Page 84 of West End Earl
Reaching for her left hand, Cal kissed the finger where his ring rested. “If you want to go in alone, I’ll be right here waiting. But it might be better if he doesn’t catch sight of you. No matter what, please remember you’re not his ward anymore. You’re a countess—or nearly, anyway. Milton can’t take a blasted thing from you.”
Phee drew a calming breath, and her head filled with the delicious mix of Cal’s spicy scent mingled with her sandalwood oil. The smell grounded her as Phee wrestled through the awful memories. A tear slipped down her cheek, unchecked.
Life with Uncle Milton had been a torture by a thousand verbal cuts. Phee clenched her fists, wishing she could physically fight through the words filling her head.
Stupid girl.
Ugly little rat.
Who would want you? I’ll have to pay someone to take you off my hands.
Saying such things to a child was unconscionable. Milton was rotten to the core—like a piece of fruit you bit into, then spit out before your tongue registered what your teeth had already discovered.
Turning to bury her nose in Cal’s shoulder, Phee breathed in his calming presence as he held her, offering silent support as she struggled. The memories began to repeat, and Phee ground her teeth, answering each lie with truth.
Stupid girl.
No, I’m smart and loved.
Ugly little rat.
No, I’m valuable and not vulnerable.
I survived. I thrived.
Clenching her hand until the new ring dug into her palm, Phee focused on that pinch. The unfamiliar band of gold represented one irrefutable fact. Phee had won. In the end, she was happy and healthy, while Milton chased financial phantoms to save his own hide or feed his greed.
These days, Phee looked in the mirror and loved who she’d become. She was an East End scrapper engaged to a West End earl, with a life ahead of her filled to the brim with laughter, friendship, and love.
“Doing a little better?” Cal whispered.
She nodded.
“Are you going in, or am I?” he asked.
Logic clawed to the surface and Phee sighed. What she wouldn’t give to rub her happiness in Milton’s face. To show him that no matter how hard he’d tried to destroy her, she’d won. But letting Milton know she’d survived would only cause problems. He could dispute the validity of her upcoming marriage. He could cause issues with her inheritance in court or challenge the legitimacy of Emma’s baby. Everything would fall apart if Milton knew Ophelia was alive.
Phee squeezed Cal’s hand. “I’ll go to my room. Please get rid of him.”
She’d crept past the door to the parlor when they heard it. Raised voices and Emma’s cry of “Don’t touch me!” were cause enough for alarm. But then Emma made a sound that sent both Phee and Cal running for the door. Self-preservation be damned—Emma was in trouble.
They barged into the room in time to see Uncle Milton slump against the heavy wood writing desk. A trail of blood smeared in his wake as he listed to the side. Emma stood frozen with one hand over her mouth, stifling her cries, and the other hand still outstretched.
No doubt it had been self-defense, but Emma had pushed him. Thankfully, Cal’s sister appeared unharmed, although pale.
In a daze, Phee walked toward the man softening on the floor as if his bones had turned to jelly. Years of knowing exactly what his hands could do kept her from getting too close. Phee crouched just out of arm’s reach and cocked her head to meet his hazy stare.
There.A brief flash of recognition.
“Ophelia…” His lips formed the name on his last exhale. The chest under his fashionable caped greatcoat stopped moving. One moment passed, then another. With shaking fingers, Phee reached out and closed his eyelids. He’d known at the end, but the victory felt hollow.
Phee rose and turned to see Cal with his arms around his sister. “I didn’t mean to,” Emma repeated every few seconds.
“I know. You defended yourself. Nothing more.” Cal ran a soothing hand over her hair as Emma clutched his coat lapels with bone-white fingers.
“He was furious that we’d removed him from the accounts, and the life insurance paid to me instead of him. Kept saying I had no right to it. When he grabbed my arm, I jerked away. Then he came after me again. All I did was push him.”
Those last words rang through Phee with a familiar clarity. The child within her, who carried the scars from Adam’s accident, heard and recognized the pain in Emma’s words. Phee hadn’t meant to land a lethal blow when she’d pushed her brother in that rowboat all those years ago. Adam had tripped, then toppled overboard and met a rock. Milton had stumbled into the corner of a piece of furniture that weighed more than the average man. Neither Phee nor Emma had had any way of knowing what would happen. Yet they’d each been left with the same awful result.
