Felton stepped closer, balling both fists. “You knew she ran. You knew she was afraid of you. And yet you came.”
“I knew nothing of her fear.”
“You knew that and more.”
“Northwood, you—”
“You knew Minney’s father loved your wife. You had him removed, him and his daughter, but it was not enough because she followed him. You loved her. I know you loved her. You loved her so much you could not live with such a thing and you—”
“I what, Northwood?” He stood. The dress slipped to the ground. “Go on. Finish.”
He couldn’t. Even if everything were true, he couldn’t say the words. A spear of doubt and terrifying emptiness destroyed the anger, until he couldn’t even look Lord Gillingham in the face.
“You want me to tell you I did not kill Minney’s father. You want me to say I did not kill my wife.”
Say it.Felton’s fists tightened. He’d do anything to hear the words. Anything to make everything untrue.Please, say it.
But Lord Gillingham said nothing. He shook his head, picked the dress back up from the ground, and returned to his bench. He spoke without lifting his head. “It is time you leave Monbury, Northwood.”
Pain rent Felton’s heart.
“I think it best you do not come back.”
“You don’t understand.” The curtains fluttered, but there was no beast. Only broken glass and the echo of the scream and the footfalls rushing away behind her.
She looked down and could not look away. Her mother. Twisted and bashed and mangled in red, red, red. She hated red. The curtains brushed her face. Red again.
Then she ran. She rushed back to the nursery, closed the door, scampered back to her trundle bed, and hugged her knees. She stared at the tapestry. The woven picture. The beast on the wall, with his frightening eyes and giant claws and wretched teeth.
Outside the nursery, more footsteps. Servants yelling. Doors opening and slamming. The nursery door creaked, and Mrs. Eustace peered in. She sighed. Maybe because Eliza had not fallen through the window like her mother. Because she wasn’t dead. Because there wasn’t red. Always red.
“Go back to sleep, child, and never mind the noise.” A gentle command, and the door clicked shut.
Dark. Quiet.
Except for the moonlight in the window and the scratching outside. The loud, loud scratching—coming closer, rattling the window, squeaking it open.
Then a face. How strangely it stared at her through the opening, with luminous eyes, with a maddening look, with a voice breathless and threatening.
Mr. Northwood.
Mr. Northwood creeping toward her and covering her mouth.
Mr. Northwood begging her not to scream.
A noise stirred in the blackness of the stables.
Felton pulled his pistol the same time he turned. He backed into the stall with his horse, breath stilled, and searched beyond the lantern glow for the silhouette of a figure. “Step into the light or I shall shoot.”
“I do not doubt you would.” The feminine voice, hushed and smooth, calmed the racket in his chest. “With the way you have wounded my heart, a mortal wound would be no great surprise.”
He stuffed his pistol back into his trousers. “Come out, Miss Haverfield.”
She entered the glow of light, fully dressed in a scarlet redingote and jockey bonnet, with a riding crop clasped in gloved hands. “Pray, do not look as if my presence so vexes you.”
“It doesn’t.” He pulled the saddle from his horse. “It has been a long day. That is all.”
“You were gone the length of it.”
