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Chapter 2
Lord Birch’s chamber was as dark and musty as always. The windows were draped tightly, not letting in even a sliver of light. A couple of candles were burning on the bedside table, adding to the musky scent.
The doctor had insisted it was imperative for Lord Birch’s recovery that there was neither draft nor the sun.
Lavinia stepped inside the room, closed the door behind her, and had to wait for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. She blinked a few times, and then scanned the room.
Her father lay sprawled on the bed, covered with blankets. He looked gray, almost wax-like. Was he even still alive?
Something shifted in the shadows, and Lavinia shivered from fright before realizing it was Matilda, Lavinia’s stepmother, sitting by his bedside.
Lavinia only saw Matilda’s outline. She was wrapped up in a shawl in a warm room, but she always had a shawl around her to hide the bruises. She was only a few years older than Lavinia but had the unfortunate fate to marry a man twice her age, who had a propensity for drinking and losing his temper.
“Has he awakened?” Lavinia whispered.
Matilda shook her head. “No, dear. He mumbled something in his sleep, just as he did before, but nothing intelligible. The doctor came to check on him, though.”
“Did he say anything new?”
“No. Just the usual. To keep Lord Birch comfortable and warm, wait for him to be lucid again.” Matilda’s voice broke on the last syllable, and she wiped away the tears. “I know that he’d been a monster, but I do not want him to die.”
Lavinia hurried toward her stepmother. “He shall be fine, I am certain,” she whispered, although she was lying. It didn’t look like her father was going to recover and one part of her was glad for it. Another part was utterly terrified.
“I don’t want that sin on your soul,” Matilda whispered again, looking directly into Lavinia’s eyes.
Lavinia’s heart squeezed. She didn’t want it either. She couldn’t believe any of this was happening at all. Her fingers touched the note, still lying crumpled in her pocket.
“Matilda, did anyone else come by the house while I was gone?”
“Besides the doctor, you mean?” Matilda wiped her tears again. She thought for a moment before shaking her head. “No, no one else. Why?”
Lavinia chewed on her lip, wondering if she should tell her distressed stepmother about the note. “No reason,” she finally said, not being able to conjure the words to speak her worries aloud. What would it help? Matilda was so distressed that the note would just send her into a catatonic state.
Matilda took Lavinia’s hands in hers. “Did you speak to Annalise about this? About your father’s state, I mean?”
“I wanted to, but…” Lavinia shook her head. “The other ladies came earlier than I anticipated. And Olivia brought her cousin by marriage with her. That woman has gone through a lot recently. Her husband died, and well, she needs a distraction, not more problems piled on top of her. I did not think it was appropriate to bring up my woes at that moment.”
Matilda nodded and looked at her husband’s body. “So, what are we to do now?”
There was a beat of silence as Lavinia also studied her father’s withered form. Formerly big and strong, with a rounded stomach and a frown on his face, he did not look threatening at all in his current state. “I suppose we can wait,” she finally said, thinking of all the possibilities that awaited them ahead. “We don’t know who will inherit the title next… Perhaps it will be someone good. Perhaps we shall not have to suffer after all.”
Lavinia did not believe her own words. When had luck been on her side?
“Perhaps,” Matilda agreed with the same dry tone of voice. She did not believe Lavinia’s reassurances, either.
* * *
A thin, tall man in a snow-white wig and overly colorful clothing approached the table and looked around. “May I join you, gentlemen?” he asked jubilantly.
Sebastian gave him a quick glance. The newcomer’s dark green coat might have been called fashionable a couple of decades ago, but the bright orange waistcoat and golden ornamentation at the sleeve edges were just a perfect example of poor taste. As a connoisseur, Sebastian found the fashion sense of most of the English aristocracy lacking at best and ridiculous at worst. However, what did he care about another’s fashion sense as long as the gaming table was full and so were his coffers?
Sebastian tipped his head and leaned back in his chair. The more players, the more coins he would win. The man did not seem like he had a lot of money, not based on his clothing, anyhow. But Sebastian was ready to give him the benefit of the doubt. Once.
“I do not think you want this one joining us,” William, one of Sebastian’s oldest acquaintances, said from his seat. The golden-haired devil grinned widely. “Do you have anything to pay for your losses, Atwood?”
The man whom William called Atwood sat gingerly and called for whisky. “I am here, am I not?” he asked in an offhand manner.
“That doesn’t say much to me,” William retorted.
