It was almost the middle of summer, and although most of thetonhad deserted town for the cool reprieve of the country, her brother was a dedicated member of Parliament and always sat till the very end. In fact, some years they hardly left town at all, what with Benedict so engrossed in parliamentary affairs and intrigue.
Finally, they found their way to the mews at the rear of the townhouse, Honora fighting dizziness as the housekeeper, Mrs Kindling, rushed from the servant’s entrance and clucked around her like an enraged mother hen.
Within minutes she had been led to her chambers, where she fell gratefully onto her bed and welcomed the blackness that washed over her like a thick tide of molasses.
Two
“You summoned me?”said Silas as he stalked into Benedict’s study, noting with interest the way his normally energetic friend slumped over the blotter that lined the huge oak desk of his forebears.
It was most unusual indeed, as instead of the expected droll retort, Benedict hardly glanced up at his entrance, merely waving a hand to greet him and returning his forehead to its resting place on his steepled fingers.
Silas seated himself in the sturdy chair before the desk, crossing one leg at the knee and settling in to wait on the reason for his visit.
Admittedly, it was a pleasant change in pace to be the one coming to Benedict, The Right Honorable Viscount Seton’s, aid. Silas’s closest confidant since their days at Eton together.
Normally, Benedict sailed into Silas’s chambers, prying an empty bottle from his fingers and flinging open the curtains against the melancholy that sometimes descended upon him.
And it was quite apparent that his assistance was needed, as Benedict’s shoulders rose and fell with a huge sigh of distress.
“A drink, I think, is in order,” murmured Silas, rising and pacing across to the sideboard where he poured two stiff measures. Returning to place one cut glass snifter on the desk, he settled back into his chair to nurse his own.
“You would say that,” huffed Benedict, raising his eyes to Silas’s for the first time that morning as he reached for the drink and tossed it back in one go.
“Another,” said Benedict, holding out his glass, and Silas moved to comply. Placing the topped-up glass further out of reach this time.
“Steady now,” said Silas, taking a more measured sip of his drink. “You need to tell me what’s going on before you drown yourself in the bottle.”
Benedict grunted, leaning back in his chair and staring distractedly at the ceiling.
“They almost killed her, Silas.”
Silas felt the hair on the back of his neck rise with alarm, his heart beating too loud in his chest. “Who?”
He knew who, though.
He felt it now, in his gut. That deep sense of alarm awakening with frightful clarity.
There was only one woman they could be talking about.
“Nora,” rasped Benedict, finally looking Silas straight in the eye.
Silas shuddered to see the anguish in Benedict’s gaze.
“What happened?” he asked, his voice gruff as he leaned forward in his chair, all pretence cast aside.
“Read for yourself,” sighed Benedict, flinging a note across the table in his direction.
Next time, the Lady might not be so lucky.
Make sure you are agreeable, or her next accident might be the last.
Enclosed in the note was a lock of soft, golden hair, matted with blood and some stray pieces of grass.
Silas momentarily traced the lock of hair with his thumb, incrementally losing the battle to stay calm, then surged to his feet.
There was blood on the note, and the sight turned him almost inside out with fury.
“What in the devil is going on, Benedict? Tell me right now!”
