Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
‘Coming,’ I murmur, leaving the letter in my pocket and walking on, looking back often. ‘Do you know what happened to the Duke’s family?’ I ask.
‘Unfortunately, yes.’
‘Why unfortunately?’
‘Because it must give even the bravest of men, and I am a brave man, Miss Melrose, nightmares.’
Brave? Oh, Frederick, you dear man. He, like the rest of the ton, have avoided this corner of the square like it is hell since the Duke arrived back. ‘Do you believe he burned his whole family alive?’ I ask as I glance back again, the question slipping past my lips carelessly, my intrigue getting the better of me. I may not believe Frederick to be a solid, dependable man who might indulge my desires rather than squash them, but he is not stupid. I must stop with these crazy, misplaced questions at once.
‘Johnny Winters murdered his family in cold blood, Miss Melrose, and,’ he goes on, looking back at the house on a shudder, ‘he has shown not one bit of remorse.’
‘How would we know?’ Shut up, Eliza! ‘We, and no one else around here, for that matter, has seen him for a year.’
‘There is no smoke without fire.’
‘That is terrible terminology to use when we are discussing the tragic death of a family who perished.’ Besides, I saw Johnny Winters. Yes, he was cold, almost ruthless-looking, but a murderer? And what evidence is there apart from the careless chattering of a few noblemen and a report in my father’s newspaper?
‘My father is well versed in the history of the Winters.’
Oh, well, of course. I should have known Lymington would be one of the noblemen. Ironically, there is nothing noble about Lymington. ‘Would you care to share so that I may conclude for myself if the new duke is a coldblooded murderer?’
‘Why, are you planning on becoming acquainted with him?’
I laugh, although it is nervous. ‘Of course not! I am merely enquiring.’
Frederick looks down at me, his exasperation at my endless questions unconcealable, but he indulges me. Perhaps he is hoping feeding me the information I am desperate for will shut me up. ‘You have encountered the Duke, have you not?’
My heart leaps. ‘I have.’ He was mysterious, yes. Unlawfully handsome, yes. Aloof, yes. But, again, a murderer? ‘Where is the proof that he murdered anyone? Before last week, he was rumoured to be dead himself!’
Frederick rolls his eyes.
‘So, Frederick, I ask you again, what proof is there that he committed such a crime? And how do you know he is the Duke? His father could still be alive. Everyone thought Johnny Winters was dead, after all.’
‘Assumed dead.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Why do you talk so much?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘Oh, never mind. I believe we are done promenading for today.’ And with that, he marches on, bristling terribly, while I stand like a statue, as indignant as I know I shouldn’t be. I must learn to curb my inquisitive nature.
I pick up my dress coat and go after him. ‘Frederick,’ I call, making him stop on the edge of the gardens. ‘If I have upset you, I must apologise.’ Play the game, Eliza. This man is both your prison and your freedom.
Turning towards me, Frederick stares at me in bewilderment. I believe we are in the midst of our first lovers’ quarrel. Except we are not lovers. ‘Miss Melrose,’ he breathes, checking our surroundings. A carriage slows to a stop on the cobbles and Frederick bows his head. ‘My lady.’
My eyes move from Frederick, and I find Countess Rose – resident of number nine Belmore Square, our neighbour, and an old, haggard, horrid gossip – flouncing across the cobbled road towards her carriage, the plume of feathers rising three feet from her cap swaying precariously in today’s light breeze. She obviously has not yet heard that a peacock perched atop one’s head is no longer in vogue. And, God, her eyebrows are as wild as the animals they have undoubtedly come from.
‘Miss Melrose,’ the Countess drones, smiling widely at me. I am quite taken aback. She has never paid me the time of day on the few occasions our paths have crossed, and here she is ignoring the Earl of Cornwall in favour of me? She swishes her way to me, and the closer she comes, the more alarmed I am, for her face is downright disturbing, her old skin rutted and mangy. She is a victim of too much paint and powder, her face ravaged by the toxic concoctions. The Countess’s voluntary attempts to cover minor blemishes has resulted in a compulsory need to conceal the disfigurements the paint and powder has caused from too much use. Frankly, close up, the Countess is ghastly.
I find myself leaning back, away from her, and she smiles. It is quite insincere. ‘Where is your mama?’ she asks, her dry rouge lips twisting as she looks between Frederick and me.