Seared With Scars Page 6

  "And what did you say in your response?" Samuel asked.

  "That we only knew about the wild dog attack of last Christmas. But that wasn't really strange now, was it. Simply…unfortunate. As it is again, this time. Poor man. Poor, poor man."

  Samuel's jaw hardened. He was being very stoic, considering he'd just discovered his father had some suspicions about the estate. Did he know about the ruins and their supernatural energy? Or about the demons and the little ghosts in the old dungeon? All of those things had come to light before I'd visited, but I'd been informed.

  "Did he write to you, Myer?" Samuel asked.

  "No," Myer shot back. Oddly, he glanced at the doorway. "Why would he?"

  "Perhaps he heard of your interest in the abbey ruins. Since he wanted to know about strange goings-on, who better to ask?"

  "Well he didn't."

  "Have you ever spoken to him about supernatural matters?"

  "Again, why would I?" It was neither a yes nor a no.

  "But you've met my parents before?"

  Myer shrugged one shoulder and once more his gaze flicked to the doorway. "I think so. At a ball or my club, perhaps. I can't recall. I meet a lot of people."

  Samuel looked like he would persist, but it was obvious Myer wasn't going to give him a direct answer. "What brings you back here to Harborough, Mr. Myer?" I asked. It was the first I'd spoken since exchanging greetings, and my voice seemed to startle everyone. "Do you have more research to conduct?"

  He nodded. "There's still much to be done."

  Mr. Butterworth snorted. "You're wasting your time, Myer. If that place were full of supernatural energy as you think it is, the air would be thick with ghosts."

  "Do you believe in the spirit world?" Sylvia asked him.

  "No."

  How ironic that he'd been possessed. I smiled into my teacup and caught Samuel smirking too, out of the corner of my eye.

  "They're a figment of the imagination of some very greedy women who purport to be able to communicate with them," Mr. Butterworth said. "Liars and swindlers, the lot of them."

  I'd like to see him say that to Emily Beaufort's face. She might laugh him off, but I doubted her husband would. Mr. Butterworth had better keep his opinions to himself near Jacob Beaufort or risk getting a bloody nose.

  "I believe," Mrs. Butterworth said cheerfully. "Indeed, I find the whole thing fascinating. Mr. Myer has been sharing his findings with me. I thought we might write a book together."

  Her husband grunted and sipped his tea.

  "Did my father say anything else in his letter?" Samuel asked.

  Mr. and Mrs. Butterworth both studied their teacups as if they could see a polite answer in them. Clearly the answer they wanted to give wasn't the one we needed to hear.

  "Go on," Samuel urged. "He's gone now. You won't be breaking a confidence by telling me."

  Mr. Butterworth gave the game away first by glancing at me. It would seem I had been a topic in Mr. Gladstone's letter. Heat crept up my throat to my cheeks, burning and shameful.

  "He told you about me, didn't he?" It was more statement than question. I wasn't sure I wanted to hear the answer.

  Mr. Butterworth sipped his tea and took great pains to savor it. Ever the politician not wanting to upset anyone, he left the difficult explanation to his wife.

  Samuel, however, got in first. "Forget it. Forget I asked."

  "No," I cut in.

  "Perhaps he's right," Mrs. Butterworth said. "It's not important, anyway."

  "It is important," I snapped. "I should have the opportunity to defend myself, shouldn't I? Or is my position indefensible?" I wasn't sure whom I was addressing, but it was too late to back down now. The blood gushed through my veins, sending my pulse racing and making my tongue loose. Everybody in that room knew what I was. There was no secret. I might as well have my say on the matter.

  "Charity." Samuel was standing beside me. I hadn't noticed him move. His voice soothed me a little, but not to the point of being hypnotic.

  "Don't," I warned him. "Your father would have told the Butterworths that I lived in the alleys of London as a child. He probably said terrible things about me." I turned away from him. The pain etched into the grooves of his face had the power to keep me quiet, and I didn't want to be quiet. Not this time. "He's right," I told the Butterworths and Myer. Only the latter met my gaze fully, his own eyes filled with curiosity. The Butterworths sipped their tea as if nothing were amiss and nobody was even talking. Perhaps they thought if they pretended not to hear me they could go on as if nothing had changed. But I'd had enough of burying my head in the sand. It was time to own up to my past. Or some of it, at least. There was no need for all the sordid details to emerge. I didn't want to sicken them.

