The woman who stood in the doorway, held the pistol that Elsie must have heard fired. There was a matching streak of blood on her hands as well as a separate one on her face as if she swatted at her cheek. Elsie felt sure these markings were less to do with struggling to free herself and more to do with her lifting and moving a body. For a brief moment Elsie had thought perhaps it was a sign of a rescue but one look at the woman’s face told her there was something more complicated going on.
Wildly Elsie glanced at either side of the woman, looking for Peterson, even if he was…
“He’s dead.” The woman walked into the room, moving out of the dim light of the adjoining room and closer to Elsie. She putthe pistol down on the only chair in the room and stared at Elsie, her face marred with an expression that Elsie did not like.
Her tongue darted out, and Elsie tried her best to formulate a question… or just words to fill up the heavy, empty space.
“Mrs. Clarke…” her voice was dry, awkward as she attempted to speak. “You found me…”
The housekeeper grimaced before nodding. “You were never part of the plan.”
“His Grace would reward you—” Even as she said the words, Elsie was already certain they would have little impact on Mrs. Clarke. There was too much calculation in her eyes to fall for such a simple attempt, and when the housekeeper raised her hand, Elsie felt silent, fear gripping her.
“Peterson was a fool.”
“He certainly paid the price,” Elsie said, seeing the lack of sympathy which oozed from Mrs Clarke.
“He must have known he would be the first suspect…”
“Is that why you killed him? To lead them astray?” Elsie asked, her mind and mouth turning away faster than she thought possible.
The housekeeper moved closer, her handsome face soft and refined in contrast to the bloody streak on her cheek. The animosity vibrated out of her until Elsie had to drop her gaze away from such hatred.
“I would not have him alive to turn traitor on me.” Her voice was so cold Elsie shivered. “I wish to God I had never heard of either of you.”
This remark made Elsie look up, her brows knitting together in confusion. Surely, the woman didn’t mean Kit.
“It’s thanks to your bloody sister that my son is dead.” Mrs. Clarke’s harsh words rang close to Elsie as she crouched down on the narrow bed. From her apron, she slipped dozens of letters out across the sheets, and Elsie recognised Margot’s handwriting, as well as her own, across the envelopes. They were all undeliveredbut had been opened and read, their secrets and news shared only to Mrs. Clarke it seemed.
Elsie looked up into the housekeeper’s face, trying to guess at what the woman meant, but the older woman whispered words that removed any lingering hope she might be reasoned with. “I suppose it’s only fair that I kill you in return.”
CHAPTER 22
It was a similar sensation, Kit realised, to the feeling he’d experienced when he’d rounded the corner and seen his parents’ ruined carriage all those months ago. A wreck that had no chance of survival, with only his sister thrown clear.
It was the feeling of utter hopelessness.
Far worse than the pain of his injury because he feared this might be permanent. The kind of emotion that encircled him swirled around Elsie’s bedroom where he was standing, as if the feeling was drawing a tighter and tighter pincer movement around him, threatening to cut off his breath and all feeling of logic.
He wanted to cry, scream, and rant just as Samson and Flora were indulging in the former. Hell, he wanted to kill anyone and everyone who threatened the peace and tranquillity he had found with Elsie. After she had agreed to marry him, after discovering what Peterson had been doing, Kit had believed this half-life of his was over, but no… It would never be.
He had imagined after making love to her, after the proposal, there would be a softness and ease to their existence, but this burning all-consuming need for Elsie wasn’t something that he could hide from her. After all, it was not an emotion most youngladies would wish to manage. And now all that strength of feeling was alive in him. The murderous fury simmered through him, but the only people present were a hysterical maid and his younger sister who had followed him into the chamber.
Kit picked through the items of paraphernalia that littered the chamber, including a half-written letter, and a collection of poetry that had her looping scrawl on the first page of the book. Elsie’s discarded belongings scattered here and there, including the ripped ballgown that he had torn when they had first made love… he had never told her that. Never said the truth, why he wished to marry her, hoping instead the sexual connection and the promised stability of marriage would be enough for the pair of them. No, it was more than that, worse than that, for he had hoped. Instead, she merely thought he loved her since he had been a coward who could not muster the courage to admit his feelings.
“Kit?” The voice was soft, low, and called him back to the present moment. Kit looked up from the pile of belongings that remained of Elsie. Her fresh-air scent clung tauntingly in the air, and his eyes moved to his sister. For once he would have liked to be alone. To be able to dismiss his younger sister and be selfish. Flora might be his responsibility, but at this moment, he could not manage her as well as everything else that was thundering through him. Would he—should he send for the local magistrate? Or would it be better to hire an investigator? No, perhaps all the servants could scour the estate for her… unless…
Flora was hugging herself, her face wan from the sight of the bedroom. As she moved and made herself look at him, Kit saw there was a secret bubbling up in her, and for one crazed second, he wondered if she was somehow involved in Elsie’s disappearance. What could his innocent, clueless sister know what she had not said to him when she’d had the opportunity previously?
“What is it?” he asked.
“There is something you should know.” Flora took a tentativestep forward, and every wild thing that Kit had been envisioning doing next crumbled away because of his sister’s expression. Doubt and guilt clouded her face. Before he knew what he was about, Kit had closed the distance between Flora and himself, his fingers biting into her forearms.
“What do you know?”
“I—” the tears were increasing, and she swiped at her face, in part attempting to push him away from her. “That hurts, Kit.” She wriggled against his grip, but Kit did not release her. Flora knew something, and she had to tell him.
“Does it concern Elsie? If there is something I need to know—a chance that she might be found…”
