Page 70 of Forgery, Love, and Other Lies
No matter. If they did not need his teasing nature, she did. She knew that well enough. Had known it before the discovery that he’d been bashed over the head with a statue and shoved into a traveling coach last seen rambling east out of London.
The coach lurched to a stop, and Fiona jumped from her seat, flew herself out and onto the ground below quicker than either other occupant could straighten their bent knees and leave their seats. She hiked her skirts high and felt an iron band clamp around her elbow.
“Miss Frampton.”
She turned slowly, craning her head back to look up, up at Lord Theodore.
His eyes were kind, at the very least, and he loosened his grip on her, though he did not draw it away entirely. “We do not know what is in there. Or whom. I’ve allowed you to make this journey because it seems it’s yours to make, but I’ll not let you throw yourself at danger. Besides, if what Cordelia says is true, Zander would not appreciate my letting you fling yourself around when I could prevent it.
“Zander calls me a dragon. I’m not afraid.”
That stern mouth of his broke, curved into a tender smile she would have called impossible had she not seen it, and the resemblance between the brothers appeared, suddenly, like a new star in the night sky. “I can see you are not afraid.” Yet he pulled her back toward the coach anyway. “I admire that, but you will stay here until I have determined there is no danger.” His grip tightened, and he all but lifted her up into the coach, slammed the door shut, and turned toward the house.
“Unacceptable!” Fiona cried with a huff.
“I agree,” Lady Balantine said. “Just look at the bricks. Falling right off. Piles of them circling the house like a fairy ring.” She clucked her tongue into the roof of her mouth. “He’s let the place fall apart. It used to be so lovely.”
“I wish I could have seen it,” Fiona said without attending to what she actually said. The house had appeared quite old and almost… funereal. She lowered to the seat, but her rear met the cushion only for a moment before she bounced back up and pushed the door on the opposite side open.
“Whatever are you doing, darling?” the dowager asked, leaning forward.
Fiona crouched behind the conveyance, her skirts billowing around her bent knees.
“Miss,” the driver said from his perch, “is there anything you need of me?”
She pressed a finger to her lips. “Your silence is all.” Half standing, she waddled toward the back of the coach, peered around its bulk.
Lord Theodore tried the door handle, found it unlocked, and swung the door open wide. As soon as he disappeared into the black night of the inside air, Fiona bolted. Straight for the house, around the side of it. She picked her way over tangled roots and skirted overgrown bushes. She almost tripped over a large pile of bricks that had fallen from the walls. She yelped, hopping to a halt, then jumped over the pile and jolted into a run once more.
Doors. More than one. Leading inside, yes, but where inside? Didn’t matter as long as she avoided Lord Theodore. And whatever nefarious villains likely scurried round the place like ants after the crumbs of a picnic lunch.
Any door. Didn’t matter. She ran for one, found it open, and then she, too, rushed into the darkness. And the dust.
She covered her mouth to muffle the sound of her cough. No one here. And two more doors to choose from. She ran for the one to her side, not the one across the room, and found herself inside another room. A library? Books on every surface. Likely ruined, covers curled, the smell of rotting paper in the air. Empty, too. She ran for the first door she saw, grasped the handle, turned—
And froze. Voices on the other side. One particularly familiar and… jovial? That boded well. Yet, Fiona would not push forward too quickly. Best to take a peek first. The handle already turned, she nudged the door open, just a slice, and peered through.
A man was tied to a chair. First thing she saw. With a rope of some sort, white and green in color. He snarled. At Zander, who leaned against a large desk, his clothes and face smattered with something green. Dirt? Paint? And… what was that he held in one hand?
She cracked the door open wider to better see, and when she recognized it, she pushed the door open completely, quite forgetting herself. “Is that a paint bladder, Lord Lysander Bromley?”
His grin disappeared. “Bloody hell. What areyoudoing here?” He carefully placed the bladder on a nearby table.
The captured man swung his head toward her. “You’re the woman who was with him at my mother’s house.”
Fiona gasped. “You! I knew it!” She rushed to Zander’s side, reaching for his head. His hair was matted with a dark, crusty substance, and she recoiled right before her fingers tangled with it. “You’re hurt. We found the statue. When your brother appears—”
“My brother?” His eyes flew wide, and his words came out with a choked cough. “Which one? Why? Bloody hell… what plague have you brought upon us, Fiona?”
“Whatrescue, you mean.”
“Same thing, apparently.”
“What have you done to him?” She bobbed her head toward the captured baron.
Zander grinned, wily and wicked and slow.
“He tried to kill me!” the baron cried.
