He was back at Creavey Hall.
Back in the headmaster’s office.
Back bending over the punishment bench, his trousers down around his ankles. A sheen of cold sweat covered his bare back, on fire with welts…and it was only the first round. Shivering, he tried to breathe through the pain and nausea—to not let fear get the better of him.
Grimshaw preys on fear. It makes him even more vicious. Don’t give him the satisfaction.
When he felt the presence looming behind him, a whimper escaped despite his best efforts.
“What was that, Christian?”
That was his old name…the name of the boy he’d once been. This had to be a dream, but Obadiah Grimshaw’s voice was too real, too convincing. The soft, pious tones did not disguise the sadistic rasp beneath, which became more pronounced whenever he carried out his “holy duty.” Which, when it came to Christian, was often. The headmaster preyed on the weakest boys—the poor and sickly ones, the ones with no family…or family who specifically instructed that they be “reformed.”
“N-nothing sir. I-I didn’t say anything.”
Christian bit his lip to prevent crying out as Grimshaw traced the tip of the birch along a welt. When the headmaster pushed, breaking through the skin, he tasted blood.
“The devil hates liars, you know.”
Rounding the bench, Grimshaw gripped a handful of Christian’s hair, yanking his head back until he had no choice but to meet the headmaster’s gaze. It was like being buried in a coal cellar—like being suffocated by the dark filth heaped upon you.
“Only the guilty avert their eyes,” Grimshaw admonished.
“Y-yes, sir.”
“Now you will confess your sins.”
“But I-I haven’t done anything,” he said, his voice hitching.
Grimshaw rose, his tut-tutting raising the hairs on Christian’s nape. The headmaster made a show of rolling up his sleeves to reveal pale, hairless arms. He took his time adjusting his grip on the rod until his fingers curled comfortably, lovingly, around the bundled birches.
“Another six of the best, then,” he said, smiling.
Christian trembled as the headmaster disappeared behind him. Even though he knew it would do no good, he braced. When the blow came, slicing into him like a red-hot knife, he swallowed the salt and rust of his pain. Even as heat spilled from his eyes, he resorted to his old trick. He fixed his gaze on the maker’s mark engraved on the bottom rung of the bench, repeating the word like a talisman. Or a curse.
While she was no physician, Lady Pandora, the Marchioness of Blackwood, knew the fever that gripped Conrad Godwin came from more than the wound in his flesh. She’d experienced this agony herself and knew it came from a deeper place: the soul.
“Poor fellow,” she murmured. “Whatever happened to you, let it go.”
He shuddered, releasing a pitiful sound that tore at Penny’s heart. In that moment, he seemed more like a lost boy than the merciless magnate he was reputed to be. It reminded her of the strength of demons. The ones she’d conquered, the ones she’d watched her middle child battle and beat, the ones that mercilessly plagued her youngest son. The ones her eldest had yet to face.
And she knew there was only one solution.
“Rest now.” She swept a soothing hand over Godwin’s damp brow. “You are not alone.”
Returning to her chair, she kept vigil over the man in the bed. Maternal protectiveness for her daughter warred with compassion for this stranger as she watched his restless sleep. She consoled herself with the thought that, of all her children, her youngest was the one who seemed to know her own mind—and her own heart—best. Gigi seemed to have marched out of the womb with a purpose and a plan.
My dearest girl, I hope you know what you are about. For if this is your heart’s desire, you shall have your work cut out for you.
Chapter Twenty-One
At her mama’s insistence, Gigi left Conrad’s side to have a lie down. She refused at first, but when Mama had promised to look after him, she gave in. Climbing into bed, she wondered how she could ever fall asleep, rattled as she was. One concern overshadowed the rest.
Did someone try to murder Conrad?
She flashed back to the white glove and black sleeve—had she imagined it? Given the poor lighting of the second-floor gallery, it was possible. Yet there was also the other incident, when Conrad had been run off the road. Too many coincidences, her intuition told her, and she was taking no risks where Conrad was concerned. He meant too much to her: the moment when she’d almost lost him had made her feelings crystal clear.
Thus, she’d shared her suspicions with her family. Ethan had organized his footmen to keep watch and sent word to the local constable, Rawlins, who would be coming by this afternoon for an interview. Due to Conrad’s condition, Gigi hadn’t informed him of the developments. Knowing him, he would jump out of bed and start hunting down potential suspects when what he needed to do was rest and let others take care of him.
