kill you, my cousin Charles wasstruck from the rolls for corruption, my father is pigheaded and frequently irritating, my mother is determined to damn you with faint praise, my brother will not stop lecturing you on the evils of animal flesh, and my sisters have been waging a sotto voce campaign against you that can only be described as whispered warfare. Since arriving you have been smirked at, condescended to, dismissed, and described asquainttoo many times to count. I would include the appalling ghastliness of Keast’s unfortunate end in this litany, but I know the opportunity to conduct an investigation is the only thing weighing in our favor,” he says, smiling slyly.
He knows me so well.
It is gorgeous.
“This was not a test for you, Flora,” he continues, tightening his hold on my fingers. “If it was anything, it was a seminar convened with the express purpose of providing you with all the data you need to make an informed decision.”
Absurd man!
If disclosing the full horrors of one’s family were a prerequisite for a proposal, then no Hyde-Clare would ever have married.
But of course that was his tactic.
Holcroft the Holy.
Tsk-ing lightly at all the needless effort, I assure him that I am already in possession of the necessary information. “Everything I needed to know about you, Sebastian, I learned from your curricle: dashing, practical, sturdy, elegant, audacious, bright, and kind.”
He presses his lips together as though smothering a grin and murmurs, “Kind? How does my curricle tell you I am kind?”
“You agreed to let me drive it,” I say, fluttering my lashes.
That is a blatant lie.
Sebastian has been singularly opposed to handing me the reins, which is more or less a reasonable response to my lack of experience in driving a team. He acknowledges his hesitance now by allowing for the possibility in the future. “The far-off future, after comprehensive instruction,” he rushes to add.
As though that were necessary!
I have no desire to die in a curricle accident. The violence of a crash—the inevitable mashing of wood, limbs, horses, and wheels—would no doubt result in a highly repellent corpse. If permitted to choose, I would like to expire from a gentle malaise in the middle of a sylvan glade, surrounded by chirping birds and flowers.
Russell, routinely peeved by any advantage gained by me that is not available to him, grumbles, “I should like to have a curricle.”
Sebastian duly extends the offer to my brother.
I laughed at this misguided munificence, which I am sure he will come to regret. “And now I must addfoolishto the list of traits gleaned from your curricle, as Russell will no sooner take command on your horses than drive them into a ditch?—”
A ditch!
After abducting Georgiana, Reynaldo drives his coach and four into a ditch, almost killing her, inThe Fate of the Dark Dawn.
It is the last scene of the first volume.
Reynaldo—the fellow with the hunchback and the scars.
Freeing my hands from Sebastian’s grip, I turn to Mrs. Holcroft. “Mr. Nutting lent youThe Fate of the Dark Dawn?”
Baffled by the abrupt change in subject, she casts a glance at her husband, as though reconsidering his position on my intelligence, then says, “He knows I enjoy gothics and claimed it was very popular in London. I confess I did not finish it, because it was a little too sensational for me. I expect a villain to havesome victims, but Reynaldo kills a dozen people before the end of the fourth chapter and nobody in the village notices. I would not have found it so irksome save the fact that Mrs. Conti goes to great length to describe how clever and observant the constable is. Well, he cannot have it both ways.”
Mr. Nutting, who is already my best suspect, has read the relevant text.
Heisthe killer.
All I need to prove his guilt is the missive he wrote in condolence.
I scurry across the room to resume my search of the desk, and Mr. Holcroft steps forward as though he expects me to engage him in conversation. Smoothly, I dart around him to gain access to his documents. (I should like to see Bea darting around her host to rummage through his private papers!)
I rummage with determination despite the room staring at me in amazement.
