Page 60 of A Daring Pursuit

Chuckling, Noah looked down at that blue scorpion and, shuddering again, replaced the top on its current home before its final destination of immortalization with a pin stuck thick through its ugly body upon its soon-to-be permanent home. Isabelle’s Bug Board.

*

“I told MissWimbley I prefer my blue chamber,” Docia announced once they were on the road bound for Stonemare.

“It’s the Morpho,” Geneva murmured. She glanced at her ‘lady’s’ maid. “I thought it might be nice for Pasha.”

Pasha’s eyes widened and flew about the carriage.

“Just for a change,” Geneva went on. “She’s worked really hard over the past few days.” She bit her lip to keep from laughing. From the corner of her eye, Geneva caught the mirth in sparkling in Mrs. Oshea’s green eyes.

The maid’s eyes blinked furiously and Geneva took pity on her. “I’m teasing, of course.” She looked at Docia. “You are certainly welcome to share our suite,” she said sweetly.

Docia’s irritation erupted in a huff of air.

“Docia, Miss Wimbley and her maid are already installed,” Mrs. Oshea said, her eyes still glinting with humor. More impressively, she spoke without an ounce of censure or guile. Geneva envied such composure. While she could hold her temper, it was the boldly blurting out her thoughts at will with which she struggled.

She studied Mrs. Oshea from her corner in the carriage. The woman’s hair was bright enough to light the interior. There might have been a streak or two of silver. But her green eyes were sharp and Geneva doubted she missed much.

“And, you are quite right, Miss Wimbley. Isabelle is forever assigning fanciful names to the chambers.”

“There are certainly enough of them,” Sander Oshea said. “She began talking at the age of three and she still hasn’t named all of them.”

“You shall stay in the Yellow room, Docia, until Miss Wimbley’s departure. I refuse to hear another word about it,” Mrs. Oshea said.

Docia’s head dropped. “Brimstone.”

Again, Geneva had to bite her lips.

“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten that,” Mrs. Oshea returned, her green eyes twinkling like brilliant twin emeralds.

Silence ensued for a moment before Geneva could no longer stand it. “How is Julius?”

A speculative contemplation from Mr. Oshea speared Geneva and she lifted her chin. “He was downing a hearty breakfast upon our departure,” he finally said.

His wife’s hand lightly squeezed the hand resting on his thigh. The sight sent a touch of bittersweetness through Geneva. Mrs. Oshea turned a genuine smile on her. “I think he shall live to plague us all.”

From the corner of her eye—something she seemed to be doing quite often of late—Geneva watched Docia study her fashionable kid-leather-gloved hands. “Why would someone wish to kill him? He was just an infant when all this business of offing everyone came about.”

Mr. Oshea’s mouth tightened, but it was fear clouding Mrs. Oshea’s eyes.

Geneva slid her gaze to the gently blowing grasses out the carriage window. Did they, like Noah Oshea, blame her for Julius’s near demise too? Despair as heavy as a leaded pipe seeped into her veins. Could she have been the one who’d brought violence to Stonemare? For the life of her, she couldn’t see how. No one but Abra knew she was even in Northumberland—she swallowed a groan, suddenly realizing the inaccuracy of that thought. All of Mayfair and beyond Christendom had to know she was in Northumberland by now. Perhaps notwhyshe was there. Lud. Nothing made the least bit of sense.

Mr. Oshea let out a shortoofthat startled Geneva. She whipped her head around. He cleared his throat. “I believe I owe you, not only my—our—apologies, but our thanks for your quick reaction in saving Julius yesterday, Miss Wimbley.”

To Geneva’s shock and mortification, tears misted her vision. Quickly turning her gaze back to the window and willing the tears back, she said, “Thank you, sir.” Someone—Docia’s, she suspected—hand tightened on hers, but she feared facing that person would be her undoing. Instead, she returned the gesture. This had to be the longest drive of her entire life.

“Miss Wimbley.” Mrs. Oshea’s voice had gentled and Geneva tried to blot it out—without success. “Geneva. I hope you don’t mind if I call you ‘Geneva.’”

Geneva shook her head and—blast it, the tears fell after all.

“Oh, my dear, I didn’t wish to drive you to tears.” She reached across and squeezed Geneva’s hand as she’d seen her do her husband’s. And you shall call us ‘Verda’ and ‘Sander.’ We are far less stuck on propriety in these parts. So, I’ll hear no more about it.”

“Take this,” Docia demanded, shoving a lace handkerchief into her own gloved hand.

“Thank you,” Geneva hiccupped to Docia, to Verda, to Mr. Sander Oshea, though she knew she could never envision addressing Mr. Oshea as ‘Sander.’

“We don’t know the circumstances surrounding Julius’s birth,” Verda went on. “So, you can imagine our surprise when Julius informed us you believed him your brother.”

---