As though on cue, the drawing room doors flew open with a bang that echoed through the house. Lord Gray stomped in with shoulders hunched, eyes set on his dark chair in the back corner.
“Where is my cigar?” He bellowed hoarsely.
“Just here.” I set my basket on the window seat and fetched Lord Gray’s cigar box from under the newspaper beside his chair. His habits were the same every afternoon, but he’d only started smoking in the drawing room since our return from London. Though I hated the smell of the smoke, and even more how it lingered on my clothes and in my hair, neither Clara nor I dared mention a word to him.
“How was sea bathing today, Stepfather?” I asked, my shoulders tensed.
“Cold,” he muttered. Barely bothering to clip the head, he lit a match and took a long pull from his cigar. He finally seemed to relax as he fell into his gray velvet chair.
“Shall I fetch some tea?” Clara’s voice sounded small, pinched.
“No,” Lord Gray growled. Without warning, he curled into himself, an alarming wheeze lifting his back up and down, up and down, followed by a deep, retching cough that rattled his breath. All was silent for a beat, and then, like the rush of an ocean wave, his voice crashed upon us. “What on earth are you doing standing around? Is there not work to be done? Look at this room, the absolute shame of it!If anyone of matter came into Gray House, they would think we live like rats.”
I kept my voice calm, despite his rage. “Of course, Stepfather. The floor needs attending, to be sure.” I took a few careful steps backward, angling myself in front of Clara, and bent down to pick imaginary threads from the rug beneath the settee. All for guests who would never come.
A knock sounded on the door, and our butler, Mr. Jones, walked in, bowing. “A letter for you, my lord.”
Clara glanced at me with questioning eyes, and I could feel her wondering, hoping.
“I shall have it.” Lord Gray steadied his voice and raised his empty hand in expectation.
I forced my heart to settle as he broke the seal.
It wouldn’t do to hope. Evelyn had made sure of that. I hadn’t wanted to worry Clara, but I was sure Evelyn had spoken ill of us, spreading rumors amongst theton. Why else would we have no correspondence after spending two months in London?
Lord Gray folded the paper into crisp lines while taking another long draw from his cigar. He endured another wheeze and another shaking cough that I could practically feel in my own lungs.
“Tea.” His voice was hoarse and rough.
Clara sucked in an audible breath and turned on her heels, nearly running from the room in pursuit of it.
Lord Gray’s dreadful cough had brought us to Brighton, or rather to the healing waters of the English Channel, following in the footsteps of the Prince Regent himself. The doctor had initially diagnosed pneumonia, but after every remedy was administered and every option exhausted, Lord Gray ignored his doctor and uprooted us to Brighton.Clearly, the ocean held no magic elixir for the lungs, either.
“Sit,” Lord Gray snapped at me. His fingers twirled the cigar, his eyes watching its embers blaze at the tip, lips pursed.
I sat in the chair beside him and nervously straightened the pink linen skirt of my dress.
“This letter is from Sir Ronald Demsworth of Hampshire. A well-spoken man clearly besotted by one of you.”
My jaw threatened to fall open. Sir Ronald? The smiling, curly-headed young man Clara had chattered about incessantly? The one who’d inherited both a title and a Royal Pavilion–sized estate? Yes, he’d paid particular attention to Clara in London, but not once had he called on us through Evelyn. Why was he writing to us now?
Lord Gray cleared his throat. “I have your interest, then?I will not waste my breath on you, Amelia, as I have already wasted enough money trying to secure a future for you—to no avail, I might add, despite affording you every luxury of a London Season. Catherine has been home for three weeks, same as you, yet she is nearly engaged. I admit I was surprised when our doors remained silent, no letters inquiring after either of you. But here we are.” He gestured briefly to the paper he held. “A baronet, no less, and an invitation to his home for a fortnight.”
My heart jumped into my throat, and I felt a surge of relief at the idea of escape. London had seemed too good to be true, and I’d all but armored myself against the hope of leaving Gray House again so soon.
His sunken eyes bored into mine, willing me to ask, to beg. He knew as well as I did that this invitation bore a deeper meaning, a blooming interest, and was a greater opportunity for us—for Clara—than we could possibly hope for. I also knew that neither I nor Clara had any money or means to reply affirmatively without help from our stepfather. We’d need a coach for travel, a maid to share between us, and an allowance. Asking, and certainly begging, did not come naturally to me. Clara’s reflection flashed in my memory—her sad eyes, softened from weariness and disappointed dreams.
“Lord Gray, you have been so generous to us.” The words tasted like lemon on my tongue. “After Mama died, you’ve still protected and provided for us these past two years.”
He rolled his eyes. “Do you honestly think I do any of this for you?” He spat. “Neither of you deserve this life, not with the blood of the Moores running through your veins. There is not enough of her in you to make me care beyond the promise I made regarding your protection. A promise that dies with me.”
He’d said such things a thousand times, but the sting of such open disdain burned fresh upon my cheeks. His invocation of death lingered between us, the word billowing along with the smoke from Lord Gray’s cigar until both filled the room.
My own life was before me, more fragile and more uncertain than I had ever imagined before, a future cracking like glass. My gaze found the bluish-gray carpet beneath his feet. “I see.”
“Look at me,” Lord Gray demanded coldly, and I forced myself to meet his sunken eyes. I noted the darkened hollowing to his cheekbones, the dryness of his cracked lips, and thinness of his graying hair. I wanted to look away from him, to pretend I didn’t see the truth in the labored rise and fall of his chest. But after six months with no improvements, it was glaring so obviously at me, I could not turn away.
“Have you called for the doctor, Stepfather?”
