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Something was wrong. Something was very wrong.
Marcus turned to walk back down the corridor. But the sound of his soft footsteps drew the butler into the corridor and there was nowhere for Marcus to hide. “Who goes there?” Mr. Pritchens asked.
Marcus turned, forcing himself to grin and be friendly, though it was the last thing he felt like doing. “It’s just me, Mr. Pritchens. I came to give my regards to Mr. Hewitt.”
Mr. Pritchens looked down at Marcus’s stockinged feet and back up at his face, his brow furrowed. “You had to remove your boots to give your regards?” he said.
“It seemed prudent at the time,” Marcus said with a shrug.
The man nodded.
“Is all well?” Marcus asked, motioning toward the door with his hand full of boots.
“As well as any other day.” Mr. Pritchens breathed out on a sigh.
“What has happened here since I left, Pritchens?” Marcus asked.
The man lifted his nose into the air and regarded Marcus as though he might as well be an ant beneath his shoe. “What’s happened is that someone has broken into the family home where he has not been invited.” He motioned toward the door. “I’ll see you out.”
He brushed at that errant lock of hair again, and Marcus noticed that the butler’s jaw was darkening to the color of a cold grate.
“I’ll find out what’s going on here, Pritchens,” Marcus warned.
“I certainly hope you do,” Mr. Pritchens said, and then he gave Marcus a gentle shove out the door and closed it behind him.
Damn. What a mess. He’d been gone for just over six months, and now that he was home, nothing was as he’d left it.
Even Cecelia wasn’t the woman he’d left behind. She was naked in the bath. And crying. And her father was foxed. And Pritchard had given him a flask while footmen held him down. And Pritchard had been hit in the jaw.
And Cecelia was crying.
Something was very wrong if Cecelia was crying.
Twelve
Cecelia dressed slowly, donning her faerie clothing with care. One good thing about being at home was that she could do away with the long dresses and bonnets. She could let hair hang freely over her shoulders, and she could tuck it behind her ears. She shook her skirt out over her knees. Fae dresses were made for usability. They were designed with strips of fabric that fell to the length of one’s knees, and the pieces tore off when one got stuck sliding beneath a windowsill or through a keyhole. They were fitted to the skin, with no excess of material.
With her silk stockings tied up with red garters, she slid her feet into her fae slippers. She was ready. She was ready for anything that could happen today. Anything at all.
She stepped into the breakfast room and forced herself not to react when she saw her father at the head of the table, with his head buried in his hands. He groaned aloud and rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets.
“Long night?” she asked.
He looked up slowly, like the light hurt his eyes.
“I don’t remember most of it,” he admitted.
He never did. That’s what made his crimes so heinous. He couldn’t properly apologize because he had no idea what he’d done wrong the night before.
Mr. Pritchens stroked a finger along the line of his jaw, almost absently, as he stared a hole into her father’s back.
“I believe you had too much to drink. Then you proceeded to break some glasses and punch a hole in the wall, and you had to be restrained in your room until you drank enough that you fell asleep.” She looked over her shoulder at Mr. Pritchens. “Is that about it?” she asked.
The man nodded. “Quite right,” he clipped out.
“I’m sorry,” her father said, not looking up from where his face rested in his hands.
She didn’t respond. He deserved a solid dose of reality. He deserved to feel as miserable as they all did.
