“So, I don’t need to book the chapel?” Kit asked, once again leaning heavily against my door frame. His arms were banded about his chest, and he wore an infuriating smirk.
“Get out….” It was less of a demand than a weary sigh. The fight had well and truly abandoned me, and I was left shrunken and drained.
“Go home. Better yet, go get a drink. You’ll be useless this afternoon anyway.” The idea was tempting—not home, of course—but a visit I’d been pushing off since the masquerade.
“I think I will.”
His jaw hinged open. “You? Leave work? Get a drink? Inconceivable.”
“Kit…”
“Lucky for you, the rain has stopped. Especially since I don’t believe you’ll see that umbrella again.”
“If I leave, will you stop talking?”
“No, but you won’t be here to hear it.”
“Goodbye.”
Eleven
CROSS BONES GRAVEYARD, LONDON - JUNE 12, 1816
CELINE
There were a thousand—athousand, thousand reasons really—to stop following William Hart. I was wet and disheveled. I had just berated the man quite thoroughly in front of the entirety of his staff. He had proved entirely cognizant of my surveillance. I was enraged and embarrassed. The last time I was this angry, Gabriel had been alive to infuriate me. But William had never left the office at this time of day, at least not since I’d been observing him.
I followed at a greater distance than I had in previous days, hoping desperately I would not be caught. His pace was brisk and he moved with purpose, his arms swinging at his sides. It was almost a swagger. After days of observation, I would not have thought him capable of such confidence.
He clearly had a direction in mind, turning down first one side street then another. He kept to the edge of the Covent Garden hustle and bustle all the way across the river. With each turn, the area of town became more questionable.
Just when I was beginning to suspect he knew of my presence and was attempting to lose me, he came upon a short wrought iron fence.
He strode to the gate with intention, lifted the latch, and tugged at the gate itself. He wiggled it in its hinges until it slid open with an irritated creak. The motion was familiar to him. I approached at a cautious distance, slipping through unnoticed before the breeze blew the door closed.
The sign above the gate was worn with splinters missing and peeling paint. But it read “Cross Bones Graveyard.”
This was nothing like Gabriel’s carefully tended resting place. The graves here were marked with weather-beaten wooden crosses. Some were simply vertical sticks where the horizontal piece had fallen off. Several mounds of earth had no markings at all, though they bore all the indications of an inhabitant. Few and far between were the occasional headstone.
My stomach twisted in guilty revulsion, but I pressed forward. I slipped behind one tree until he passed the next, then I scurried to reach that one before he turned. Finally, he slowed, his gaze fixed on a headstone. I did not need to press closer to read it. I knew the name I would find there.
Adriane.
“Hello, sweetling.” His baritone was thick with emotion as he knelt before the stone, heedless of the damp earth. He brushed some of the decaying growth off the top before tracing her name with his fingertips.
I could not make out details from my hiding place, but the stone was certainly nicer than any of the others in the vicinity. It still stood straight, proud, and was not overly worn. He was a regular visitor.
“I’ve been meaning to come by and see you, but I’ve been busy. It’s no excuse, though, is it? The weather has been nice here, more sunshine than usual. I’m sure you would havesomething to say about that. But the clear skies mean it’s easier to see the stars. I hope you can see them, too, where you are.”
My heart twisted. I was not alone in my peculiar little habit. William Hart also spoke to his late love. Could he have his own little bird? Did the breeze answer him too?
He continued, “I’m being evasive, I know. I’m not here to chat about the weather. I don’t suppose you remember that morning in Yorkshire? You went wandering in your bare feet and made it halfway to Rose Hall. Scared the life out of me. You came across Rycliffe’s wife. The woman with the shite French accent?”
I bit back a laugh at the insult. There was no heat behind his words, if anything his tone carried amusement.
“I met her again. Only I didn’t know it was her, I swear it. I kissed her, too, before I knew who she was. It was… it was a revelation. I’m sure you’re cackling away right now. This is the sort of thing you would find hilarious.
“The next day, Rosehill paid me a visit, the beetle-headed ballock’s brother. I thought he had come to drag me down the aisle, just for a moment. For that minute I thought… Well, that might not be such a terrible fate. She has unbelievably tragic taste in men, but so did you, and it doesn’t make you a jot less lovable.
