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)
‘I am here,’ Mother sings, appearing from nowhere and saving us from the disapproval of the Countess. ‘Lady Rose,’ Mother smiles, and the Countess sniffs.
‘Lady Rose,’ Lady Blythe purrs, joining Mother. ‘Mrs Melrose was just saying how much she enjoyed my latest work.’
Lady Rose’s nostrils flare, and I watch with amusement as she fights to prevent her face from creasing even more. ‘Enchanting, I’m sure.’
‘You must read it!’ Lady Blythe insists, moving in and linking arms with the Countess. ‘Come now, I have a few spare copies in my drawing room.’
‘Ah, I must visit with the Duke of Cornwall.’ Countess Rose quickly detaches herself and waves a hand flippantly before flouncing away, leaving Lady Blythe grinning at her back. ‘I’m new money, you see,’ she says, turning back to Mother. ‘Well, I’m new and old, but you, Mrs Melrose, are new, therefore your chances of winning the approval of such prehistoric members of the ton is not likely.’ She links arms with Mother and walks her onward. ‘A crying shame, don’t you think?’
Mother chuckles, and Frederick and I are alone once more, the poor man looking lost amid the irony. ‘Thank you for escorting me home, my lord,’ I say, making a quick escape, crossing the cobbles towards our house.
When I arrive in the hall, I listen for sounds of chatter as I remove my gloves but detect none. I’m relieved. Clara must still be with the governess, and I expect Father and Frank are now on their daily ride, which leaves me to do what I have become rather fond of doing.
Spying.
I gather up my dress and dash up the stairs to my room. ‘Miss Melrose,’ Dalton calls, scrambling to keep up with me. ‘Your coat! Your gloves!’
‘I am fine, Dalton,’ I call, slamming my door behind me. I drop my gloves on my bed and start to wriggle free of the constraints of the endless layers of clothes, breathing easy again for the first time since I dressed for my promenade with Frederick. In my drawers, my palms covering my breasts, I go to the window, tucking myself up close to the draperies, and look out across the square.
Was it him there concealed in the shadows?
I should shudder.
Instead, I bite my lip, forcing myself away from the window before I am seen in my indecent state. I slip on a morning dress, remove my bonnet and sit at my dresser, combing my hair. Perhaps I have not seen the Duke because he is afraid to venture outside. After all, the residents of Belmore Square have not exactly given him a warm welcome. How terrible. He could never have murdered his family.
But he could have.
The comb comes to a stop halfway through my dark curls, and I look back at the bed, lost in thought.
I shouldn’t.
I inhale.
And yet I simply cannot resist.
I creep across my room to the bed and rootle through the pocket, pulling out the letter that I picked up from the cobbles outside the Duke’s house. The seal is broken, therefore it has been read. Does that make me reading it all right? ‘Bugger it,’ I whisper, tossing it onto the bed and beginning a frantic march around my bedroom, biting down on my teeth, forcing my eyes away from the temptation. ‘Just return it,’ I say to myself, stopping, my eyes turning onto the enticing piece of paper. This is not a matter of curiosity and lust, but one of public service. I nod assertively and, biting my lip, I grab the letter and ease the seal open, holding my breath.
I only release it when the paper lifts, revealing just a few lines. Anticipation whirling in my tummy, I hurry across my bedroom, sitting at my dressing table and unfolding the paper.
J
It is with sincere sorrow that I must send to you this letter. I am afraid it is being speculated and so printed in The London Times, that the Winters family, or at the very least a member or descendant, will be returning to Belmore Square. What you must do with the information I do not know, for I am certain you have no desire to grace the new residents of the square with your presence. Alas, I felt compelled to inform you of the awakening mumblings of the ton.
Yours, A
I exhale over the letter, noticing it trembling in my hand. He had no desire to return to London.
And yet, he has.
Why?
To my utter annoyance, supper is delayed significantly because Papa is late getting home from the gentleman’s club. He blames it on a mechanical issue with the coach. ‘I wasn’t aware our horses are steam-powered like your fancy new printing machine, Papa,’ I say as he works his way through Cook’s scrumptious chestnut soup. I could smell the Scotch the moment the door swung open. Father’s meetings at the gentleman’s club with Viscount Millingdale, cousin of the Prince Regent, no less, and owner of Millingdale Bank, and, it must be mentioned, a dinosaur in both age and beliefs, are becoming too frequent and too long. I cannot even begin to fathom what gentlemen do for such stretches of time. Well, that’s not true. What they do is swaying before me at the head of the table.