Page 17 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

G eneva escaped to her chamber. Away from the horror of stumbling upon a dead body and the accusing stares, the whispered murmurings, Lady Westbridge’s screams and her devastating words— “You are a menace” —before leading the gossipmongers from the vestibule as if Geneva had contracted cholera and dared to breathe their sainted air.

She slowly circled. Something was different. And wrong, noting less clutter than usual—her belongings. All her belongings had been dispensed of.

Disappointment nearly drowned her beneath the weight of despair. A piercing anguish sliced through her. Hurt, then… rage.

She tore through the chamber, ripped the linens from the bed, pounded the wall with her fists, kicked the chamber pot with her thin slipper, and fell. Her big toe throbbed. That proved too much and she slid to the floor, sobs wracking her yet washing away the macabre notions of this horrid castle. The frightening Sander Oshea’s mien.

Not that she was angry with Noah Oshea. The fury roaring through her was directed at herself. She loathed that deep down, she had been fool enough to harbor illusory hopes. Fanciful dreams that did not include being anyone’s mistress.

That blasted Noah Oshea. He had no right to treat her like a grand lady then dash her hopes by having her bags packed for her. Likely, they were stashed in a cart readied to whisk her to the train depot.

Geneva swiped her arm across her nose and forced herself to think.

Julius detested her now. Yes, it had to have been he who’d had her things removed. He’d been angry enough to spew fire. Just over one tiny question that had popped out of her uncontrollable mouth. The tears made a turbulent resurgence and streamed down her face. How desolate her life had become. She covered her face with her hands. Oh, to be back in her tiny flat in Berwick…

The door opened and Pasha entered. Her eyes swept the disaster Geneva had wrought. “Oh, my,” she breathed.

“They confiscated everything.” Geneva hiccupped.

“No. No, miss,” Pasha said quickly. “I moved them myself. To my lady’s previous chamber.”

Geneva looked up at her and wiped her eyes. “You did?”

Pasha nodded. “You deserved grander, miss.”

“That was very nice of you, Pasha. I-I suppose I’m so overset, I can hardly think.” Geneva gave her a grim smile. “Abra is gone, then?”

“Yes, miss. She made me play sick so I could remain with you.”

Geneva shook her head, the tears welling again. It was very possible, Lady Westbridge had been granted one of her most fervent wishes: Geneva wiped from Abra’s life. The tears refused to stem. “I’m so sorry, Pasha. Help me up, would you?”

Pasha obliged then pulled a strip of linen from her apron pocket and held it out. “Never you mind, miss. I can barely abide her ladyship, er, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Of course I don’t. I happen to share your feelings on the matter.”

Once Geneva was balanced, Pasha stood back and her eyes widened. Her hands flew to her mouth in an almost comical expression of horror.

In fact, if things hadn’t turned so dire, Geneva might have been inclined to laugh. As it was, she looked down at Miss Hale’s lovely frock and grimaced. “I do believe I require a bath.”

“Yes, miss, I fear so. Please, let’s hurry so no one sees you.”

“I don’t think there’s any reason for worry on that score.

“I’ve discovered a unique ability I possess of clearing a castle of guests—wanted and unwanted. It matters not.”

Geneva followed Pasha from the small bedchamber into the sitting room and pulled up abruptly.

Julius stood near the hearth.

She stiffened her spine, donning the shield that had served her so well in her early days at Miss Greensley’s—a cloak of impenetrable silent resilience. “I’m not up for a confrontation, sir. As you can see, I am in desperate need of cleaning up,” Geneva said flatly. She’d never needed anyone before, and she certainly didn’t now.

His mouth opened slightly, then closed, as though trying to form words, but he couldn’t quite find the right ones. His gaze dropped briefly to the floor then rose back up to hers, searching her face as if hoping for a sign of forgiveness. But she was not in a forgiving mood. His shoulders, normally squared with a confident air, slumped.

