Cynthia’s mother glanced at Cynthia with growing concern before turning back to the governess. ‘Fear not. The Devil is no match for me. I will take care of this, and you will stay and train Cynthia to become a proper lady. I will double your wages to keep what you have seen a secret.’
Governess Smithers narrowed her gaze and firmed her jaw. ‘Triple.’
Cynthia’s mother hissed out a breath. ‘Fine. But if you breathe a word of this, I will decimate you. When I’m through, you won’t be fit to train field mice.’
Governess Smithers’s chin wobbled as she nodded.
‘There’s nothing wrong with Cyn!’ Thomas’ voice, still a tender falsetto, rang with the rage of a loyal brother.
‘Go with Governess Smithers, Thomas. You’re leaving for school on the morrow and must be ready.’ Their mother used the stern tone that was impossible to ignore. ‘I need to speak with Cynthia alone.’
Thomas squeezed Cynthia’s fingers. He was ten, only three years older than her, but always her protector. His green eyes filled with tears as Governess Smithers pulled him away.
‘It’s all right, Thomas.’ Cynthia couldn’t stand to see his distress. Whatever had changed within her on her seventh birthday, the power that filled her the moment she opened her eyes, wasn’t going away. It was getting worse. Perhaps it was the Devil’s work. It certainly made everyone around her angry.
‘It’s worse than I feared.’ Her mother took both of Cynthia’s hands as soon as Governess Smithers shut the nursery door behind them.
Fear, real and hot and prickling, flowed from Cynthia’s chest out to her fingers and toes. ‘Is something wrong with me, Mother?’ Because something was certainly different.
Her mother pressed her lips together and crouched down to look Cynthia in the eyes. Her pale-blue gaze was full of something haunting and achingly sad.
‘I hoped it would pass you by. As it did me, and my mother. You are destined to be a grand lady of the beau monde, my darling. Magic has no place in this world. Come.’
The carriage lurched to a stop.
Cynthia was pulled from her memory as the creak of springs and crunch of gravel brought her back to the present.
She had instructed the driver to take them to Helena’s home first before returning Cynthia to the house she would soon be leaving.
What the bloody hell was that?
She didn’t remember much of her childhood before Governess Smithers arrived. Thomas would tell stories, but before seven, her memories were curiously blank. The fleeting images she recalled from those times were hazy and disjointed.
Helena was right. She needed time to process all that was changing within her. Hubert’s death was like a blow shattering shields she had constructed around parts of herself that were unacceptable. But she didn’t care so much about being acceptable any more.
Leaning back, she let Helena’s hand slip from her own. ‘You are home, Helena.’
Helena glared at the window as if it had gravely insulted her. ‘How unfortunate.’
Secrets have a way of bubbling up. Good luck with yours.
Hamlet sprang to his feet, his amber gaze lingering on Cynthia before he hopped to the floor and waited for the carriage door to open.
You are not helpful.Cynthia glared at the fox.
I’m incredibly helpful.
‘Are you free tomorrow for dinner? Uncle Lachlan will be there. We can tell him about this evening.’ Helena shifted, readying to depart.
Cynthia’s belly rolled as her heart dropped. ‘Must we? He’ll tell Thomas and I can’t imagine my brother will take the news well.’ No matter how her world was shifting, one thing was constant: the protective nature of her brother. He would not be pleased to hear Cynthia had put herself in such a dangerous situation.
Helena’s rueful smile echoed Cynthia’s sentiment. ‘I think we must. Sinclair gave up more than just his leverage against us tonight. He wasn’t lying when he told you he didn’t kill your husband. But neither was he completely honest. He said there were others who had reason to murder Hubert, but what he didn’t tell us was the name that came into his mind.’
‘He gave you a name?’
‘Not intentionally. But when you asked who killed your husband, he thought it clear as church bells on Sunday. George Lippert.’
Cynthia shook her head. ‘Who the bloody hell is George Lippert?’
