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She backed away, but not before his eyes opened, just for a moment, then lowered again in sleep.
Cynthia Merrithorpe turned and ran, disappearing into a da
rk shadow in the wall. If the man woke behind her, she did not know and did not care.
Nicholas had returned, the answer to her girlhood prayers…and she could not allow him to stay.
“What have you done?” Cynthia whispered as soon as Mrs. Pell stepped foot into the attic.
The housekeeper jumped, already shaking her head. “Nothing!”
Cyn clutched her arm. “You wrote to him, asked his help!”
“I did no such thing, missy. And how did you know of the viscount’s arrival?”
“Viscount,” she muttered, irritated as ever by his new status in life. He’d been no more than a tall, humble boy when she’d known him. A tall, humble, handsome boy with impossibly sweet brown eyes. “I saw him,” she finally admitted.
Mrs. Pell looked doubtfully toward the tiny round attic window.
“No, I was worried when you did not bring tea. I feared you’d fallen ill. I had no idea I’d stumble over a grand lord asleep in the library.”
“Tell me you didn’t!”
“What?” Cynthia chewed thoughtfully on her thumbnail.
“Stumble over him!”
“No, of course not. He didn’t see me.” Hopefully.
“Well, for the love of God, no more sneaking about. Stay in the attic. Surely he’ll leave soon. If he finds you here, he’ll toss me out on my rump without a reference.”
“He would not.”
“And stop biting your nails. It’s not ladylike.”
Cynthia snorted at the woman’s priorities. “You just told me to stay in the attic. I’m hidden away like a leprous mistress. Hardly ladylike.”
Mrs. Pell nodded in distraction, but then her eyes focused on Cynthia’s woolen stockings and thick robe. “It’s not fair, what’s happened to you,” she said, as she’d said every day since Cynthia had arrived, bloodied and frightened, on her doorstep.
Cynthia stepped forward to take her hands and clasp them between her own. “I know I shouldn’t have asked you to take me in. I’m sorry. It’s too much to ask anyone. Did you…Did you write to Nick and ask his help?”
“I wrote, but only to inform him of your death.” She crossed her arms, only succeeding in making herself look more guilty. “It would’ve seemed strange otherwise! And he’s not Nick, anymore, sweeting. He’s Viscount Lancaster.”
“Yes,” she agreed quickly, and met Mrs. Pell’s eyes straight on. “He’s not Nick anymore. And we’d do well to remember that. We must get rid of him as quickly as possible, or he’ll ruin us both.”
“Cynthia, your plan is mad, child. And he doesn’t seem so changed. Perhaps he’d—”
“No. Even if he didn’t turn me over to my stepfather, there’s nothing he can do to help me. I need him gone.”
Mrs. Pell didn’t nod, but she pressed her lips together and didn’t voice whatever objection she had.
“Promise you won’t tell him. If he sent me back to my family…That man will kill me.”
The old housekeeper, more a mother to her than her own mother had been, finally gave a curt nod. “I’ll not tell him. But we will discuss this again, missy. Don’t you doubt it.”
Cynthia held her tongue, implying consent, but she had no intention of discussing Viscount Lancaster and his imaginary usefulness. If she had anything to do with it, he wouldn’t be around long enough to unpack.
She needed a few weeks alone, perhaps only a few days. And then she’d be gone from this place as if she’d never existed. A ghost of a girl that no one truly remembered.