“I came to apologize, Geneva. I’m truly sorry. I should never have deserted you in the woods like that. Noah is right. I was just so… so startled.” The lines at the corners of his mouth deepened, and for a brief moment, his expression softened—an echo of the boy she imagined he’d once been. The moment passed as quickly as it had appeared, replaced by a strained resolve. His jaw tightened. “I was hoping you might spare me time to talk. After you’re rested, of course.”

She pressed the heel of her hand to her forehead with her eyes closed. “I suppose a discussion is inevitable. Tomorrow, perhaps.”

“All right.” His dejection cut through her weariness.

“I’ll meet with you,” she relented less sourly. “In the morning? If you don’t mind waiting. I truly must discard this horrible gown.”

His lips lifted in that familiar smile so wistful, like Mama’s. “Of course. I shall be happy to burn it for you, right in front of Docia, too.”

She smiled back, hope filling her for the first time. “That won’t be necessary, but I appreciate the sentiment.”

*

“Do you think she did it?” Sander asked Noah.

“Absolutely not.” But what did Noah really know of Miss Wimbley, except for the forthrightness that matched the bold stroke of her handwriting? Had Hicks attacked her? No, that didn’t feel right. The man had been with them for over twenty years. A grim smile touched him. “She did do us one favor.”

“What is that?”

“With all the unwanted guests hastening away, Stonemare can now return to normal.” Noah’s somber jest fell short, watching as his uncle strolled, unsmiling, to the windows and looked out with his hands clasped at his lower back.

“Except for the matter of another dead body,” Sander said.

There was that. Noah rubbed his chest, unable to ease the ache there. Hicks, dead . Noah couldn’t believe it. As with Sander, Noah and his brothers had been closer to Hicks than Father. There was no wife or children to inform. The man had been a loner. Yet that didn’t alleviate the loss.

Baldric ambled in. “Parish constable’s here for Hicks,” he growled in his gravelly timbre.

The parish constable moved into the library. At once, Noah was comforted by the sturdy presence of the man. He was shaped by years of outdoor work and his no-nonsense approach to life. His face, weathered and ruddy, bore the marks of a lifetime spent in damp winds and harsh elements, with a nose slightly reddened by the chill and a beard perpetually flecked with raindrops or mud.

Sander shook his hand. “Thank you for coming so quickly, Constable.”

Nodding, the man tugged off his broad-brimmed hat, clutching it in hand. His eyes, sharp and observant, carried a glint of keen intelligence despite his otherwise-plain appearance. They appeared to miss little as they swept the room. “Another one, eh? Getting to be a regular thing around here. Won’t be able t’ keep this ’un quiet.”

Noah winced. “No.”

With the constable’s help, they’d been able to quell the details of Father’s death from broad knowledge. Hicks’s death, however, would be all over London by nightfall. Hell, nearly half the ton had been in residence. Witness to Lady Westbridge’s hysterics. And the fact that Geneva Wimbley had been covered in his blood… It didn’t bear thinking about. The unkind, persecuting rumors that would unfold with brisk and undue efficiency—how was Noah to mitigate the damage with a group of gossipmongers who thrived on such abhorrence?

And when had Noah decided it was up to him to take up the cause? But cause of what? Finding who’d murdered his father or saving Miss Wimbley’s beautiful neck?

Not to mention… there was a killer in their midst. “Do you think the murderer could have been a guest?” Noah asked.

The constable’s feet shifted. “It’s possible—”

“Doubt it,” Baldric interrupted. “He was stabbed. In the heart.”

The words stalled at the blood rushing Noah’s ears. “What?”

Sander shoved a hand through his hair. “Jesus. Same as Damien,” he breathed. “It’s as if the family’s cursed.”

A knot coiled deep in Noah’s gut. The sense that things had taken a sinister turn erupted gooseflesh that traversed the surface of his skin, despite the fire in the grate and the brandy he’d sipped. “What the hell is going on?”