Ball in hand, she strolled to a crumbled pile of rock, then peered over the jagged edge of the broken barrier into the neighbour’s yard. A pretty bench sat beneath the branches of a Spanish chestnut, surrounded by manicured lawn and a border of blushing pink peonies. A child could have climbed the breach or even tossed the ball over the wall with a wild throw, but judging by the state of the pristine garden, no children lived there. She gazed up at the windows. Did anyone? It was dark as a tomb—as were the gathering shadows. She could explore more tomorrow.
Tossing the ball from hand to hand, she worked her way to the house. Just the thought of a soft bed loosened the tightness in her shoulders. But first, a nice cup of chamomile.
Inside, she barely made it past the dining room when Betsey plowed down the corridor, her steel-grey skirts swooshing in time with her heavy steps. “What’s that?” She nodded at Amelia’s hand.
“Nothing of consequence.” Amelia held out the toy on one palm. “Some child must’ve lost his ball. I found it next to the trellis. Perhaps you could give this to Mrs. Kirwin and she’ll know whose it is.”
“She might know and have plenty to say about it, but will she remember to return it? Granted, I scarcely know the woman, but she strikes me as a bit fluffy in the attic.” Betsey’s fingers closed around the plaything.
“Hardly here a quarter of an hour and already you’ve pegged her like a sheet on a drying line.” Amelia grinned. “So, are we unloaded, then?”
“We are. And I’ve got the maid filling a bath for you. Scrawny little thing. Might take her awhile.” One grey brow arched. “I may give her a hand. Meantime, you can enjoy your flowers in the sitting room.”
She angled her head. “Flowers?”
“Just arrived.” Betsey headed for the stairs.
Odd. No one could possibly know she was arriving today…unless Mrs. Kirwin had unthinkingly babbled the news while in town. But no, the old housekeeper hardly ever left the house.
“From whom?” Amelia called up the staircase.
“Far be it from me to poke about for a card.” Betsey winked over her shoulder then rounded the landing and ascended the next level of steps.
Amelia’s mouth twisted awry. Hah! Either she knew and wasn’t saying, or there’d been a wax seal, for her maid owned an insatiable appetite for intrigue. A boon while traveling in a foreign land and writing of the experience. But here? Her lips flattened. Time would tell, especially once Colin arrived.
By now, Mrs. Kirwin had lit the lamps, and the sitting room glowed a warm welcome. On a pedestal near the window, green fronds and bloodred roses filled a crystal vase. Amelia inhaled the sweet fragrance, then looked about for a note. Nothing on the stand. Nothing on the silver salver near the tea table either. She spun in a circle on the off chance the housekeeper had mislaid the card, but from mantel to shelves in the corner, there was no sign of a handwritten sentiment.
Amelia returned to the flowers, a fresh wave of unease creeping up her backbone. Who had sent such a beautiful bouquet? And were they for her?
Or her brother?
FOUR
“Oh! No mortal could support the horror of that countenance. A mummy again endued with animation could not be so hideous as that wretch.”
Darkness. Thunder. Ironically apropos. Colin Balfour smirked up at the cabin timbers.
Truly, God? A bit dramatic, is it not?
Outside the porthole, a flash of lightning lit the night, and Colin snagged his cape off a peg. If his sister didn’t arrive before that storm hit, they’d both be drenched. It would save time if he waited at the end of the wharf instead of remaining holed up in the ship, but such a public move was a risky venture, even at midnight. Despite the hour, in a city the size of Bristol, there was sure to be an unsuspecting man or woman about. Scads! But he was weary of this.
How much longer, Lord? Have I not borne enough screams? Abided enough horror? Am I never to know peace this side of death?
A sharp knock rattled the door just before another thunderous boom shook the hull. “The carriage is here, Mr. Balfour.”
He crossed the cabin in three strides and spoke against the wood. “Thank you.”
Straining his ear, he waited for the footsteps to disappear and, for a long moment, listened for any breath or other sign of life. His hand fell to the knob. Was he ready for this? Precautions or not, even the best stitched plans sometimes had a way of fraying into threads—a wretched truth he’d learned when most lads knew only of catching toads and skipping rocks. But it was too late to back out now. Father had made sure of that, with a will that even from the grave would not be thwarted.
Colin flipped up his hood before stepping into the narrow passageway. The width of his shoulders scraped against each side. Though most of the crew had long ago fled ashore for women and rum, he still shunned the lanterns hanging at intervals, turning his face from the light—an old habit that would not die.
He ascended the steep steps, lungs growing heavier with each rung gained. Though he ought to be used to it by now, hefting a giant’s torso was no small feat, especially when each passing year increased the load. Would that he could simply spend the rest of his days in the effortless solitude of the Devonshire family manor. He’d not been able to convince Father of such, but Amelia? Perhaps he could persuade her that this was a waste of time. She could go her way, and he, his.
Hoping for just such an end, he drew in a deep breath of damp air as he cleared the final step.
Lightning cut across the sky, followed almost immediately by a loud bang. The metallic taste of it zinged his tongue. No rain yet, but a torrent lurked like a beast in the shadows, just waiting to spring.
Three paces from the gangplank, footsteps approached. “Carry your bag, Mr. Balfour?”
