With that, Sinclair gave a nod and returned home, leaving Paul alone with his thoughts. He started walking toward the frozen loch in long strides, then he began to run along the edge. He could hardly see in front of him, save the reflection of the silvery ice against the moon. But he increased his pace, running hard, as if to punish himself.
His lungs burned, and still he ran. He circled the loch, hardly caring that it was past midnight. He wouldn’t sleep this night. Not after what he’d learned.
When his legs began to give out, he slowed down to a walk, his breathing unsteady. His ribs felt as if someone had driven a red-hot knife into them, and he reached down for a smooth stone along the edge of the loch. He gripped the edges and hurled it hard, letting it crack against the ice.
It had been over a year since she was attacked. He understood now why Juliette had stopped answering his letters. Why she’d withdrawn from the world, claiming she would marry no man and that she had nothing left to give. A woman who had been violently hurt would want nothing to do with men.
Paul walked through the glen, letting the thoughts pour over him, replaying their moments together. She’d been afraid of him, but not to the point where she didn’t want to see him. And she hadn’t pulled her hands back when he’d brought them to his chest.
God help him, he couldn’t say what he should do. She’d pleaded with him to go, telling him to give up. But was that truly what she wanted? To be left alone?
He couldn’t abandon her. They’d been friends for years, and friends didn’t walk away when they were needed. If it took years to rebuild her trust, so be it.
He’d become a doctor to heal others. But this was a deep wound, one that had battered her spirit. To win her back, he would have to woo her slowly, to bring back the friendship they’d had and make her feel safe again.
And he fully intended to find her attacker and put the son of a bitch in the ground.
Chapter Three
“What will we do?” Juliette asked quietly. Her mother was staring outside the window at the snow. From the empty look upon her face, likely she hadn’t slept at all.
Beatrice took a deep breath and faced her. “You and your sisters will go to London without me. You’ll stay with your aunt Charlotte for the time being.” She straightened, her mouth set in a line. “I will see about repairs to the house. If it can be fixed.”
Though her mother was trying to be strong, her eyes gleamed with unshed tears. Juliette moved in closer and took Beatrice’s hand. “It will be all right.”
“We don’t have the money to rebuild,” her mother confessed. “And—and it’s winter. What will your father say if he returns early? I don’t know how we’ll manage.”
“We have the sewing profits,” Juliette reminded her. “The crofters were helping Victoria. Let them continue to do so, and Mr. Sinclair can sell the garments in London, as he’s done before.” She made no mention of the fact that they were sewing undergarments instead of dresses. Beatrice wasn’t much of a seamstress, and all they needed was her permission—not her assistance. It was better if she didn’t know that her daughters were sewing scandalous corsets and chemises made of silk.
“And His Grace might help us,” Juliette added. Victoria’s husband likely would not let them suffer. The Duke of Worthingstone appeared to be a good man who loved his new wife.
“I know he would. But I don’t like relying upon others to solve our problems.” Beatrice returned to her chair and picked up a sheet of paper and a pen. She dipped it into an inkwell and began writing. But when Juliette drew closer, she saw that her mother’s hands were shaking.
“I don’t—I don’t even know what bills were paid, and whether Mr. Gilderness collected the rents in Norfolk.” She rubbed her forehead, and covered her mouth with one hand. “There’s just so much. The ledgers are burned, and I can’t remember it all.”
Juliette crossed the room and took the paper from her mother. Upon it were lists of creditors, as many as Beatrice could remember. Juliette studied the list and added a few more merchants, designating which ones had already been paid. Then she wrote amounts beside those that remained.
“I believe these are the ones you want,” she said, passing the list back to her mother.
Beatrice stared at her for a moment, her brows furrowed. “How could you possibly know what was in Henry’s ledgers?”
“I read them each day and changed the numbers when we added our sewing profits,” she confessed. “We didn’t want you to know where the extra money was coming from.”
She’d expected her mother to be relieved that she had memorized the figures from the most recent accounts. Instead, Beatrice appeared upset. “Why did you feel the need to lie to me? Did you think I was so featherbrained that I wouldn’t notice?”
Juliette sobered, for she hadn’t thought of it in that way. “We were only trying to help.”
“I knew the numbers were wrong, but I couldn’t find where they’d been altered.” Beatrice’s tone sharpened. “Do you know how many hours I spent, trying to make them right again?”
“I’m sorry. I should have confessed the truth to you. We truly thought the extra money would be of use.”
Her mother let out a sigh. “I know, darling. But I don’t want to burden you with household matters when you’re so young. There will be time enough for that when you’re married.” She stood, clasping her hands together, mustering a smile. “This is the time when you should laugh and dance… wear lovely frocks and flirt with handsome gentlemen.”
Her mother’s face grew wistful, and Juliette remembered that Beatrice had not done those things herself. She’d married an officer, because Henry Andrews was the only man to offer for her.
“You’ll never find a gentleman to wed if you spend your hours buried in accounts,” Beatrice insisted. “You may be good with adding sums, but it’s no life for a lady.”
“It has its uses,” Juliette ventured. Putting on a false smile, she added, “In case a handsome rake with a penchant for gambling decides to ask for my hand.”
