Only a maid
. Rowena squeezed her eyes shut. Obviously that woman had never employed family down on their luck. Had never sought out a maid when she needed a mother, had never preferred the company of staff to family. Obviously that woman had never felt hands pushing, hitting, bruising—if she had, she would know that station didn’t protect one from horrors.
Nothing did.
Deep voices soon drowned out the women’s, though Rowena couldn’t make sense of what any of them said. Not until, some time later, one broke through the melee with an authoritative, “Now, see here! Everyone back, now.”
She glanced up in time to see a man in a coat striding in from the open door, heard the word
constable
on Catherine’s lips.
He wore a frown under his hat and surveyed the lot of them as if they were criminals all. “Did anyone see what happened? Who discovered her?”
More buzzing voices, too many speaking at once. Rowena watched the constable when she could, though it required peeking through the banister of the stairs when he passed by. He had a competent air about him, and she could just see enough of his face to watch realization dawn when he beheld the maid.
Rowena turned to Ella. “Is she alive? Did they say?”
Ella pressed her lips together.
The constable stooped down and went about something Rowena couldn’t see and didn’t much care to watch anyway. He’d brought others with him, men in uniforms that made the whole afternoon seem unreal.
The ladies began to drift back to the drawing room, faces pale and voices hushed. When the men started making noise about returning outside, however, the constable stood up. His face was stone. “I’m afraid all the men in the house—guests and staff alike—must remain in here until I’ve had a chance to speak with each one.”
One of the lords whose name Rowena couldn’t recall huffed. “And why is that, sir? You cannot think that any of us would have stooped to injure some maid. And if you’ll question us, you ought to question the women too. Perhaps one of them—”
“The girl appears to have been violated, my lord.” The constable lifted his chin and glared at the man, who blanched. “I daresay the women had nothing to do with that, though certainly I will be questioning whether any of them heard or saw anything to help us. And yes, I think it quite likely that one of
you
would deign to treat a pretty maid so. The only question is which of you—and whether you meant to kill her or only to have your way with her.”
Rowena squeezed her eyes shut and stood, though it made her head spin. She had to get away from this. Back to her room, though that wouldn’t be far enough. Outside. Down the drive. Along the road until her feet were blistered and her stomach empty and unable to threaten to heave, until she was so tired she forgot who she was.
What
she was.
Only a maid
. Or as Malcolm would have said,
only a woman
.
Air—she needed fresh air, a damp breeze, a chill. A hill to climb until her legs burned. Yet with the first step, her foot slipped on the marble stair and she had to grasp for the banister.
Strong hands caught her before she could so much as open her eyes. Though when she did, she wasn’t surprised to see Brice there, his face etched with concern. “What’s going on?” His voice was hushed, barely discernable above the din.
Rowena pulled in a breath, but she couldn’t remember how to form it into words. She just stared into his dark eyes and wished he’d pull her to his chest until it all went away. More, she wished she wouldn’t want so desperately to be released if he did.
He glanced to his sister. “What is it?”
Ella touched a hand to his arm and stepped down—without a stumble—to the floor. “A maid was attacked. In the worst way, it seems, and . . . and killed. I’m going to find Mama now that you’re here.”
He nodded, but his gaze had flown back to Rowena. Tangled with hers, her pain reflected in his eyes. If she had doubted before if he knew, there was no question now, when he looked at her in that way that said he understood exactly how this affected her. Brows pinched together, he leaned forward to feather a kiss over her forehead. “We’re going home. To Midwynd.” He touched her cheek, though his hand didn’t linger. “Now. Go and tell Cowan to pack your things. As quickly as everyone can be mustered, we’re leaving. Even sooner if we must—you and I can take the car if they’re too long.”
Pure gratitude swelled, and she nodded almost frantically. Leaving wouldn’t change the horror, wouldn’t keep the nightmares from finding her. But it would help. It
had
to help. She had to leave—
now
.
Spinning around, she scurried up a few stairs while Brice called out to his sister and mother. And then paused when that same sniveling lord who had questioned the constable charged up to him.
