Page 41 of The Wolf of Mayfair
Wingrave promptly headed for them.
“My lord,” Mrs. Trowbridge greeted at his approach.
The three maids stepped aside and let him past, while one of the footmen drew the panel open.
A black cat immediately darted from the room, bolting around Wingrave’s legs.
The maids all gasped and crossed themselves.
Wingrave looked to that thick creature, ambling down the hall as quick as its corpulent frame might allow.
“What the hell is that creature doing here?” he demanded as the stout animal darted off, surprisingly quick for its size.
“A black cat, my lord,” one of the girls whispered.
“I know what it is,” he snapped. “Why is it ...”In Helia’s rooms.
The terrified maid’s whisper cut over the remainder of Wingrave’s actual question. “A bad omen, it is.”
The maid beside her nodded. “If a black cat walks into the room of an ill person and the miss dies, it will be because of the cat’s powers.”
An odd sensation squeezed at his chest.
If the miss dies . . .
It’d be her fault. Not some damned cat’s. Why did that not drive away an emotion that felt more like fear than annoyance?
“Enough of your silly superstition, you stupid girls!” As unaffected as the only servant who ever resided in this miserable residence could be, Mrs. Trowbridge, who also happened to know everything about this household, had the answer. “It is one of the mousers, my lord.”
“Keep that vexatious creature away from these rooms,” he demanded. Not because he was superstitious. Just ... because, rather.
Several servants stationed near the end of that hall promptly took off, chasing after the thing.
Black cat forgotten, Wingrave stormed into Helia’s rooms and focused on hiscurrentvexation.
The source of all his woes and miseries.
The group converged on him, with a servant reaching to take Helia from him.
Wingrave glared sharply back, and just like the previous footmen had, this fellow, too, fell back.
Mrs. Trowbridge took charge of the room and began calling out directives and orders. “If you will, place the lady over there.” She pointed to the big tester bed.
Wingrave headed swiftly over—and then stopped.
His arms, of their own volition, tightened about the slight figure in his arms, and he glanced down.
A vicious tightening centered somewhere in his chest and gut.
“My lord?” Mrs. Trowbridge’s no-nonsense voice broke him from his musings.
He immediately set her down and fell back, feeling an unfamiliar sense of gratitude as the housekeeper took full charge.
Mrs. Trowbridge stepped between Wingrave and Helia and went back to calling out orders.
While servants set to work all around him, Wingrave’s unblinking gaze remained fixed on a frail and still Helia.
She looked so very small and delicate upon that big feather mattress. Helia, so slight of form, did not so much as leave an indentation upon the soft bedding.
