Page 66 of Her Impeccable Scoundrel
“I don’t remember your name,” Blythe said. “I will call you madame, and I will see Lunetta. Now. If she is ill, I can arrange care for her.”
The woman scoffed.
“You appear to be ill as well,” Blythe said. “Is that why you want money?”
“There’s someone else who’ll pay more for that will if you don’t want to come up with five hundred pounds.”
“We’ll have to see it first, of course,” Graeme said. “Show it to us.”
“It’s not here. Look now, you’re getting a bargain. There’s someone else who’ll pay more.”
The sound of a cat crying drew the woman’s attention and had annoyance flashing across her face.
Not a cat, a baby.
Graeme handed the woman another coin. “See to your child,” he said. “Tell your friend we’ll return this afternoon and expect to see her.”
He hurried Blythe out of the door and down the street, his hand clamping hers over his arm. The hackney had waited, and he all but lifted her inside before jumping in after her and shouting directions to the driver.
The truth came to Blythe in a rush. “Lunetta Casale must be dead,” she said.
“Perhaps. Or perhaps she sold the will on to that woman.”
Blythe shook her head. “There’s someone else who’ll pay more. Those were almost the exact words from the note I received, supposedly from Lunetta.”
Graeme was silent a long time and she realized: she hadn’t shown him the note.
“She sent me a note. Only one, and I received it the day you arrived.”
“Tell me about this woman we met today,” he said quietly.
She turned her head to the window, looking out blindly, some of the horror of that night obscuring the passing view.
Madame. That was what Archie had called her. Madame had been painted and primped, and she’d carried a crop in her hand, following a glittery-eyed Archie into Blythe’s bedchamber. She’d handed the crop to Archie, and both had approached Blythe.
The sluggish memory was like a poorly remembered nightmare. The cup of cocoa a maid had brought her—not her maid, Louisa, but another maid—had been drugged. She’d not had more than a sip. That had been enough to make her stagger. To turn her limbs to jelly.
Lord Vernon had been the wraith lingering in the doorway, though she’d held off the memories and panic for months before remembering.
A hand touched her shoulder and she reflexively shook it off, clawing at the window, her breath coming in panicked gulps.
“Blythe.” The hand touched her again, a gentle pat and she cringed. “Blythe.”
Archie calling her. Come around the bed, Blythe. You will like this.
“Blythe, my love. You are safe, Blythe.”
Blythe. Someone called her name. Graeme. Graeme was here, concern in his voice.
Safe. Her gaze focused on carriages, wagons, houses, sweepers, gentlemen, and maids with children in tow.
They would soon reach Chilcombe House.
He was still here and he’d been trying to comfort her with his touch. What must he think?
Must she care what he thought?
Still… he had the upper hand. There was a political game over the will to be played out, and perhaps he really did mean to help her.