“You’ll do no such thing!” The man pointed, his face scarlet and his chins jiggling with his outrage. “The constable just said we were none of us to leave until this is settled, and that goes for dukes as well as us lowly barons. Isn’t that right, constable?”
Brice looked over to the constable, who lifted his brows and sighed. The man looked more weary with it all than anything. “When did you get back, Your Grace?”
Back? Rowena’s fingers curled around the railing.
“Back?” The lowly baron harrumphed, which made his girth jiggle. “Our company not good enough for you, Duke? Did you leave us this afternoon?”
Brice didn’t so much as glance as the baron. “I just walked in the door, constable. If you need to verify my whereabouts—”
“I know well where you were, and with whom, Your Grace. You and your wife may leave, though I would like to see if anyone else in your party saw or heard anything.” He waved a hand and turned back to one of his men. “Assemble everyone, if you please, Barnes. The women in the drawing room, since that’s where they were all headed, and the men . . .”
Rowena would no doubt leave dents in the banister from where her fingers gripped it. He’d left. After the incident last night, after their first true argument, he
left.
And why? To go to Whitby Park—she would stake her life on it. She hadn’t intended to believe the gossip about him and Brook, but . . . but their first argument, and that was who he went to. Was it for the purpose everyone here would whisper about, or because of the diamonds?
Did it matter, if he would not tell her which or why or even that he’d done it? Did it matter, if the fact stood that he dismissed
her
thoughts about the jewels and then sought out Brook’s opinion? Did it matter, if the curse hovered ever over them?
And had just struck again. Her stomach felt likely to heave, so thickly did the darkness choke her. He could call it whatever he liked, he could blame it on man and man’s lust and greed, but it was more than that. Perhaps that was the tool it used, but it was more. She could feel it.
Before he could look her way again, she raced up the rest of the stairs and prayed she could find her way to her room. Prayed that Lilias would be within. Prayed that she could flee this place within the hour and that, somehow, the curse wouldn’t follow.
And yet still a twinge of guilt struck. No one else could leave so quickly, so easily. Some not at all. Poor Catherine, having to endure such violence in her home, when all she’d wanted was to forget the past and begin her future. Would this reflect somehow on her, though she could have had nothing to do with it? Would it be another scandal she would be part of by association?
Would she, too, be haunted by the violence that was already too much a part of her life?
Rowena hurried down the corridor, turned right at the corner. She had hoped they could be friends. As she’d lain awake last night she’d kept seeing Lord Rushworth’s cold, emotionless eyes. Kept feeling the shiver that had overtaken her in his presence. Perhaps he wasn’t
exactly
like her father, but she knew the eyes of a cruel man when she felt them pierce her. And cruel men were always cruelest to their families, it seemed. Perhaps he had spoken words that sounded concerned for her, but the Kinnaird could do the same. He always knew what to say to outsiders to make them think whatever he wanted them to. But that never stopped him from raising a hand to her in private.
What if Rushworth was the same? What if keeping Delmore was Catherine’s only means of staying free of him? What if all the lady needed was a friend who understood, who could help her escape him?
Yet here Rowena was, running away. Unable to convince her husband to be rid of the diamonds—the only things that could give Catherine independence from her brother, freedom from the debts her husband had incurred, which effectively strapped Catherine to the only financial support she would have for her and her son when Pratt funds ran too low. Unable to offer any consolation, any encouragement.
Unable to offer the same rescue that she had herself so recently been given.
Please, Lord
. Perhaps . . . perhaps if she could help another in a similar situation, it would fill one of those empty places inside. If only God would grant her the strength to do so. The means.
But she could do nothing from here. She couldn’t. The violence was too suffocating, the darkness too complete. She would leave now, but she wouldn’t give up on her new friend. She would find a way to help her. To convince Brice to relinquish the Fire Eyes.
Perhaps, if they could use the jewels for such a noble purpose, then it would break the curse. Perhaps, if they bathed them with enough prayers and righteous tears, God would separate the jewels from the evil that had so long clung to them.
