Page 24 of A Daring Pursuit (The Clandestine Sapphire Society #2)

G eneva rushed into the Morpho Suite and dashed straight for her bedchamber, silently latching the door behind her. She couldn’t face anyone. Not even Pasha. Blue was reputed to be a calming color, but the seething emotion inside Geneva was anything but calm. It was a red so deep, she feared it resembled black. She fell against the shut door with her fist at her mouth. Brother. She swallowed back a harsh cry, swiping the tears from her eyes that did nothing to stem the flow.

She went to the window and stared out at the sea crashing against the rocks. Nature had a way of displaying the fervent unrest that swirled within her. Fast-moving clouds grew dark, preparing for one gale of a storm—much like that churning sea that replicated the jumbled thoughts in her brain. She had a brother. She was no longer… alone.

Unless another attempt on his life wrenched him away .

Unyielding determination started in the toes of her uncomfortable slippers. How dare someone attempt to hurt Julius? Her spine was so rigid, if she breathed too deeply, she was certain it would fracture. The tears dried on her hot face. She reached back in her memory, trying to recall how the earl had met his demise. Nothing. No one had said a word regarding his cause of death. It was the oddest thing. If his heart had failed, someone would have said as much, right? Perhaps. But she’d avoided the crowds. And why mention anything to her? Had he died of anything other than natural causes, the guests would have acted entirely differently. One thing about the Beau Monde , they thrived on scandal. The more salacious, the better.

Still, it was quite curious. But whom was she supposed to ask? Certainly not the family.

Pasha! She took her meals with the servants. Servants talked. Abra, Hannah, and Meredith had all said so. The stories they’d shared when the four of them had been in school, to Geneva, had sounded too fantastic to believe. But, no, they’d assured her, getting away with anything within the confines of their gilded cages was near impossible.

But Pasha wasn’t prone to gossip that Geneva could see. Still…

She slipped back out of her bedchamber and found Pasha tending to the wreckage Geneva had wrought in the second bedroom. “Oh, dear,” she murmured.

From over her shoulder, Pasha grinned. “You needn’t fret, miss. I’ve seen worse.”

“You have? Not from Abra, surely.”

“No. Lady Westbridge—” Her face turned a bright shade of scarlet. “I shouldn’t—”

“She has the devil of a temper,” Geneva said.

“Yes.”

“Pasha, I shouldn’t ask, I suppose, but I was wondering if the servants mentioned how the late earl…” Geneva’s own face heated.

Pasha stilled. “One of the maids…” Her voice was barely audible and Geneva went to her.

Dread unfurled within Geneva’s chest like a dark bloom. “The maid said what?”

“Nothing. Not really. Something about there being blood, before Mrs. Knagg, stopped her. But—”

“But what?” Geneva whispered, her throat tightening.

“Mrs. Knagg grabbed her arm and squeezed. I saw the bruise.” She whispered too.

“And no one said anything else?”

Pasha slowly shook her head. “Do you think someone…?” She swallowed.

“It’s certainly mysterious.” Had the earl been murdered and they’d somehow kept it quiet? The footman had. A matter Geneva had witnessed. Intimately so.

Was the family being targeted? Had it even occurred to any of them? Was it possible she somehow brought menacing forces to this stark land? Panic like she’d never known iced her blood. The sudden urge to speak with Mr. Oshea—Mr. Noah Oshea—on the topic of who had thrown that dagger at Julius tore through her with the sharp end of a spear. The grounds required searching.

“I’ll be back later,” Geneva told the maid. She marched to the door and grabbed the handle… then stopped.

The man was liable to rush headfirst into danger without a thought to himself, thus getting himself killed. To never feel his lips again? To breathe in that unique essence that seemed to have seeped beneath her skin? That couldn’t be borne. She’d rather die. His family could not do without him. Her family… she couldn’t think of that now. Of Julius. She hurried back to the windows and looked out at the heavy clouds.

Could she beat the oncoming storm?

It was imperative she try. Rain would wash away signs left by the intruder. Her difficulty would be escaping the castle without notice. Geneva placed her sweat-dampened palm on the pane. The glass was cool, not cold, to the touch. She could survive a little rain.

