“Food, Pelz.” He dropped back into the chair he’d vacated earlier. “Did Peyton ever mention a curse to you?”
Thirteen
W
hen would this nightmare end? This was exactly why she hated depending on others for rides. This was exactly why she loved living in New York. If she chose to leave, she was not without transportation—Oh, wait.London was the epicenter for transportation. She was in Mayfair. There must be a Tube station nearby. She’d been to London before, just not this area. Damn, she missed her phone.
Patricia was still talking. “So, you see, dear?”
Twenty minutes ago, a man had arrived whom she was informed was her uncle, Robert Seward. “You may address me as Lord Hayter,” he’d said.
God knows, if she had to stay in their company another ten minutes, she would be ahater.Ha ha.
“Your mother was a gifted artist.”
“Sarah Christine… S. C. Beck is my—”
“Was, dear. She and your…” she huffed, “father, well, they—” She waved out a hand.
“Were murdered,” Peyton whispered.
The room took on a surrealistic aura. The atmosphere parted with what felt like mystic ghosts. The house was conducive to spirits, for sure. But Peyton didn’t believe in specters. Only those in her nightmares. They were real enough. This, of course, was turning into a waking version of her nightmares.
“You remember?” Her Aunt Emily’s—her uncle Robert Seward’s baroness—skin turned a chalky white. Lips blood red, vivid against her pale face.
Her gaze moved from the dining room to the parlor, and every eye was now trained on Peyton. She looked from one pair of eyes to the next, considering what she’d just said out loud.
“No, no, dear. Your parents died at sea. They had a yacht, you see, and the weather was horrendous that day.” Aunt Patricia seemed very insistent. She appeared just as shaken as Emily but hid her fear behind a more sophisticated mien.
Peyton quickly agreed. “Oh. Yes, now I remember,” she murmured, desperately looking for an escape. “Leander Skerry had newspaper notices about the event.” She furrowed her brows. “The notices mentioned a child. Caitlin. She died too, it said.”
“Oh, my poor dear. Your sister, Peyton. You don’t remember? She was five.”
But another memory spilled through Peyton.
“There’s nothing to worry about, darling. We’ve taken every precaution short of moving to America. And that is in the works. We shall be there by month’s end.”
“I have a terrible feeling about this, Sarah.”
“Papa?”
“Caitlin? What in the world are you doing under there, my sweet?”
“I was hiding, Mother. Yay. We’re moving to America. Ooh, I cannot wait—”
Her father froze. “Shush,” he whispered. He put his hand on her head, pushing her back beneath the desk. “Stay there. Don’t make a sound. Not a single peep, Cait. Do you understand?” His urgency was scaring her.
She nodded and slipped down but couldn’t force herself to let go of his legs.
The library door hit the wall behind it with a crash. “You bastard, Django. How dare you? You owe this family!”
Two horrifying shots rang out—
Blinking, Peyton jerked. Her gaze moving around the gatherers. “I-I need to get back to-to Colchester.” She squeezed her hands into fists to stem their violent trembling.
Carson rose, stepping forward. “Come. I’ll take you.”
“No. No, that’s okay. I’ll take the train. It will give me a chance to see the countryside.”