All was quiet in the guest chambers, even in her room when she entered it. No Lilias bustling about, preparing her gown for this evening. She was probably taking her tea with the other servants—though the constable’s men would be interrupting them even now, most likely, and unless she had something to offer them by way of information, she would soon return. She would know Rowena would have fled up here, and she would follow.
Rowena wasn’t about to sit around and wait for her. She grabbed the small valise from her trunk and opened it upon the bed. A nightgown, a change of clothes, her toilet. What else would she really need before the others could catch up? The book by her bedside, her jewelry. That would do. She slapped the lid closed and headed for the chifforobe where Lilias had hung her coat and hat—new, like everything else she had here with her. Unfamiliar.
Breath hitching, she sank onto the edge of the bed without putting the garments on. Everything had become unfamiliar—everything but the darkness in Rushworth’s eyes. It had followed her. Maybe it would always follow her. Maybe she ought to be more concerned with the curse that seemed to be on
her
—to be always the victim of a man—than with the one on the jewels.
She squeezed her eyes shut. She could outrun that curse. She could, thanks to Brice. There would be no cruel father or beau awaiting her in the south. Just more newness. Sussex. Brighton. A place she’d only seen photographs of once or twice, when a friend at school had holidayed at the coast there. An estate called Midwynd that was as shrouded in mystery to her as the isles in Loch Morar of a foggy morning.
A rapping sounded at her door. Rowena couldn’t bring herself to budge. “Come in.”
Catherine stuck her head in, apology bright in troubled eyes. “You’re leaving? I can’t blame you, of course. I would too, were I you.”
Rowena motioned the lady in and forced herself to her feet. “I’m sorry, Kitty. It’s no reflection on you, I assure you. It’s just . . . I dinna . . . I dinna do well with violence.”
“I understand.” Of course she did—and wasn’t her tone indeed knowing, soft? Catherine swept over and clasped Rowena’s hands in her own. “I promise you, I do. You needn’t explain. I would leave too, if I could.”
Her feeble smile made Rowena’s heart squeeze. “I feel as though I’m abandoning you.”
“Nonsense.” Catherine gave a reassuring squeeze of her hands. “I’ll be well. The constable is an able man. He’ll have everything solved soon, and life will return to normal.”
“Yes, but . . .” But how long would the lady’s brother hover here? And how was Rowena to help her, when they’d barely known each other a few hours? She must gain her trust somehow. There would be no freeing the woman from anything until she admitted it. Rowena drew in a breath and gave her a small smile. “You should come to Brighton. It’s pleasant in the winter, I hear. We could take tea together. Get to know each other better.”
Catherine’s eyes lit only for it to fade away in the next moment. “You’re so sweet, Rowena. But your husband would be furious if I showed up in his domain.” And her brother, no doubt, loath to let her out of his manipulative sight. It had taken Mother years to convince Father to let Rowena go to school—and he had snatched her home again the moment Mother was gone.
“My husband accepted this invitation, didn’t he? What could he possibly say about you taking a holiday in a resort town?” And surely, once he got over his suspicions of this woman, he would see the same aching spirit that he had identified so quickly in Rowena. Surely he wouldn’t begrudge her their help. Not when he had given his whole life to help
her
.
Catherine smiled and tightened her grip again. “Perhaps I shall. If so, I’ll let you know. And Rowena . . .” Her smile went soft, and she let go Rowena’s hands, perhaps so she could twine her own fingers together. “Rush told me what you said. About helping. I appreciate that—more than you could know—but please, don’t put yourself in any danger for my sake. I’d never forgive myself if something happened to you.”
“Nothing will happen to me.” Rowena folded her arms across her middle. Nothing would happen just because she opposed her husband, at least. If something were to happen, it would be because he refused to get the cursed gems out from under their roof. She must convince him of that necessity. To sell them and use the money to achieve good. That would counteract the bad. Break the curse. It
must
.