Bypassing the main stairs, Geneva also avoided the main servants’ stairwell, stealing into the one that led to the floor she’d previously found. This time, however, she remembered to carry a candle. She peered into the old chamber. Everything appeared as it had before. It would have made a great hiding place.

Hiding place! That reminded her. She’d had made no progress in the search for her mother’s ruby locket. But those thoughts would distract her and she shoved them aside.

Geneva strode through the myriad winding halls, opening doors, looking out windows. All in an effort to maintain her bearings. Two sides of the castle backed to the water. But the corridors were a maze of confusion. Some views left one unsure there was even land between the castle and the cliff’s drop. Common sense would indicate some distance from the edge. She could actually envision the blasted pile of stones collapsing into the sea with but one minute earthquake.

Geneva shivered, stepping back, and continued along her path until she located a dust-filled set of stone stairs that in places were crumbling. The treacherous trek slowed her progress down the four or however many flights—she’d lost track. That was all she would need—to trip and break her neck. Lord knew, by the time anyone located her, she would be a pile of bones like Docia’s poor unfortunate father.

Once she’d reached the ground level, she pushed cautiously on the door and peered about. The hallway was dark, and to her right was another set of stairs that appeared as if they led down to Mr. Oshea’s laboratory. Meaning she was very close to the door that exited to the exact area of the castle she hoped to investigate.

An ominous shiver pebbled her skin, but she couldn’t afford to let that stop her. There might never be another opportunity.

She slipped out the door.

In the short amount of time it took from the four flights above, she was hit with a battering, chilled wind. Her hair was whipped free of its confinement and sent pins flying. A black, roiling mass of clouds looked close enough to touch and gave a feel of early evening despite the noon hour. She glanced down at the apple-green frock and scowled. It was a blasted beacon. She hadn’t even sense enough to snatch a wrap to ward off the ocean’s cold, damp assault.

Geneva glanced up and grimaced. She hadn’t much time before hell’s wrath let loose from the violent swarms overhead. She stepped off the small, concrete stoop and ran for the edge of the trees, hoping her memory wouldn’t fail her and that she was gauging correctly where the dagger had flown from the trees.

Just inside the tree line, she found a clear sign of her suspicions and gasped. Large, visible footprints obviously belonging to a man, at least through her inexperienced eyes. She was not a tracker. She was a Londoner. A woman born and bred in one of the world’s largest cities. She lowered to her knees, Abra’s beautiful frock forgotten.

The footprints were deep and fresh. She followed them where they led toward the cliff. Another few neared the path down to the water—

“Well, well, well.”

Geneva spun around. “ You .” She pointed at the man with a trembling hand that mirrored the tremors in her knees.

He took a step toward her.

She stepped back.

They both moved in a dance that left her perilously aware of the drop behind her.

*

Noah entered Sander’s and Verda’s comfortable sitting room, heading to the fire and rubbing his cold, bloodless hands together. “Here I am, properly summoned,” he said by way of greeting.

Neither returned his smile.

“We need to talk,” Sander said.

Noah’s abdomen tightened at the ominous words. And Uncle Sander not even suggesting Aunt Verda leave them be did not bode well. Stilling, he faced his uncle, his body quivering with a surge of indignation. “I’m no longer a child of ten, sir.”

Sander sauntered over and held out a tumbler of brandy. “No. You’re not. I would never offer a ten-year-old the best of Pender’s spirits.”

The tension from his neck subsided and Noah accepted the offer. He sipped despite the early hour of the day, giving him half a minute to organize his thoughts. “I take it this inquisition is not out of concern of another turret failing,” he said, going for a lightness that belied his inner turmoil.

“Only if you have need to warn us of such,” Sander shot back.

“Mmm.” He strolled to one of the wing-backed chairs and dropped down. “I’m listening.”

Verda stirred from the settee where she was sitting. “We require the truth behind Julius’s birth, Noah. How did he come to be in your care?” The gentleness of her voice sliced through his heart with the point of a fire-forged dagger and there was nothing gentle about a thrust to one’s chest.

