His hero fought like a madman and sustained a deep knife wound, but managed to kill the man, forcing the demon to rise out of his host in a black, smoky miasma, and flee back down into the hellish bowels of the earth from whence he came.
With his last bit of strength, the hero cut the heroine’s bonds before passing out.
What in that story scenario could possibly be like something that could occur in real life?
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” Mr. Harold, the butler, said from the parlor door, “Dinner is served.”
As the dinner numbers were uneven, Lakehurst offered his arms to his sister Gwinnie and Lady Darkford to escort them to the dining room. Lady Darkford handed his slightly damp handkerchief back to him, still neatly folded, and accepted his escort.
In the dining room, Lakehurst found himself seated between his cousin Ann and Lady Darkford. On the other side of the table sat Ellinbourne and Gwinnie. His Grandmother took the position at the end of the table opposite his father. He remembered his mother sitting there when she was alive. He still missed her, though it had been ten years since she passed.
Seated in the middle as he was, he felt left out from the conversations flowing around him for Ann was in a lively conversation at the head of the table with his father and Ellinbourne, while his grandmother conversed with Lady Darkford and Gwinnie. He found himself listening more to his grandmother’s end of the table.
He couldn’t conceive why he should suddenly feel drawn to Lady Darkford. He had met her at Ann and Ellinbourne’s engagement ball. On that occasion, she had remained solemn, no matter how he had strived to draw her out. Not today. Perhaps it was because she threw his book across the room, high emotions flashing in her eyes, he mused. He didn’t know anyone to have done that before!
He found himself smiling at that memory. He glanced over at her. His grandmother had asked about her son. Lady Darkford’s withdrawn, waif-like countenance blossomed, a flower in the sunshine. Her dark eyes danced, and color returned to her pale face, along with a beautiful smile. She should smile more, he thought, for her smile transformed her.
He wanted to know why his book upset her so; but more, he wanted to know about her. He wanted to know about her circumstances and why her late husband’s relations threatened her with asylum confinement. She did not appear to him as a woman ill with hysteria or other mental tribulations. Was this just his writer’s itch, his curiosity to know more?
He looked over at his sister, laughing at something their grandmother had said. Perhaps he could recruit Gwinnie to help him learn more?—If he could tear his sister away from an afternoon’s violin practice. Maybe a walk in Hyde Park, a trip to Gunter’s Tea Shop, or perhaps a visit to a diorama with her son? Something unassailable for anyone to find fault with. The more he considered that option, the more he liked it.
CHAPTERTWO
The Invitation
Mr. Edmund Tidemark stared over the top of his wireframe glasses at Cassandra as he buttered a breakfast scone. “How was your dinner last night at Malmsby House?” he asked.
Cassandra inclined her head toward him. “Very nice, thank you,” she said affably. She glanced down at her food, then raised her cup of hot chocolate to her lips. She did not want to engage her uncle-in-law in conversation about the previous evening.—Nor his wife, Vanessa, who was an avid gossip.
Cassandra had quite enjoyed herself—despite the issue with the novel. She found the entire Nowlton family to be friendly and caring. She could relax in their company and that felt satisfying.
“They are an odd family,” Vanessa said. She took a bite of ham. “The Duke does not take part in society. Sends his son in his stead.—If he truly is his son,” she finished speaking around a mouthful of food.
Cassandra compressed her lips. She set her fork down on the edge of her plate. “Why would you say that, Vanessa?” she demanded, feeling put out. Then she reprimanded herself for her hasty words. This was just Vanessa’s way. She was a blowsy woman who wanted desperately to be in the throes of society. She thought marrying the brother of a marquess would give her the entrée she craved. That it hadn’t given her that automatic entrée ate at her.
“He and that sister of his are so large…” Vanessa said coyly.
“I am not getting your inference,” Cassandra returned.
“Well, no others in the family have that size,” she said archly.
“Quite true, my love,” said Edmund.
“…and the late duchess was from Scotland,” his wife finished.
Cassandra saw his brows rise on his forehead as he considered his wife’s words. He nodded slowly, as if he considered Vanessa’s words to be of infinite, astonishing truth.
Cassandra frowned as she shook her head. Was Vanessa truly trying to infer Lord Lakehurst and Lady Guinevere were born on the wrong side of the blanket?
“I believe you might be forgetting the Malmsby red hair,” she said, hoping to deflate this line of thinking. Once she had an opinion, Vanessa would spread it wide within her realm. Thankfully, she wasn’t in the mainstream of society. Though Cassandra wondered if Vanessa’s and Edmund’s desire to wrest Alex away from her wasn’t their contrivance—along with controlling his money—to get into society through their guardianship.
Vanessa frowned.
“A lucky happenstance?” suggested Edmund.
Vanessa perked up at his suggestion. Cassandra shook her head.
“I have met several members of the extended Nowlton family. There is a family resemblance that cannot be denied,” Cassandra said.
