Hattie’s stomach fluttered, first with giddiness, then apprehension. The mountain of unresolved troubles between them was staggeringly high.
Aoife Byrne, knowing her letter was in safe hands, was taking her leave. Hattie accompanied her to the back entrance, her movements clumsy. She could have fallen asleep standing up; learning the truth about Lucian’s family had sapped the last of her strength. Miss Byrne took her hat, gloves, and coat from the servants’ clothing rack. In a moment, her competent presence would vanish, leaving Hattie alone in a house full of ghosts.
On the doorstep, the Irishwoman turned back. “If I may,” she said. She pulled another lavender sprig from her bodice pin and presented it to Hattie. “They say the scent is soothing.”
Hattie took the flower, puzzled. “Thank you.” She instinctively raised the purple blossom to her nose and inhaled. Yes. Soothing. Reminded her of Catriona’s lavender soap, too. As if by magic, the pressure in her chest eased a little.
“There,” said Miss Byrne, and winked at her. Or perhaps she had imagined that.
“I did not think you liked me much,” Hattie said, feeling half-delirious and emboldened. “You seemed quite amused by the incident in the drawing room when we first met.”
Miss Byrne smiled, rather roguishly. “I was amused,” she said. “It was obvious that Blackstone had saddled himself with a proper trouble ’n’ strife, one who’d give him lip.”
“Oh.”
“It’s what he deserves,” Miss Byrne said. “Probably what he needs, too. Do you like music halls, Mrs. Blackstone? You should join my friend Miss Patterson and me sometime; we know the best shows. And we live near the grandest theater of the East End.”
Hattie broke the seal on Miss Byrne’s letter while she crept up the stairs to her private chambers. She liked the woman now, and she knew she should respect her husband’s privacy, but secret messages? She had had quite enough of secrets.
News about the burglary: evidence is inconclusive but there is a solid hunch it may have been your weasel of an assistant. If he was the culprit, I want my cuff links back. Also, in your absence, his gambling took quite the turn. I understand Ritchie’s put his henchmen on him—if you don’t get to him, they will.
AB
She paused on the landing, clutching the railing and feeling faint. A burglary? Henchmen? The weasel assistant had to be Mr. Matthews. His twitchy smile appeared before her mind’s eye, and a cold shiver raced down her spine. Where was Mr. Matthews? The house suddenly felt yawningly empty, the silence menacing. A surge of energy made her rush to her bedchamber and slam the door shut. Then she turned the key.
Her room smelled stuffy, but the glossy mahogany furniture and soft blue tones of wallpaper and drapery were exactly as she remembered. It still felt alien, as though she had returned from a yearlong voyage after which the old places looked tired and smaller. On her vanity table, the perfume flasks and pots with potions lay scattered, bowled over by an angrily tossed jewelry box. A lump formed in her throat. She placed Miss Byrne’s note on the table and picked up the box with shaking fingers. A pang of misery went through her chest at the sight of the silver love spoon on red velvet.
“Oh, Lucian,” she whispered. The pendant felt solid and warm in her palm, much like the man. She pressed her lips to the heart-shaped loop. Please come home, she implored him. Strange things are happening with Mr. Matthews, and we have much to discuss.
With the spoon in her fist, she staggered toward the bed. Presently, only a nap could save her. Afterward, she would wash, change into a day dress, and call on Lucie, Annabelle, or Catriona. She would be safe with any one of them. She was asleep before her head met the pillow.
She woke to dreary afternoon light shining through the windows, a disappointing return to reality after the French lavender fields rolling through her dreams. Sluggishly, she slipped into a pair of soft slippers and made her way to the shower room downstairs. As she passed the door to Lucian’s study, the ache in her chest flared up. And then she heard a muffled sound, a thump. As if a book had been dropped. Her heart leapt with excitement—Lucian was here. He was already here. She turned back to the door and made to knock, when something stayed her hand. If Lucian had followed her as Aoife had predicted, why had he not come to see her first? He must have found her sleeping and decided to let her rest …
She opened the door and promptly froze in unpleasant surprise. The slim, well-dressed man behind Lucian’s desk was not her husband.