  "I never knew my father," I told them. "My mother was a drunkard and worse. She died when I was nine and I lived on the streets thereafter with a group of other orphans." I didn't know if they knew about Jack's past, so I didn't mention that he was one of those orphans. His story wasn't mine to tell. "We did what we could to survive and lived by few rules. When I grew up, I was invited to be the companion of a gentleman. He was kind and taught me how to read and write."

  Mrs. Butterworth blushed. Her husband flicked a glance at me, but quickly returned to studying his teacup again. Myer stared openly, his eyes wide.

  "There," I said. "That's my entire story. If Mr. Gladstone didn't inform you in his letter, you no longer have to wonder. I'm sure you were curious."

  Myer sat back in his chair and sighed. He knew more than that, of course, after being involved in my escape from the master's spirit, but it would seem he'd hoped for some details. The man sank further and further in my opinion.

  Mr. Butterworth set his teacup on the table and cleared his throat. "Time to—"

  "Depart," his wife said, also setting down her teacup. "Yes, I think so." She avoided looking in my direction, but cast a polite smile at Sylvia. "Thank you, Miss Langley. You must come to visit my girls soon. They could do with some good company, since there is so little of it in the village. After your guests have left you, of course. All of them."

  Meaning me. She didn't want me anywhere near her children. She was worried I would corrupt them. It would seem Mrs. Butterworth was never going to be my friend. So be it. I didn't care, not a whit. I only hoped Sylvia wouldn’t be overcome with misguided loyalty and defend me.

  Fortunately, she did not. She gave a polite smile that I knew to be quite false and agreed to pay them a call. Beside me, Samuel shifted his stance and his hand rested on my shoulder, reassuring and solid. It instantly had the effect of calming my nerves, much in the way his hypnotic voice could, at times. I knew I should be unsettled by that, but I wasn't. I only wanted to touch my own hand to his in thanks.

  The Butterworths and Myer were about to exit when Mrs. Gladstone entered the drawing room. She seemed to float across the floor, her dark gray skirts like a somber cloud carrying her. She stopped short, however, and lifted her veil. She stared, wide-eyed, at Myer.

  "Everett!" she cried, pressing a hand to her chest.

  Everett? She must know him quite well to address him by his first name. How interesting that he'd just denied knowing the Gladstones except as passing acquaintances.

  CHAPTER 5

  "Mrs. Gladstone," Myer said smoothly. "Let me offer my condolences on the death of your husband."

  The Butterworths also gave their condolences, but Mrs. Gladstone hardly noticed them. She was still staring at Myer as if she were in a daze.

  "Mother?" Samuel asked. "Do you know Mr. Myer?"

  His voice seemed to rouse her from her stupor. She waved away his question. "A little. Your father too. Indeed, I believe they spoke recently."

  We all turned to Myer. He fiddled with his tie as if to straighten it, but ended up making it crooked. "I, uh, yes. Now that I think about it, I do know Gladstone. Did," he corrected himself with a wince. "Poor fellow. Terrible business."

  "My husband's death h
as come as a shock," Mrs. Gladstone said, dabbing at the corner of her eye with her handkerchief. "I'm quite overcome. My sons have been a great support to me, however. I'm so happy to have them both back in the family fold."

  Her attempts at distracting us from the intimacy of her greeting of Myer weren't lost on me, and most likely not on Samuel either. His face was a picture of brooding contemplation. He must itch to question his mother further in private.

  "Did you and my father discuss Frakingham in your recent conversation?" he asked Myer instead.

  "Something like that," Myer said.

  "Could you be more precise?"

  "Alas, my memory is not what it used to be."

  Samuel snorted. "I doubt that very much. Tell us what you spoke about, Mr. Myer."

