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His hair was far shorter than he’d ever kept it, cut close along his nape where once there had been careless curls.
And he looked…weary. But perhaps that was only the travel.
Cynthia eased the panel fully closed and made her way blindly toward the narrow staircase along the back wall. She touched her tongue against the ridge of the scar that marred her bottom lip, remembering the feel of a wet mouth sucking at her, of sharp teeth breaking
through the skin when she tried to pull free. That monster had liked that, really liked it, giving Cynthia her final glimpse of the madness lurking beneath her fiancé’s distinguished façade.
The tiny bit of guilt that had started blooming inside of her withered. She couldn’t feel bad over a viscount’s sleepless nights. She couldn’t feel bad over her mother’s grief. Her very life was on the line, and no one had seen fit to worry over that. She was on her own.
Setting aside her guilt, Cynthia put one hand against the wall and raced up the steps as quietly as she could to plan tonight’s excursions.
Lancaster’s neck wouldn’t stop its aching, despite the three glasses of brandy he’d downed in quick succession. He shifted against the kitchen wall, crossed his left boot over his right and stared down at the empty tumbler.
He understood what had happened to Cynthia now, or at least the bare bones of it, but there was so much he didn’t know. He needed to know, needed to know everything.
His life was spent gathering information and formulating the correct response. Plucking every bit of knowledge he could glean in order to survive. He’d perfected this technique upon his family’s move to London. Not only had he never received an education like most boys of his standing—boarding school and all the fraternal bonding that went along with it—his life had been in complete disarray in those first months. So he’d watched and learned and carved out a place for himself among the ton by analyzing every situation he was thrust into.
But this wasn’t a matter of social survival. This was life and death and all the suffering in between.
Running a hand through his hair, Lancaster glanced up to find one of the new maids standing there. She nodded timidly toward the glass.
Lancaster smiled at her pale face, trying to relax her into a state calmer than terror. “Lizzy, is it?”
“Mary, sir.”
“Ah, Mary. I apologize. Lizzy is your sister then?” Two of them had arrived shortly after Lancaster had pasted himself to the kitchen wall.
“Yes, sir.” Her voice was only slightly above a whisper, but her knuckles weren’t quite so white against her skirt.
“Well, Mary, thank you for coming to Mrs. Pell’s aid. Seems it takes a household of women to care for one viscount, but that has ever been the case. Could I trouble you to leave Mrs. Pell and me alone for a moment? I wish to speak with her privately.”
“Sir!” she chirped, bobbing a ragged curtsy before she bolted from the room.
Mrs. Pell hurried toward him. “Milord, won’t you relax in the drawing room until dinner’s prepared? It’ll be an hour yet. You’d be so much more comfortable.”
“I like it here. It’s busy.” He gestured toward the table and chairs that had been set near the hearth. “Would you please sit down, Mrs. Pell?”
She gasped, “I would say not, sir!” and stared at him as if he’d just pinched her on the rump.
Lancaster held up his hands. “I’m not attempting to permanently upset the delicate balance between man and his housekeeper, I assure you. It’s just that I wish to speak with you about something…difficult. I thought you’d prefer to be comfortable.”
The blood drained from her face. “Difficult?” she whispered.
“Yes.” He grabbed a chair and pulled it closer before the woman could collapse. She let herself be eased down. “It’s about Miss Merrithorpe, of course.”
The air left her lungs as she slumped. “I…I hoped…Oh, sir, I pray you can forgive me!”
Collapsing into his own seat, he shook his head. “Forgive you what?”
“Well, I knew. Of course I knew! And while I was sure she was making a grand mistake, I could not think how else to help her!”
His confusion increased tenfold. “But how could you have stopped Miss Merrithorpe’s marriage?”
Mrs. Pell’s mouth snapped shut and she frowned at him.
“You knew she planned to take her own life?”
“No!” She shook her head hard, then paused for a moment as if to gather her thoughts. “No, of course not. I’d never have allowed such a thing. But I knew how desperate she was. That man…”
