Page 79 of When We Touch

He’d not seen her since.

He heard the front door open and close. He turned, striding toward the entry. “Mireau?”

But no one had left the house; someone had arrived. It was Lord Charles’s daughter, dressed—as had become her constant apparel—in a barrage of black attire that would shame the eternally mourning Queen. From head to toe, she was swathed, veil so thick it was a wonder that she hadn’t tripped over her feet a dozen times, crashed into furniture, or, at the least, her fellow mourners.

“Good evening, Lady Arianna,” he said gravely.

She lifted a black gloved hand. Justin realized that he blocked the stairway.

“You’ve been out and about alone? That’s dangerous, these days. The bloke is attacking women of the poorest stature, but, still . . . my Gods, the murders going on these days! The papers are full of it all, you know. But then, I’m sure you’d never venture into the East End?”

The woman shook her head.

She didn’t speak.

Suddenly, Justin wondered if he hadn’t been tricked the day of his sister’s wedding. He had heard Maggie complain about Arianna often enough. The girl loathed her, despised her, and accused her of murder still, no matter what the autopsy report showed.

Had he perhaps encountered the young lady of the house on the day of the wedding? Was this then the beauty he had met?

He walked toward her, suddenly determined that he would find out.

“Ah, my poor lady! It’s quite understandable that your mourning is so deep. What a truly fine man your father was. We all miss him gravely.”

Still, standing before him, she did not reply.

But Justin was determined. He blocked the stairway so that she couldn’t run around him. He shook his head with sympathy, and then, with a flash of smooth speed, he reached out, lifting the veil that covered her face.

Disappointment filled him in the brief second before she rescued her cover.

She was not hideous by any means.

Neither was she the incredible stunning beauty who had so seared his sense upon the fateful day of the wedding.

Her hair was a simple brown. Flesh far from perfect. Lips narrow, and colorless. Indeed, she had a pleasant enough look about her, but she wasn’t the little breath of perfection who had spoken with him on the day of the wedding, and she did not in the least resemble Lord Charles.

“Forgive me,” he said, and stepped back awkwardly. “I shouldn’t have intruded.

She didn’t chastise him, or really, respond in any way at all. Veil back in place, she sped on up the stairs, nearly crashing into Mireau, who was then coming down.

“Your pardon, my lady!” Mireau said.

And received no reply.

As he reached Justin, he shook his head sadly. “Women!”

“Yes, it seems there will be quite some difficulty getting Lady Arianna to accept her father’s death.”

“Then there’s your sister,” Mireau said.

“Now? What has Maggie done now?”

“I’m heartily worried about her. She just isn’t acting like Maggie.”

“She won’t speak with you, either, eh?”

“Told me to go on with you. If she could but leave herself, she’d be happy to do so. Shouldn’t you be here for that meeting with the solicitors?”

“I’ve kept mum about it,” Justin said. “I’m meeting Angus at the club for breakfast tomorrow, and therefore, I’ll be keeping him away.”