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Daigh’s temper flared. “It’s urgent.”
The man stood his ground, though his voice came shakier than before. “Urgent or not, if I was to let every Tom, Dick, and Harry in here what says they know my lady, I’d soon be out of a position.”
It wouldn’t take more than a mere shove to propel himself inside. But what if the man spoke the truth and Sabrina had gone out for the evening. He’d gain nothing and be worse off than if he withdrew gracefully and tried again later.
Removing his boot, Daigh said, “Thank you for your help,” not even trying to hide his sarcasm.
The dwarf snorted. Slammed the door. Slid the bolt home with a resounding thud.
So much for coming in by the front door.
He stared up at the town house. A light shone from an upper window, but the lower floors remained dark. A narrow alley ran beside the house. Stairs led down to a locked door. An iron gate—unlatched—beyond which shrubbery crowded in a tiny patch of garden at the back of the house.
Light from a second-floor window threw squares of yellow across the lawn. Thick vines climbed a trellis along the back wall, a few summer roses still faded and clinging.
He withdrew silently.
But he’d be back.
Half asleep, she rose from bed, drawn to the window by an undefined apprehension. The icy floorboards chilled her fully awake, the sharp air she inhaled pulling her from the last of her dreams.
Crossing the room, she tried ignoring the troupe of cherubs cavorting upon her mantel and the winged Hermes in perpetual flight upon her desk. But Aunt Delia’s odd bent in objets d’art only seemed to emphasize the world Sabrina had been shoved into against her will. A world as alien to her now as if she’d never been born into it. Never known the life of the earl’s daughter. Only the bandraoi apprentice.
The city seemed to rise around her. Hemming her in. Drowning her out. So many voices. So many feelings. Humming and buzzing through her mind like an angry swarm of bees.
Pushing the heavy drapes aside, she stared down into the garden. Leaves clung to the slippery wet branches of the trees despite the stiff wind. A cat yowled its desire to be let in. Raucous laughter echoed up and down the street from a few young bucks making a late night of it.
She felt as if she were shrinking with each hour that passed. Stepping back to the time when she couldn’t speak without stuttering. Couldn’t move without stumbling. Couldn’t exist without feeling that every eye was upon her, waiting for her next embarrassing misstep. Even the fingernail moon riding low in the west seemed to wink at her in disdain.
The days spent in Aunt Delia’s company hadn’t detracted from that feeling. Only intensified it. Her aunt’s greatest pleasure seeming to be ripping family and friends to shreds over the evening meal.
Tonight for instance.
Jane had smiled and eaten, now and then shooting Sabrina glances of shared amusement. Mouthing the word “rabble” at inconvenient intervals. But beyond that, she’d been absolutely no help in deflecting Aunt Delia’s attention or breaking into the one-sided chatter—her aunt more than able to hold up all sides of any conversation.
Just as well. Sabrina’s mind swung from thought to thought like a pendulum, catching a comment here and there while wrestling with the echoes of her last conversation with Daigh.
Aunt Delia recounted Aidan’s wife’s less-than-stellar origins . . .
“A brewer’s stepdaughter of all things, darling.”
Did Kilronan mention Brendan Douglas?
The scandal with an as-yet-unnamed gentleman that sparked her fall from Society . . .
“Some say she was actually with child, though I don’t countenance such vulgarity. Aidan would never tarnish his family’s name by marrying another man’s whore.”
What do you know of Brendan?
The rumors about her lost years that included, of all ridiculous charges, life as a thief in the employ of a murdered archrogue . . .
“They say he was slaughtered. Not enough pieces left of him to bury.”
Stay away from St. John.
Aidan’s besotted love that had exiled him to the remote reaches of Belfoyle where Lady Kilronan’s lack of social entrée wouldn’t be an issue . . .
“Not seen him since Kilronan House burned. Married by the village priest. No family present. Not even a proper wedding breakfast.”
