Page 4 of An Offer for a Spinster
But there was nothing. The Duke did not move, and he did not speak. The babble of voices got higher and more panicky, and a heavy weight of dread landed in Katherine’s stomach.
Surely not.
William sat up, his hair wild and his face pale.
“Send for a doctor, at once!” he shouted to no one in particular. “It’s an emergency!”
A handful of footmen scurried away, and Katherine watched them go. There was a pile of crumpled white fabric lying across the terrace, and it took her a moment to realize that it was their mother, having fainted.
She should probably go to her, but Katherine’s feet felt as if they were rooted to the spot.
“William?” she called, hearing the tremor in her own voice. “William, is he badly hurt?”
Alexander appeared at her elbow, breathing raggedly and seeming on the brink of tears.
William sat back on his heels and met Katherine’s eye squarely. She knew the truth then, before he had to say a word.
He said it anyway. Perhaps it didn’t seem real, so saying it aloud made the truth of their situation sink in deeper.
Or perhaps William felt the same way as Katherine – the whole thing was surreal, almost funny, somewhat ridiculous.
“Somebody should write to Henry,” Alexander said, under his breath, half to himself. “If we can get a letter to him, of course. He could be anywhere in the world right now, and I daresay he’s lived in fear of a summons home.”
Katherine shook her head, like a dog trying to get water out of its ears.
“William?” she asked again. William raked a hand through his hair. She noticed a splatter of blood on the white cuff of his sleeve, and she didn’t think it was his own blood.
“He’s dead, Katherine,” William said bluntly. “Father is dead.”
Chapter One
Present Day, London, Springtime
Holding her breath, Katherine turned a page in her novel. The fashionable etiquette handbook her mother had become addicted to since the funeral had a great deal to say about reading material in times of mourning.
Novels, needless to say, were heartily frowned upon.
Still, the Duchess – or Dowager Duchess, as she was now – was not quite as forceful as her husband had been, and only had heavy disapproval to threaten her children with.
It was quite freeing, not that Katherine would dare voice her opinions aloud.
To all intents and purposes, the Willoughby family was still in mourning after the tragic loss of their patriarch, the great Duke of Dunleigh himself. Consolations came rolling in, although notably, the second son of the family did not.
Henry, as Alexander had predicted, had been impossible to contact. Numerous letters were sent to him, explaining the situation and requesting his return home at once, since the will could not be read until his return.
No response had been forthcoming. In the end, just as the family was tentatively creeping out of mourning, a family friend had acted on a tip and gone to France, finding Henry in Paris, and bringing him disconsolately home.
Henry had never said whether he’d received the letters or not, and nobody had asked. It was easier that way.
He had naturally missed the funeral, of course, and was obliged to go into his own period of mourning since he’d missed the family mourning. They generally contented themselves with a black armband at this stage, and Henry was somewhat peeved to be plunged into deep mourning.
There was a sense of guilt among them all, that was generally not mentioned. For her part, Katherine had not been able to cry a single tear at the funeral, although thankfully her thick black veil had covered her face well enough.
There was a gentle tap on the door – that was something new, their mother knocking before she entered a room – and Katherine just had time to mark her place in the book before the Duchess sailed in, plucking the book from her hands and slamming it closed.
“Novels, Katherine?” the Duchess said, her voice dripping with displeasure. “You know how I feel about such things.”
She eyed the title and shook her head. “Rosalie’s Trials, by L. Sterling.This author is particularly crass.”