  Myer swallowed heavily. "Now that you mention it, I do recall some of our discussion. Your father was curious about the ruins. I told him they have an energy that intrigues me. I also told him of my suspicions that this place was once the center for supernatural activity, but is no longer, for reasons unknown."

  "Did he ask you about Lord Frakingham?" Mr. Butterworth said. "Only that's what was in his letter to me. He was quite interested in his lordship's time here."

  "He did, but I wasn't able to help him on that score. I know nothing of Lord Frakingham."

  I turned to Samuel to see his reaction, but he was looking at his mother. She stood quite still and seemed unaware of the turmoil her arrival had created.

  The Butterworths once more attempted to leave and this time they made it out of the drawing room. Myer followed, first glancing at Mrs. Gladstone. She nodded politely then lowered her veil. Sylvia followed them out and I could see that Samuel wished to as well, but didn't want to leave me alone with his mother. I followed Sylvia to alleviate his uncertainty.

  We waited in the entrance hall as the Butterworth coach was brought around. An alert Tommy sat alongside the driver, his hands resting on the shotgun across his lap. Apparently weapons from our realm couldn't kill demons, but they could stun them long enough for someone to run away.

  "Do be careful," Sylvia said to the Butterworths as Maud handed them their coats. "The wild dog is very fast and can come from seemingly nowhere."

  We watched as the Butterworths hurried to the coach and stuffed themselves into the cabin. Myer went to follow, but Samuel held him roughly by the arm.

  "If I find you've lied to me about your friendship with my parents, I'll be sure to pay you a visit." He bared his teeth in a grimace. "And I can assure you, I'm not the pleasantly polite fool I once was."

  Myer swallowed hard. "I can see that. Let me assure you, there is no friendship between us and there never has been." He tried to pull away, but Samuel didn't let go.

  "One more question. Did you write a note to my father with the words 'I know what you did' on it?"

  "Your father?" Myer shook his head with vigor. "No! I've never written to him. Now, kindly let go. You're crumpling my sleeve."

  Samuel released him and we kept watch as he descended the steps and climbed into the cabin. Tommy said something to the driver then jumped down and joined us. We watched and waited until the coach was out of sight.

  "They'll be safe once they're off the estate," Sylvia said, folding her arms around her body. "Won't they?"

  "Of course," Tommy said. "Quite safe. The last rogue demon kept to the woods. I'm sure this one will, too."

  Sylvia seemed satisfied with that answer. She breathed a sigh and headed to the drawing room. Tommy gave us a flat-lipped smile and followed her.

  "I'm retiring to my room for the rest of the day," I told Samuel.

  "Charity." He rubbed his hand over his jaw and neck. "About what happened in there…I'm sorry. I wanted to stop it. You shouldn't have to listen to people like that."

  He could be so endearing sometimes and he looked quite lost at that moment. His face was once more a boyish one, with big blue eyes and smooth jaw. Lately, he'd seemed older than his twenty-two years, and not the handsome, charming youth I remembered from our earlier encounters. He'd become a rougher, harder version, the sort of man who never laughed. I shouldn't miss that charming youth with the disarming manner who could get a woman like me into trouble—who could hurt a woman like me in so many ways—but God help me, I did.

  I had the silly urge to caress my thumb along his cheek to see if I could rub away the steely mask, but I managed to keep my hands by my sides. He would only see it as encouragement, and encouraging him now would be cruel.

  "I brought it on myself," I said.

  "I disagree."

  "Don't be so obstinate, Samuel. Of course I did. I knew that at the time, and I know it now. Your loyalty is sweet, if somewhat misguided."

  He made a choking sound. "It bloody well is not!"

  A lady would have protested at his language. It was time to remind him that I wasn't one. "It bloody well is!"

  He gave me a withering glare. "If you're trying to prove a point, don't. It's the wrong point."

  "It's not to me. The Butterworths knew about me, or at least suspected. Your father's letter to them confirmed it. I brought it up because I wanted to clear the air and, in a way, it did. I'm only sorry that it has put Sylvia in an awkward position, now. At least they don't seem to hold it against her and Mr. Langley for having me as their guest."

