“I’m glad you’re excited about this.”
Lionel’s mouth stretched, and he burped. His eyes closed.
“Done with me, aye? Just like your father.”
If he had lived and returned with his mouth full of sorries—could we have started anew?
I lowered Lionel into the crib, then started buttoning up my disguise. I had to look like a man to leave Hamlin. “I’m going to regain custody, and that nice countess, the leader of the Widow’s Grace, she’s helping me.”
Thumb in mouth, my boy looked so peaceful.
Maybe he believed me, but since his birth, he hadn’t known much freedom. This was how it had been for me these past four years in England.
Colin’s unsocial wife.
Colin’s foreign wife.
Colin’s distant flower couldn’t withstand the scrutiny of theton.
My baby cried out. The short outburst blasted like a loud off-key trumpet.
I looked at the ledge outside the window. If I climbed out, I could avoid detection, but this was crazy, even for a girl good at climbing. If I fell, theMorning Postwould read,Crazed widow dressed like a man jumped from a third-floor window.
“Please, sir. I need to check on the babe. Might need to clean him up a bit.”
A feminine voice with clear, proper syllables.
The door cracked open.
A tall girl like me couldn’t fit into the wardrobe. I turned back, opened the window wider, balanced on the old rocking chair, and climbed out onto the ledge.
“Mrs. Kelly, the little mongrel will keep. But you need a strong man to protect you from the ghost of Hamlin Hall. Come put me to bed.”
This deeper speech, smug and amused—Markham’s. His gloating voice repeated through my nightmares. He chuckled again. The blood in my veins chilled, the pain worse than an island girl’s first snow.
Hiding from his wrath had to be done. Boots dangling, I steadied myself and scooted to the right. The jagged edges of the hewed stones tugged on my breeches, but I’d made it. I stretched and shoved the leaded glass, closing it to within an inch.
The nursery door creaked, the hinge whining as if it had opened wide. Markham might have joined the nanny.
Stiff and silent against the wall, I waited and hoped not to see his face. Thought to pray to Agassou, the Demeraran god of protection, but I didn’t know if he had dominion on English soil . . . or stone ledges.
A woman’s hand draped in frills clasped the window latch. “One moment, Mr. Markham. The night air’s not good for the baby.”
My pulse fluttered. If Mrs. Kelly stuck her head out, I’d be discovered.
But the woman stood there, not moving, her elegant fingers resting against the frame.
“Mrs. Kelly,” Markham said. “What are you staring at? Not more snow.”
My heart thumped hard like a street singer’s drummer, one whooping on his instrument to excite the crowd or rouse a rebellion.
“No. Nothing, sir. I see nothing.”
The window slammed shut.
The door whined.
Except for my panicked heart, all was silent.
