But then, how much do you really know him or your mother, or any of your family, for that matter?
As she approached the sanctuary that had always been hers, the loud giggling within served as another reminder that all the places she’d called hers belonged now to her family, and that she was just a visitor amongst them.
Why, everything she knew about this place and how to treat the treasures within had changed without her knowing. Gone as she’d been, she’d failed to know that her papa had grown more lax in his allowance of whom he let see to his collection.
“Cassssssiaaa, do step away! He’ll see you . . .”
Momentarily distracted by that curious statement from one of her cousins, Myrtle let herself into the Corner Parlor.
Clustered at the windows, her cousins Linnie and Meghan stood in a sideways line, using the curtain as a shield while Myrtle’s elder sister, Cassia, peered around the edge.
“I know it did not seem it at the time, but you truly were fortunate to avoid a future with that one,” their cousin Meghan was saying.
While Myrtle had been gone, Cassia had nearly wed? One would expect that discovery after discovery of just how much life had continued on without Myrtle would have left her numb to each way she’d been excluded from the family. And yet, it did not. “You almost made a match?” she blurted, and her sister cast a sharp look over her shoulder.
“It was Mother and Father’s idea.” She gave a little toss of her auburn curls. “I merely behaved as the dutiful daughter”—Myrtle narrowed her eyes at that less than subtle jab—“joining them when they paid a visit to welcome him.”
With that, Myrtle was invisible once more. The figure who had fascinated her kin recalled their attention.
“Was he really as rude as my mother said?” Meghan asked earnestly.
Cassia looked squarely at the younger woman. “Worse,” she murmured in ominous tones. “But it wasn’t just that he had his butler turn us away three times . . . Oh, no. It was something far worse.”
“W-worse?” Meghan stammered, breathless with fear.
Cassia gave a grave nod. “Worse.”
As one, the McQuoid ladies looked outside.
Unbidden, Myrtle found her gaze following their stares below, and then saw him.
Attired in black from the top of his head to the dark wool of his jacket, trousers, and boots, amidst the white, snowy landscape, the gentleman had the sinister look of a fallen angel trapped in paradise. Why, even the queue that hung past his headwear bore the same midnight coloring. His arms laden with wood, he strode with furious steps toward the mammoth townhouse.
Not that most would consider London in winter a paradise.
Myrtle did.
At that moment, the hulking bear of a man stopped, then looked up.
At her side, her kin gasped and stumbled out of the way to avoid being seen.
Myrtle, however, remained trapped.
Never before had she witnessed such fury emanating from a person’s eyes. The fiery sort that locked a person’s feet to the floor and even stole all thoughts of fleeing from one’s head.
Which was saying a good deal, indeed, as she’d seen other girls get on Mrs. Belden’s bad side—and been on it herself.
Notoriously cold and heartless, the headmistress inspired terror in the hearts of students and staff within the institution alike. Why, even Myrtle, who prided herself on not being weak-kneed, had been moved to tremble a time or two.
Even with all that, Mrs. Belden herself would have quaked with fear at the sight of the man below.
Still . . .
Myrtle cocked her head. There was something interesting about him. Something almost sad.
He glared at her, a black, menacing look that reached all the way across the streets and space separating them.
Daring her to stay. Urging her to leave.
And she should.
After all, “do not stare, and always drop your gaze to the floor” had been one of the first rules ingrained in her by one of the instructors at Mrs. Belden’s.
Despite all the skills she had mastered to get herself out of that place as quick as possible, “no direct stares” had also been one of the rules she’d been hopeless to master.
The stranger’s frown deepened, and then whipping away from her direct look, the man stomped off.
“Do get away,” Cassia urged frantically, catching Myrtle by the arm and speedily steering her to the back of the line. “You’ll be seen,” she whispered, taking up her place next to Meghan, while Myrtle remained behind even her flighty cousins. “Or did he see you?”
“I don’t know,” she lied. He had seen her. Myrtle was sure of it. “He was . . .”
It didn’t matter that the words had left her head. She was already forgotten as Cassia whispered and talked to her like-in-age cousins. Myrtle wrinkled her brow. Yes, her place had fallen mightily, indeed. Pushed to the literal and proverbial end of the line.
“. . . always heads to the stables with the wood.”
“It’s not wood; it’s kindling,” Myrtle pointed out.
Linnie cast an annoyed look over her shoulder. “How do you know that?”
Actually, she didn’t. And yet . . . “What else would a servant be gathering wood for?” Myrtle shot back.
“He is no servant,” her sister said with an exasperation that would have been more suitable had Myrtle been around to learn all these details herself. Including Myrtle in the discussion, she dropped her voice and spoke in haunting tones.
Pride demanded Myrtle leave where she was not wanted; curiosity, however, compelled her. “Who is he?”
“That is the Duke of Aragon,” her sister explained.
A duke. No wonder, then, that their parents had made a pest of themselves welcoming their neighbor.
“And they say he gathers that wood and uses one log for each of his victims . . .” Cassia paused for effect. “Murder victims.”
Their cousins let out quiet screeches.
“Better off without him, I’ll say,” Meghan whispered.
Linnie added a nod of support.
Cassia lifted her freckled nose a touch. “Indeed I am.”
Myrtle stole another glance outside.
It was yet another unnecessary reminder that she was a stranger amongst her own family, that in her time away, a new neighbor had moved in, and one whom her parents had sought to join their family to. “And these stories about His Grace, I take it, have nothing to do with the fact he rebuffed y—er . . . our family,” she swiftly amended when Cassia flung a dark look her way.
Their cousins gasped.
Cassia waved a hand, dismissing their outrage on her behalf. “Oh, no,” she murmured. “The stories existed long before he proved discourteous to our family.” She paused for effect. “Tales of the poor victims who faced his wrath.”
Despite herself, and despite the fact Myrtle knew her sister had always been a storyteller and that some of her favorites had been those that had sent Myrtle hiding under the covers as a child, she shivered. Cassia had always been deuced good at spinning a yarn.
Myrtle reminded herself that she wasn’t a girl any longer, and as such, she wasn’t prone to bone-chilling stories. She folded her arms at her chest and stared pointedly at Cassia. “You’re claiming a duke is a murderer?” she asked, not bothering to keep the incredulity out of that question.