  "Why in God's name should they?" he shouted. "They're sanctimonious hypocrites and I've a good mind to tell Butterworth what his wife has been doing with Myer behind his back."

  I shrank away, startled by his vehemence. He was so angry. I picked up my skirts and brushed past him.

  "Charity!" he called as I ran up the stairs. "Charity, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to speak so harshly."

  I paused on the landing. "It's not your fault," I tossed over my shoulder. "None of this is. I wish…I wish you wouldn't feel as if you have to protect me all the time. You don't."

  I continued up the stairs. I thought he might try to follow me, but he didn't. Indeed, he didn't come to see me until the next morning, after breakfast.

  ***

  "I'm leaving shortly," Samuel said. He leaned against my doorframe, his arms and ankles crossed like he belonged right there. I'd grown used to him not wearing a waistcoat or jacket, yet seeing him in just his crisp white shirt and trousers took my breath away. He wore no tie either, revealing a triangle of smooth skin at his throat that I could have stared at all day. If angels were real, they would resemble Samuel at that moment. Or perhaps he was a fallen angel, since an air of brooding darkness clung to him.

  "Father's body has been released," he went on. "We'll take it home for burial, then I'll come back as soon as I can. In the meantime, be careful. Stay indoors. Let Tommy take care of you."

  I let him think I would still be here when he returned. He seemed to have set aside our argument from the day before. Perhaps he didn't want our last moments together to be awkward or unkind. I was glad. I didn't want to part like that either. Besides, I wasn't even sure if it was an argument. Nobody was at fault. He'd frightened me with his strong words, but I shouldn't have been so anxious. It was something I needed to remind myself of constantly.

  "Safe travels," I said. "You must be careful as you leave the estate too."

  He inclined his head in a nod. He shifted his stance, lowering his arms to his sides. "I questioned my mother about her acquaintance with Myer."

  Of all the things I expected him to say, that wasn't one of them. "Oh?"

  "She told me she doesn't know him well, but knows Mrs. Myer a little better."

  That didn't seem right to me. She'd called Myer by his first name. Mere acquaintances didn't do that. Indeed, it spoke of a close association. Uncomfortably close. "Do you believe her?"

  He shook his head. "I told her so."

  "Was that wise?"

  "Probably not, considering what she's been through." He massaged the deep grooves scoring his forehead with his thumb and forefinger. "I wasn't thinking. I'm not doing a lot of it, latel
y." His eyes briefly flared with heat as his gaze connected with mine. "It gets worse. I asked her if Myer was my father."

  The thought had occurred to me too, but I'd not thought him foolish enough to ask his mother yet. He truly wasn't thinking clearly. The old Samuel wouldn't have been so blunt.

  "And?" I urged.

  "And she said he wasn't. To say she was horrified and offended by my question is not doing justice to her reaction."

  "I'm not surprised," I murmured.

  He looked pained. "I apologized immediately, but the damage was done."

  "You have time to repair your relationship now that you're returning home."

  "I'll try."

  "Do you believe her?"

  "I don't know. I suppose I have to. I do think she's lying about not knowing Myer well, though. What are your thoughts, Charity?"

  "Mine? Why do you want to know what I think?"

  "Because I value your judgment. Heaven knows it's better than mine, of late."

  I felt honored by his faith in me, although I couldn't say why. It simply felt nice to have him think well of me. "I think you're right and that they know each other better than she's letting on, but I do believe her when she says Myer isn't your father. You have the same eyes as Mr. Gladstone, and the same complexion. There's nothing of Myer in you."

  He blew out a measured breath. His face softened. "I'm glad. Thank you, Charity. You've eased my mind greatly."

  "I imagine the mere thought of Myer being your father would be unsettling."

  "More like nauseating." He gave me a crooked smile. I returned it. The smile vanished and the heat returned to his eyes. He took a step toward me and, suddenly, I felt awkward again. He was in my room uninvited and he wanted something I wasn't willing to give. He wanted me. It was clear as day in the intensity of his gaze.

  I held up my hand, warding him off. "Samuel," I began.

  I didn't need to go on. He stepped back. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I forget, sometimes."