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“Richmond?” The name tasted of bile on his tongue. “Her fiancé?”
“Yes, though she never agreed to marry him, milord.” The housekeeper leaned forward in her chair, healthy color returning to her cheeks on a wave of emotion. “She refused. Said he was a devil. So Mr. Cambertson locked her in her room and fed her only bread and water, and still she would not agree.”
“My God.”
“I was so worried for her, but there was naught I could do. And then…And then Mr. Cambertson decided that if he could not convince her, perhaps her betrothed could! He sent for him, and…She’d met him only twice before, but she’d seen that he…”
Mrs. Pell leaned slightly away and looked at him carefully. For once, he had no idea of the expression on his face. Horror or just weariness?
“You must know him, being a viscount and all, but I hope he’s no friend of yours.”
“No.”
“Good. As I said, she had heard he was not right, you understand. Cynthia wouldn’t have wanted to marry a stranger anyway, lord or not. But once she met him, she was afraid. And then that last time…” The housekeeper shook her head and her eyes glinted with moisture. “She managed to escape at least.”
Escape. By throwing herself from a cliff. Sad to say, Lancaster understood completely.
And what had happened to her before she ran? “I am sorry,” he whispered into the silence. “I had no idea.”
“Well, how could you have, sir? You’re busy with your obligations in London. I daresay the dramas of our little shire have no bearings on life there.”
“No, but…” Of course, he could not have known that Cynthia Merrithorpe might be forced into marriage, but he should’ve been keeping watch on the earl. Lancaster was responsible for that wretched life, surely. And by extension, for Cynthia’s death.
“I should like to visit her grave,” he said.
Mrs. Pell flushed and shook her head. “There is no grave. A suicide can never…and besides that, her body was not found.”
He raised his head in a sharp jerk. “No body? Then how can we know she is dead? Perhaps she’s only run off. That seems more in keeping with the Cynthia I knew.”
“I saw her.” The woman’s words descended in a hoarse rush. “I saw her jump myself, so there’s no doubt she’s dead. Milord. I mean to say…It’s just not possible. If…I…”
Despite his own shocked pain, Lancaster saw the stiffness in Mrs. Pell’s face and knew that he’d asked too much of her. She was in mourning and suffering more than he’d known. How horrible to watch a loved one throw herself into the ocean.
“I regret the question, Mrs. Pell,” he said softly. “I apologize for the pain I caused at broaching the subject so callously.”
“Nonsense, sir,” she answered, though she stood and shook out her skirts all the same. “No apology necessary. Let me refill your drink.”
Lancaster watched the amber slide of the liquid as it slipped from the decanter to the glass. He was still watching the play of rusts and golds as the firelight danced against the glass in his hand when he realized he was alone.
Thank God. He needed privacy right now, needed to calm his shaking thoughts. But despite the solitude, he did not reach up to rub the ache at his throat, the prickling heat that spread in both directions before the ends met at his spine. He’d trained himself long ago never to draw attention to the rough scar that ringed his neck, never to touch it…even if it did feel tight as a noose today.
He dreamt of her that night. She stood at the edge of a cliff, winds whipping her skirt to her legs and tangling her hair into writhing Medusa strands. When she turned to look at him, her eyes flooded with dark judgment.
Cynthia knew what he knew, was aware of his absolute failure. But he could save her now, reach out and tug her back from the gaping maw of the gray waters.
But something held him back, something rough and tight and strangling him. Lancaster reached up to claw at the tightness, tried to work his fingers beneath it. His eyes rolled as he looked around for help, but no one arrived. In the end, all he saw was Cynthia, as she took one step back and her body slowly tilted away. The pressure tightened around his neck….
Sheer force of will allowed Lancaster to pull himself from the dream. He’d worked hard at the skill, as there were certain parts of his past that he never wished to know again. But it had been years since he’d suffered that kind of nightmare, and so his mind moved with resistance, rusty with disuse.
He forced his eyelids open, though they sunk closed again before he could focus. Only an impression of something white moving in the moonlight floated to his brain. He breathed, feeling his closed throat expand, and tried again. This time there was only blackness, nothing white at all. Lancaster unwound his clenched muscles and sat up, swinging his legs to the floor. The sweat covering his body cooled to an instant chill, a relief after the feverish fear of the dream.
The crisp air was a relief too, and he breathed deeply to calm his hammering pulse. Just a dream, just a dream.
The image of a length of white moving across his room flashed behind his eyes again, clearer this time. The shape of a gown, the blur of a face. But that had been nothing. Just a remnant of terror, nothing else. Lancaster scrubbed his hands through his hair, then reached for the mug of water next to the bed. And froze.
The water was there, and the lamp next to it, but something else was there as well. Something small and pale and giving off a faint sheen in the moon’s rays. Whatever it was hadn’t been there before.
He glanced around the room, toward the door, and saw nothing. Perhaps Mrs. Pell had entered, bringing him…What? Lancaster squinted at the unknown object and reached for the lamp
