Page 11 of The Vanished Sister

Lord Ingram’s jaw moved but he said nothing.

Charlotte took another bite of her bread. Usually her composure strengthened Livia, but not tonight. Tonight Livia wanted action. Results.

“You’re right, Livia,” said Charlotte. “I don’t want any of that to happen. I don’t want the reputation of my business to suffer and I don’t want my person or my surroundings disturbed. But that does not change the fact that we cannot prevent Mrs. Carstairs from disseminating the truth, if she has her heart set on it.”

Unless, thought Livia wildly, unless someone stops her from making any moves.

The east-facing window in Charlotte’s bedroom gave onto a wide vista of the Hangman Cliffs and the headlands upon which crouched High Burrow, its silhouette barely visible. It also looked down to Sans Souci’s large terrace, which had been busy for this late at night.

There had been a discussion after dinner concerning Mrs. Carstairs’s upcoming house party—specifically, which of the present company would in fact attend. Miss Redmayne wished to accompany Mrs. Watson for support; Mrs. Watson adamantly refused to consider the idea.

She isn’t worthy of your acquaintance, my dear child. I have no choice but to go and find out what she’s about but I will not expose you to that sort of danger—or that sort of noxious kin.

But there they had been, on the terrace, after everyone officially retired for bed, still engaged in animated conversation. Or rather, Miss Redmayne was still trying to change Mrs. Watson’s mind while the latter remained uncharacteristically and uncompromisingly silent.

After those two at last came back to the house, Livia and Mr. Marbleton took their place at the edge of the terrace—but not to talk, unless one counted whispers between kisses.

When Lord Ingram entered the room, Charlotte was seated on the sill of a different window, playing with the dahlia she’d put into her hair at dinner, a little wilted, but still pretty.

“Are my sister and Mr. Marbleton still on the terrace?”

“Not anymore.” He opened the east-facing window—he knew that in summer she preferred her room cool at night. “Mr. Marbleton has left.”

“Mrs. Watson?”

“I was speaking to her until five minutes ago,” answered her lover. He hooked the open casement in place. “She’s also off to bed.”

Charlotte sighed. “Our beleaguered guests. But do you agree, Ash, that until now we’ve been very decent hosts?”

This holiday was the first time they’d invited family and friends to Sans Souci while they were both in residence. Husbands and wives did that. They were as unmarried as ever, a state that remained perfectly satisfactory to Charlotte. But she understood what this signaled to everyone else. In fact, Mrs. Watson, that perennial romantic, had been all aflutter at what she considered a significant progression in Charlotte and Lord Ingram’s association.

Poor Mrs. Watson, who was now no longer paying attention to whether anyone was moving closer—or not—to matrimony.

Lord Ingram turned around and flicked suspenders off his shoulders, a sight that never failed to cause a frisson of excitement in Charlotte. He closed the distance between them and kissed her on the top of her head. She set a hand on his midriff—she was still rather astonished she could do this at will, feeling the ridges of his musculature beneath a layer of warm linen.

She reached under his shirt, not so much for a lascivious touch—not yet—as to pull the material closer to her nose, to inhale its light arboreal scent of sandalwood and oakmoss.

“Should I close the window—for now?” he murmured.

She rose to her feet. “Yes—and you seem remarkably sanguine.”

About Moriarty’s latest intrusion into their lives via Mrs. Carstairs’s invitation.

“I am not. But you look very delectable, madam,” he said with a smile. “And you’ve looked delectable all day—especially when you put that dahlia in your hair. I’ll worry about our future after I take advantage of our present.”

She passed the dahlia in front of her lips before she tossed it on her dressing table and threw her arms around his neck. “What an eminently wise and clear-eyed philosophy, my lord. You are to be commended for—”

They failed to close the window.

Four

Four days ago, when Livia first arrived on the coast, she’d felt as light and happy as a dandelion puff soaring on a spring day.

Today, the Devon coast remained little changed. The descent of the railway was still pretty, green hills to one side and green moors on the other. The sea, indigo blue in the distance, sparkled under another blue sky.

But Livia almost stumbled as she alit from the train—today she carried the Matterhorn on her back. She righted herself, turned around, and helped Mrs. Newell down the steps.

Yesterday evening the staff at Sans Souci had been dispatched to Ilfracombe to send cables, one of which had gone to Mrs. Newell, saying only that Livia needed to know her itinerary. Mrs. Newell’s reply had come in the morning and Livia had been able to meet her train in Exeter.