Page 79 of His Spirited Lady
“Perhaps we could bait him with grandchildren next.” Mother looked to the door. “While we’re alone, should we talk about your…duties?”
Amelia’s inhale ended in a cough that threatened to kill her before her nonexistent wedding. “What?”
“They don’t have to be dreaded,” Mother rushed to continue. “It’s actually better if you don’t dread them. And if your husband is kind and handsome, like your father, it’s actually pleasant. I’m sure Richard will be the same.”
What Richard had done to her in London would scoff atpleasant. That night had shifted her world on its axis. Amelia found it difficult to sit quietly without remembering it. And as for the encounter on Jasper’s terrace—Amelia had never felt more herself than that night in his arms.
It was all she could do to hold onto that feeling.
“Do you have any questions about what should happen?” Mother’s face was as pink as the dress Amelia had worn that last night. “Or how things…function?”
She wanted to think about her parents having sex about as much as she wanted to be in an empty bed aching for a man she’d never have. “We have some time yet.”
Amelia lifted the pressed lily she now used as a bookmark. Though it was flat, it wasn’t yet dried, and the dark, spicy scent still clung to the petals. No wonder it was Richard’s favorite flower. Or, at least, she assumed it was.
“I’m going to up to bed.” She stopped at Mother’s chair and bent to kiss her cheek. “Try not to worry.”
Once in her room, Amelia placed the novel on her bedside table before tumbling the sheets in an artful mess that looked like she was having a restless night, which is what everyone expected. Her work clothes went on without unfastening them, and she’d taken to wearing a belt with her braces. Otherwise, her skirt gaped in odd places. Even her hat was too big.
She carried her boots down the stairs to avoid the noise. The cold tile in the servant’s hall and the lingering scent of cherry pie had her hurrying to the back door, where she fumbled tying her boots while holding her breath to keep her stomach from curdling.
The modiste said if she lost any more weight they’d have to remake her wedding dress. Mother had marked it up to nerves.
Was it a lie if she just let people believe what they wanted?
She’d eat later. As soon as everything was settled, as soon as she knew Richard was safe. It wouldn’t take that long.
Molly heaved a great sigh as Amelia swung the saddle over her back and cinched it. Faithful friend that she was, she lowered her head for the harness without complaint. There wasn’t a groom in sight. Amelia couldn’t bear to see people. Even if their questions weren’t voiced, they were still there.
She stroked the soft gray neck. “I just can’t stay in there.”
They fell into an easy trot, and once out into the open field, Amelia coaxed Molly into a canter. The warm horse under her worsened the wind biting her nose and stinging her eyes as they took the shortest route to the distillery.
Her heart stuttered at the sight of a tall shadow waiting at the manger. As she neared, it lifted a lantern. Too tall, too blond, too thin. “Hullo, Ben. Waiting on us?” Dismounting gave her a chance to compose herself.
“Heard you coming, miss.” He handed her the lantern before taking Molly’s reins. “It’s cold out. Why don’t you go on to work? I’ll get her settled for the night.”
Amelia was halfway to the door before she caught the meaning of his words. “You know I’m just—”Checking on things. Overnight. Every night. Lying.“Thank you, Ben.”
The distillery was warm and dry, and the lantern banished the shadows that always alarmed her this late, aided by a wobbly marmalade cat.
Who was nowhere to be found.
“Caspar?” Amelia called. When he didn’t answer with his usual petulant meow, she went from room to room. She returned to the cold paddock. “Ben? Have you seen Caspar?”
“He made a run for the door this morning when Florence got here, as much of a run as he could manage anyway.” Ben looked over Molly’s back, a brush in his hand. “I’m sure he’s around somewhere.”
Amelia scanned the trees as she returned to her refuge. No one but Ben knew how much time she’d spent here, raking wheat and stirring mash, letting the scent of raspberries, lemon, and mint rise to the rafters. The downside of all her work was that her stills were full, as were the mash tanks, and the loft creaked under the weight of wet wheat. It only left ledgers, which were much more fun now that they weren’t full of red ink.
She settled into the office, reviewing sales and expenses. Father had taught her long ago never to take anyone at their word when it came to money. She was certain Drake knew she checked his figures. He likely found it amusing.
Tonight it was more confusing than funny. Amelia reached into the desk drawer and retrieved the report he’d done in London. The numbers in the ledger were off. Not by much—a few shillings here, a crown there—and not with regularity. Someone was stealing from her.
It couldn’t be Drake. If he was stealing, he’d be smart enough to make his numbers match. He’d also be too wise to steal in the first place.
Ben, perhaps. He was new, on the premises alone, and was short on funds. While the Latimer family had always been respected, Ben hadn’t been home for quite some time. “Silly,” Amelia whispered. “He not stupid enough to risk a roof over his head for two pounds.”
Which only left one person. Amelia closed her eyes and rubbed the center of her forehead. Damn. Why did it have to be Florence? And why now? When so many things were in motion.
