“Thank you,” Cassandra said. She laid down on her bed and closed her eyes, thinking of the park events.
With her eyes closed, she could see in her mind Lord Lakehurst’s face as he told her about the book. She compressed her lips together and sighed heavily. She’d been hasty.
She opened her eyes and stared up at the bed hangings.
Remembering, she realized his expression had not been cocky or otherwise ego filled, nor vicious and sinister. His words were, he prefaced, a confession and an apology. His manner appeared direct yet sincere, and she repaid his words with serpent venom. She had not stopped to listen. She often felt others did not listen to her and now, ironically, she found herself guilty of the same fault!
Even though that night was eighteen months past, the wounds left remained raw and festering, made worse as Edmund and his wife did not believe her retelling of the events of that night. After all, it had been old Carlyle who found her and freed her. As the groomsman was illiterate and deaf ever since he’d had the mumps as a young man, he could not verify her story in writing. And they refused to come to Baydon to hear him tell the tale—not that they would have listened to him if he had. His inability to hear had been why Richard allowed him to stay on the castle grounds when he had his fêtes. But he could see, and if someone was standing in front of him, he could read lips.
She lifted her right hand to run her fingertips over the scar above her left breast where the monster had begun carving the devil’s sigil. He’d managed two curving strokes. A shiver ran through her as she traced the scar with her finger. In the chapter beginning, she’d read in the book the sigil was to be burned on the heroine’s shoulder. Burned or carved, would the method matter? Would the devil have owned her soul?
She laughed to herself. She was being fanciful.—And besides, the sigil on her shoulder had not been finished.
Her maid knocked lightly on her door before entering, bearing the tea tray.
Cassandra sat up. “Thank you, Agnes. Place it here, please,” she said, indicating the table next to the bed.
“Yes, ma’am. I took the liberty of bringing a couple of cook’s scones as well, if that is all right.”
Cassandra smiled slightly. “Perfect. You are extremely considerate of me and I appreciate it, Agnes.”
“I try to be,” Agnes replied with her slight curtsy. She backed out of the room and shut the door quietly afterward.
Cassandra leaned back against the headboard of the bed as she sipped her tea. She detected a bit of smokiness in its taste and smell. Richard had invested heavily in the possibility of a British tea trade in India as currently China ruled the market—and the prices. He, and his cousin Raymond Stillworth, had procured all manner of teas and tea cuttings from China as they strove to learn as much as possible about tea from the secretive Chinese.
For the first time since Richard died, she wondered about the warehouse full of barrels, crates, and bales of tea he had brought to England. What had Edmund done with all that? Did he know the value of the goods? He, she knew, was not a tea drinker. Odd that she should think of that tea now. Was she finally waking up from the miasma of guilt and regret she’d lived in for the last eighteen months?
Raymond had invested with Richard in the tea venture, and though Richard held the majority percentage of the investment, Raymond had done much of the research and made a trip to India and China three years ago. She supposed she should learn more about the fledgling tea business, as now Alex was the majority owner.
She nibbled on the cinnamon and apple scone.
She needed to mentally and emotionally wake up. She needed to take back her life for the sake of Alex as well as herself.
She wished she had borrowed the novel from Lady Guinevere. Mayhap if she had read it first…
Lord Lakehurst drifted into her mind again. She smiled as she thought of the big man. He really was an awkward gentle giant. She should write an apology to him—and to Lady Guinevere. Then, too, there existed her curiosity concerning the activities and intention of Lady Guinevere’s lady’s maid, Rose. Should she mention seeing Rose in her notes to them?
She sipped her tea. She still had much to think about and sort out in her mind and heart.
* * *
Lakehurst staredout the dormer window of his writing retreat which years before had been their governess’s room off the schoolroom. His desk filled the dormer window embrasure, the window looking out the back of the house to the terrace and garden below. It was a quiet room, being away from the main part of the house, which suited his creative writing pursuit.
He’d been staring out the window for a good part of the last hour, his thoughts far away from his current work in progress.
Lady Darkford fascinated him. She drew him to her, unlike he’d ever been drawn to another woman. Her light brown eyes, a mélange of autumn color with patches of brown, green, and gold—held a waif-like quality as she looked out at the world; however, in contrast, her slight figure radiated determination. Her hair looked black unless seen in glittering candlelight, as he’d seen it yesterday at dinner, when it reflected the dark browns of the peat bogs of Scotland. She wore it pinned in a simple chignon.
She stood taller than most women—though not as tall as Gwinnie—with a long graceful neck and long arms. Her slender form—unhealthily slender, he thought—accentuated her height. He thought her an interesting combination of timidity and quiet strength. A woman with strengths and weaknesses he’d like to know better.
He hadn’t heard from Rose yet, and he couldn’t stop seeing Lady Darkford’s expression when he said he wrote the book. There had been anger there, yes, but terror as well. Was terror too strong a word? He let it rest in his thoughts, remembering. No, it was not too strong. There had been terror in her eyes.
Was she terrified of him?
He grimaced. She’d called him a murderer. She had to be terrified of him, her fears so different from the London debutants. That terror shook him to his core, his stomach churning with discomfort.
He slammed his fist into his other palm.
What happened that night?He must know!
