“She was ill, poor little bird.”
“Of what?”
“Something a pint of gin and merry heart might o’ cured, if you asked me. Was my husband wot thought something was wrong. He figured she … well, far be it from me to speak unkindly of the dead.” Lieselotte climbed two of the stairs. “Come up, and I’ll show you the girls, love.”
“Who came?”
“Pardon?”
“Ye must have sent for a doctor.”
She clucked. “We take rights fine care o’ our sweet wenches, we do. Sent for Mr. Foxcroft right off. He’s the apothecary, you know. A fine and handsome gent.”
“He was unable to help?”
“You know the sad story, don’t you, governaw?” Lieselotte shook her head. “Died, she did, right with Mr. Foxcroft still in the chamber with her.”
Ice rushed through Tom’s veins. He gripped the banister. “ ’Twas unexpected.”
“ ’Deed, it was.”
“Ye must have questioned it.”
“Wot’s there to question?” Lieselotte crossed her jiggling bare arms across her bosom. “I don’t pretend to knows the way of Him wot made us. Just try to make the best of it. You oughts to do the same.” She made one more head bob up the steps. “But if you really wants to know ’bout Elisabeth, I say you talk to Bibby.”
“Who is that?”
“The last person Elisabeth spoke to ’fore she died.”
“Am I to pretend I am unaware of the way you look at me?”
Meg turned another page ofThe Lady’s Monthly Museum—an insufferable magazine Lady Walpoole had shoved into her hand two hours ago.
“You must express some measure of discipline in your reading,” she’d scolded. “I should be very pleased if you finished this before I return.”
Meg had occupied her time in the music room watching birds out the window, counting the motifs in the Persian rug, and occasionally browsing the next page in the magazine. She retained very little of the text. Who cared a fig about colored fashion plates and celebrated British ladies?
Especially when the only thing she could think about was the kiss.
The one that should not have happened.
“Violet is asking for you.” Lord Cunningham must have grown weary waiting for her answer, because he turned to the rosewood cellarette. He poured sherry from a crystal decanter. “It seems she can no longer be pacified with books and dolls.”
“We all require friendship.”
“Which you deem I have forfeited.”
His wine glass stilled at his lips, and his eyes sought hers with overt distress. “I have not, Margaret. The incident can be explained.”
“That is not necessary.”
“I think it is.”
She tossed the magazine onto a stand and stood. “It is over, my lord. I think the tragedies of that night better left unvisited.”
“The same explosion that threw you from your horse and had my footman nearly trampled wreaked an equally unfortunate reaction in my own mount. He bolted.”
“And did not cease running until he reached Penrose?” She released an annoyed breath. This was not her intention. She had no desire to make him defend his actions when it hardly mattered anyway. “Excuse me. Violet is waiting—”
