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And she might not even see Valentine again. After all, she had avoided meeting him her whole life. At worst she might only see him in another twenty or thirty years. If that. How perfect.
Knowing her wretched luck, he would be just as handsome at sixty as he was at forty. All silver-haired and distinguished, still insisting on going unshaven and wearing his hair too long. Still broad-shouldered and strong—though she had not figured out quite how he maintained his muscular figure as yet. But she was willing to wager, he would not let his strength slip.
Her stays tightened. Or did her ribs expand? Either way, breathing grew difficult. She forced her attention to Demeter. Hair in a simple yet sleek chignon, the comb tucked in the back of the careful knot was made up of several jeweled, golden lilies—the work so delicate it looked as though it would snap if it fell from her hair, even if it landed on the Persian rug beneath.
But despite her sister’s simple elegance, strain tugged at the corners of her lips and shadowed her eyes. She and Demeter shared their mother’s darker looks and though Demeter’s figure was on the slender side, people always commented on how similar they looked. Chastity imagined her eyes were ringed with dark too. Some of it from worry, some of it from hard work.
She wrinkled her nose. A lot of it due to sleepless nights thanks to Valentine.
Glancing up at Demeter, she pursed her lips. “How is—”
“I do so wish everyone would cease treating me as though I am dying.” Eleanor paused in the doorway, arms folded.
Chastity rose and embraced her sister, feeling Eleanor sink marginally into her, despite her stiff spine. She stepped back and eyed her. Her eyes were rimmed red and though she normally fought hard to tame her hair into a tight coil, today strands of it were tugged out at various angles as though she had been toying with it.
“I was just finishing up my mechanical elephant.” Eleanor gestured downstairs to where she spent a lot of time in the boot room, tinkering with various contraptions—some even of her own invention.
“An elephant?”
“He’s quite a-amusing,” Demeter said.
“Are you returned home now?” asked Eleanor, her spine still set straight.
Yes. Of course. Why should she even go back to the earl’s house? There was no reason to really. She could pursue this new lead they had and never set foot in the place again.
“Not yet,” she answered instead, avoiding her sister’s gaze.
“If you have not discovered what happened by now, surely there is nothing more to be found there?” Eleanor pressed.
“First I should like to hear of this witness.” She retreated back to the sofa and sank down again, aware of her feet pounding from her trek across London and how long it would be until she sat again.
That was, if she went back, of course.
Eleanor made a face and moved over to the window. “She did not seem reliable.”
“We do not know that.” Demeter perched herself on the cream and gold chair opposite Chastity. “She said she—”
The bell for the front door chimed through the house. Demeter glanced at Eleanor. “Are we expecting anyone?”
She snorted. “No one wishes to visit with us. Not now I am a potential murderess.”
Aunt Sarah burst into the drawing room. Her cat ambled behind her, ignoring her flapping hands, and opting to jump onto the windowsill to stare out and judge whoever it was at the door.
“It is the Earl of Kendall.”
Chastity scowled as her stomach did several somersaults. Wonderful.
∞∞∞
Valentine felt as though he had walked into an art exhibition rather than the drawing room of one of the grandest houses in London.
Well, no. To be more precise, an art exhibition within the grandest house in London. A huge, elaborately woven rug made him aware of the grass he’d trekked across to get to the carriage. The cream sofa and matching chairs would fare no better with his horsehair-strewn clothing. When he glanced down, he spied red strands of horsehair against his buckskin breeches from a brief morning ride.
Even his beard itched.
The women stared at him. Scarcely a sound could be heard, and he suspected they all held their breaths. These sisters were a confounding lot. He’d been as close to his sister as a brother could be, but he’d never witnessed anything like the Fallon sisters and their aunt.
They remained frozen like statues as though they had been caught plotting to burn down Parliament or more likely cause him more trouble. Only the black and white cat upon the windowsill moved, his gentle licking of a paw preposterously loud in the silent room.
