by Dara England
He shrugged. “Possibly. It depends on your definition of insanity. Is greed equivalent to madness? Because if it is, I’m not the first or the last in my family to demonstrate the signs.”
Drucilla did not realize how far she had backed across the roof until she felt the railing behind her. She was growing increasingly desperate.
Southorn seemed to sense her fear. “In case you were thinking of screaming,” he said, “if I were you, I’d save my breath. You’ll soon be needing it. Anyway, I assure you, there is no one near enough to hear.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
He twined the silk neck cloth around his hands. “I’ve always thought strangulation must be a rather satisfying way to kill,” he said conversationally. “What do you think? I imagine it would feel…what’s the word? Empowering?”
“Barbaric?” she suggested. “Beastly?”
“Now you’re hurling insults. I think that means we’ve talked long enough. Shall we draw this delightful conversation to a close?”
He lunged at her.
His movement was so sudden she scarcely had time to react. She attempted to dodge aside but her clumsy skirts tripped her up, so that she ended up sprawling across the roof stones.
Unable to stop, he slammed into the railing where she had stood mere seconds ago.
The ancient structure groaned beneath his weight and gave way.
Chapter Thirteen
Drucilla watched out the train window as the dark figure of Lord Litchfield standing back on the railway platform was enveloped in a cloud of smoke.
He had been kind enough to drive Drucilla, Aunt Bridget, the maids, and their baggage to the Morcastle station immediately following the double funeral of his younger son and his daughter-in-law. Considering Drucilla was at least partially responsible for his youngest son’s death and the revelation of his elder son’s shocking affairs, it seemed a generous action.
The lord had maintained admirable composure following what happened with Southorn. There was grief in his eyes to be sure but not shock. Perhaps some part of him had always suspected Southorn’s inner darkness but refused to accept it.
As for Absalom, he found his courage during the aftermath of Southorn’s death. He was determined to acknowledge Evita as his wife. Between them, Drucilla and Lord Litchfield managed to persuade him to a better course of action: to allow it to be believed that he and Evita had married only after Celeste’s death. This would spare Celeste’s London family further grief and would lessen the scandal surrounding the entire business.
But the greatest surprise was to be found in Lord Litchfield, who took Absalom’s marriage in better stride than would have been expected.
“It’s all due to you, you know,” Absalom told Drucilla during an aside before her departure. “He’s a milder man when you’re about. For that reason, I hope we can count on future visits from you again.”
His words were oddly echoed by his father a short time later.
“I hope your visit to Blackridge House was not so distasteful as to discourage you even visiting our part of the country again,” Lord Litchfield said during the carriage ride to the depot.
“My household is a sober one at present, but we would welcome the distraction of seeing you again at any time. In fact, in the unlikely event I find myself in London someday, I hope you will permit me to call on you. I realize there is a disparity in our ages but, to be blunt, I find your company stimulating.”
Started at this revelation, Drucilla glanced at Aunt Bridget, who was somehow managing to doze against the door as the carriage jounced along the bumpy road. At the old lady’s feet was the basket of restless cats, too precious to ride in the separate conveyance provided for the maids and baggage.
Drucilla said cautiously, “I fear you may find me overly frank, my lord, but I believe candor is called for in this instance. You see, I understand how your mind works regarding matters of, well, courtship and matrimony. So I think it only honest to save you a great deal of time by informing you straight off that my family, though respectable, is by no means wealthy.”
He smiled. “And allow me to assure you my interest in this instance is by no means mercenary.”
Drucilla considered him. It was difficult to believe now that she had once briefly thought him capable of murder. Difficult and yet all too easy, for there remained something in him that reminded her still of Southorn. She doubted she would ever fully trust such a man.
Nonetheless, she surprised herself by saying, “In that case, yes. You may call if ever you find yourself in town. I’m sure my brother would be interested in meeting you.”
It was true. Lord Litchfield was the most fascinating man of her acquaintance. Perhaps that was why she had said yes.
Now she didn’t regret the invitation as the train picked up speed and Lord Litchfield’s black cloaked figure faded into the distance.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Dara England is the author of numerous historical, fantasy, and paranormal works. She is a graphic designer and stay-at-home mom of two girls and a dog named Sampson. Learn more about Dara by visiting her website at www.daraenglandauthor.com. She welcomes reader questions and comments, and her email address can be found on her website.
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