AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“These days, they’re pariahs. But like I told you before, a century ago they were quite cozy with the Crown.”
“I read that sometime in the 1920s, there was speculation one of the queen’s daughters might marry a Tulley heir.”
“Would have been a natural fit,” he says. “Certainly, the conversation would be had.”
“What’s really interesting is the Tulley line was nearly wiped out after World War II. The duke had three sons before he died.” I scoot closer to Jamie and angle the laptop so he can see it. “This is Lawrence Tulley, the youngest son. He’s the one who inherited the title.”
“The youngest was the heir? Fascinating.”
“Right?”
We study the image on the screen—a portrait done in oils, courtesy of good ol’ Dyce. With his perfectly coiffed brown hair and cold smirk, Lawrence has a smugness about him that puts me off.
“And you know why that is? Because the oldest brother, Robert, disappeared.” I click on another browser tab, showing him Robert Tulley’s portrait. “Just walked out the door one day, never to be heard from again. And if you think that’s bad? Meet William”—I open another image, this one of William Tulley— “the middle brother, who drowned at sea when theVictoriawas lost on its Atlantic crossing during a storm. He was one of seven hundred passengers to not survive.”
“Bloody hell. If that’s not a curse.”
I sigh. “With that said, I still have no idea if any of that is relevant to my mystery woman.”
“Makes for a good story, though. I hope you figure it out. I’m invested now.”
“Ahem,” someone clears their throat.
Jamie and I glance toward my doorway, where Jack stands, shirtless as usual. His abs are insane. It’s hard to look at them sometimes because they melt my brain.
And my panties.
“Well, don’t you look cozy,” he drawls. His amused smile doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Am I interrupting?”
“Abbey here was giving me a crash course on the Tulleys of yore.”
“So what you’re saying is you didn’t place our dinner order.”
“Forgive me, darling. I forget how cranky you get on an empty tummy.” Jamie slides off my bed.
“Call me when dinner comes,” I tell the guys. “I’ll be up here working on this proposal till then.”
After they leave, I open a fresh Word doc to start my research proposal. With a subject this rife with drama and intrigue, my assignment definitely won’t be boring.
In class the following morning, we each take turns presenting our proposals for our professor. Beside me, Amelia cringes and sinks into her seat as we listen to the third student describe their intent to investigate the history of Brexit. Our professor, who hasn’t twitched a muscle in several minutes, grows more violently quiet with each unoriginal rehash of the same topic.
For his part, the student standing at the front of the class seems suitably chastised as he squeamishly describes his research objectives, wishing desperately to burst into ash and float out the AC vent.
After he’s concluded and rushed to cower in his seat, Professor Langford turns to address the class from front row center.
“Anyone else going to get up to talk about Brexit?”
Wisely, no one raises their hands.
“You have until Wednesday to propose any other subject or take a zero.”
Thus commences a furious cloud of keyboard clicks as far more than three students begin googling other topics.
With a traumatized sigh, Langford asks for the next volunteer. Amelia confidently thrusts her hand in the air. A moment later, she holds court at the front of the room, telling us about the band of French prostitutes who, during the revolution, acted as spies and assassins for the cause of liberation. They were famous for theirferocity and violence, rumored to have worn pearl-like earrings and pendant jewelry carved from the teeth of their victims and even leather bracelets made of human flesh.
A visibly relieved Langford approves Amelia’s proposal without question.
“That’s fucked-up,” I tell Amelia when she retakes her seat beside me.
