“Shall I send for your brother?” Lady Guinevere asked quietly.
“No, no, please. I’ll be all right. Just give me a moment,” she said, willing her tears to stop, for the lump in her chest to shrink, for her pounding heart to lessen and her breathing to calm. She breathed in a deep, shuddering breath, letting it out in a whoosh as she dropped her hands from her face and raised her head. She swiped away the tears from her cheeks with her fingertips and looked up at the muraled ceiling squares to focus her mind away from the nightmares, nightmares that had plagued her for the last eighteen months. Would they ever cease?
No.
Not if there were continued reminders like that book. She stared at the blue book on the floor, an opened blot on the rose patterned rug, leaning against the leg of a chair by the fireplace.
Lord Lakehurst walked across the room to pick up the book.
“What was it that upset you in here?” he asked, his brows drawing together in a puzzled frown.
“Lakehurst,” his sister cautioned, shaking her head.
“I don’t know how the author knew what happened that night unless they were there,” Cassandra said, brokenly, her voice husky.
Lord Lakehurst frowned. “There where? What do you mean?”
“Chapter seventeen,” she whispered.
Lady Guinevere pulled back slightly.
“I know that chapter,” Lakehurst told her, his brow furrowing.
“That is the night my husband died. That is precisely what happened in all its gory, horrifying detail,” she said baldly, looking from one sibling to the other.
“Dear God!” Lady Guinevere said faintly.
“But this is a work of fiction,” Lord Lakehurst protested as he sank into a chair at right angles to her. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her.
Cassandra thanked him mechanically as she accepted the folded cloth, then forcefully shook her head. “The author had to have been there. There is too much here that is true.I must find out who this author is!”
“Why?” he asked.
“To see that they arrest him for murder!”
“Whoa—” Lakehurst said, leaning back in his chair as he stared at her. Lady Guinevere laid a hand on her arm.
Cassandra shook her head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.” Or perhaps she did. She didn’t know anymore. She closed her eyes and compressed her lips together. Her emotions were raw and jumpy. She rocked back and forth.
“Lady Darkford?” Lady Guinevere said softly.
Cassandra let out her breath, her lips twisting. “Maybe my late husband’s uncle and his wife are right. They think I need time in an asylum. For a complete rest. They fear I have Hysteria,” she said ruefully.
“No!” Lord Lakehurst and Lady Guinevere said together.
“Talk to us, please.” Lady Guinevere said. “What did you mean when you said this happened to your husband?”
She shook her head slightly, her brow furrowing at her memories. She did not want to remember. The nightmares were enough. She tilted her head up, opening her eyes to again stare unseeing at the muraled ceiling panels as she gathered her raw emotions, tucking them away.
Lord Lakehurst leaned forward to touch her forearm. “Would it help to know that the man stabbed at the beginning of chapter seventeen does not die?” he asked earnestly.
She looked at him. He was a big man, and his size should have frightened her as the man who killed her husband had been near his size, tall with broad shoulders. But Lord Lakehurst’s eyes were a mottled brown, full of concern for her, his touch on her arm featherlight. The man from her nightmares had cold eyes as black as night, and the unwelcome memories of his touch made her skin crawl.
“He couldn’t die,” Lady Guinevere declared. “He’s the hero!”
Cassandra saw Lakehurst look at his sister, his mouth twisting in a wry smile. “Just so,” he said.
She looked between them. They seemed to have some unspoken communications that she couldn’t fathom. The lives of twins, she supposed. That they were both familiar with the book took her by surprise. The book was new. That morning, she had read about the new Gothic book released byAnonymousin the day’s paper. They had given more print space to supposition as to the identity of the author than a review of the book; however, it appeared the journalist had been dutifully impressed.
