Lorelei moved around Thorne and sat in the chair next to Brock. “I wouldn’t press, but Irene fears she is dead.”
Brock flinched, and something suspicious glinted in his gaze. Murder or tears, Thorne couldn’t discern which.
Brock’s jaw tightened. He answered through clenched teeth, “It was a near thing. I believe she may be out of danger, but—it was a near thing.”
“Dear God,” she breathed. After a long moment, she stood.
“I dare not tell you where she is, Lady Kimpton. Not until I’ve dealt with the monster who almost killed her. I will not send her back.”
“Of-of course, Lord Brockway. Thank you for looking after her.”
Thorne took her arm and escorted her to the door. “I’m sorry, darling. I would have spared you all.”
She paused, lifting a palm to his cheek. “I appreciate it, Thorne, but I am not a child. And any news is better than none for Irene. She fears the worst. Not knowing anything is what provokes nightmares.” With a tight smile, she left.
The burning imprint of her hand still on his cheek, Thorne inhaled deeply and latched the door. “Come, Brock, let’s get a look at that etching.”
Twenty
L
orelei stood outside the study, hand on her chest, her heart heavy, her bones chilled. How was she supposed to tell Irene her mother was “out of danger, but it was a near thing”? What did that mean? Fear and anger twisted her stomach into a coil of knots. How had Ginny managed to urge those girls to pretend sleep, as hurt as she was?
The suffocating sensation clogged Lorelei’s throat, knowing she must fulfill her promise to Irene. She made her way to the morning room. The papered walls, with birds that flitted through various shades of painted green leaves, normally cheered her. Now the small, cozy room seemed to mock her. Lorelei tugged on the bellpull, and the housekeeper poked her head around the door.
“You rang, my lady?”
“Tea for two, please. And send for Lady Irene. I wish to speak to her. Alone.”
“Very well, my lady.”
Lorelei waited, her stomach dipping with every minute creak, pass, and rustle that ventured beyond the chamber, bracing herself.
All too soon, Irene crossed the threshold, hands clasped tightly before her, in her starched poplin dress of soft pink, her small, pert features solemn. It was unnatural for a child her age to be so perfect and well-behaved. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
Lorelei patted the empty space on the settee beside her.“Come sit.”
Irene followed Lorelei’s instructions to the letter. She sat, her gaze on her hands clasped in her lap. “My mother is dead, isn’t she?”
“No. She is not dead. But—” Lorelei swallowed. “I fear she is in a bad way. I don’t knowhowbad. But that is the report straight from Lord Brockway’s own lips.”
Not a hiccup, sniffle, or peep escaped. Irene’s shoulders did not shudder with sobs. The only sign she cried was the growing damp spot on her dress, where her tears splashed on her hands then landed on her pretty frock.
Lorelei laid her hands over Irene’s. “I’m sorry I don’t have more news for you, but I told you I would tell you what I learned when I learned it.”
“Thank you,” Irene whispered.
Lorelei’s heart shattered, and she pulled the girl into her arms. She seemed so fragile, so breakable. “Lord Brockway will keep us informed, Irene. He believes she is out of danger. That is most encouraging, isn’t it?”
A brisk nod against Lorelei’s chest was Irene’s only response. It would have to suffice.
Brock made his way from the Kimptons’, his rage barely suppressed. He had one or two quick appearances required before it would be safe to check on Ginny. He always chose the most crowded balls, flirted with some simpering debutante or merry widow. Theatrics carefully scripted to throw off the patronesses before sneaking away through a side door and over a garden wall.
He’d prefer Kimpton and Lorelei to attend Ginny, but leaving the house vulnerable with their presence was not an option. Brock had every intention of killing Maudsley, but timing was key. He flexed, then clenched his fist. If he had his way, the man would end up in the gutter, gutted.
He guided his horse toward the Gristons’ for the small dinner the man’s mother had orchestrated. The man set him on edge. Two hours, he told himself.
Brock slid from his horse, tossing the reins to a waiting groom. He plastered a smile on his face and knocked on the door. He was ushered to a large parlor filled with many of his peers. Notably missing were Kimpton and his wife.