He threw back the rest of the brandy and willed it to burn away the pain… the fear . “Mama had been confined to her chambers, but not her screams,” he said softly. “I didn’t know what was wrong. Just that I wasn’t allowed to see her.”

Silence filled the room in which Noah had always taken refuge, a room that no longer felt safe. Glass clinked and he looked down to see that Sander had refilled it.

“‘ It was a dark and stormy night .’” Inside, he wanted to laugh at the irony of Edward Bulwer-Lytton’s overdramatic opening of Paul Clifford , but a jaw encased in stone—porous stone—could shatter with enough pressure. “I heard the pandemonium in the vestibule and peeked through a crack in the door.” The frigid air from that night seemed to pierce his skin. “There was a basket on Father’s arm. I didn’t notice it at first. I started to back away, but he called me ‘Noah.’” He stopped and caught the unspoken question on Verda’s face. “He typically referred to me as ‘boy.’ Frankly, I would have said he didn’t know my name.”

“The basket?” Sander asked.

“I thought he’d brought me a puppy.”

“Instead, he gave you an infant,” she said in bitter disgust.

“Yes. And, of course, the babe was nameless.” Noah decided it was best not to mention anything about Father giving Noah leave to drop Julius in the pond. Such a revelation would serve no purpose and would only hurt Julius if he ever learned of it. “Father handed Julius to me and said Mama was having a baby and he wanted everyone to believe that baby and Julius were born at the same time.”

“Good God,” Sander breathed.

“The last thing I remember is that he said was that this was to be our secret.” Noah let out a long stream of air. “He’d never trusted me with anything before. And, well, that was a stunner.”

“Then it’s a possibility.” Verda’s chin fell to her chest. “That Julius is a product of your father and Miss Wimbley’s mother.”

“There is something…” Sander said slowly. “Years ago.” He turned to his wife and took her hand. “It was the night we met, actually.”

“The Lyon’s Den?” she whispered back.

“Yes. Damien and I had argued. He was most agitated. To a degree that I suggested he, er…” He speared his wife a quick look, red flags dotting the high points of his cheekbones Noah was certain had nothing to do with the heat from the fire.

Aunt Verda squeezed his hand. “Do go on, darling. I also remember informing you that very night the libertine of which your brother was reputed.”

With his free hand, Sander covered his mouth in a choked cough. “Yes, well, I told him he should visit his, er, mistress. His response was that he had, and her husband had returned from the sea, and that he’d had to climb out the window like a common housebreaker.” He cut his eyes to Noah. “He was quite aggrieved. Later, when he suggested I hire Verda as your governess, Damien said he would be heading back to Stonemare after handling a small matter before departing.”

Noah let out another long-held breath, his heart threatening to leap from his chest. “But that doesn’t mean…”

Sander lifted a brow at Noah. “That your father sired a child with Miss Wimbley’s mother? Lower your hackles, son.”

“No,” Verda said. “But we must ask ourselves how Miss Wimbley happened upon Damien as the result of her reasoning in the first place.”

But Noah already knew the answer. It had been spelled out in the note from her mother. You must do something to save my Gen… All that is precious to me is in your hands. Everything in my possession… Some of the words had been marred by tears or fingers, but the note had clearly been addressed to Father. Chest hurting, Noah was quite aware he was attempting to fool himself. All to no avail.

“And Miss Wimbley?” Verda asked.

Noah’s insides rebelled and his teeth gnashed. He stood and moved to the windows. “What about her?”

“Don’t be daft, son. We’ve seen how you look at her. You can hardly manage a complete sentence when she is about.”

“Isabelle adores her,” Verda added. “She’s always possessed an uncanny intuition. Don’t you agree?”

Sander smiled. “Assuredly, my dear.” He turned back to Noah. “If you wish to discuss your intentions toward her…”

While Sander usually offered sound advice, Noah couldn’t quite make the leap in confessing the chaotic emotions that surged through him where Geneva Wimbley was concerned. They were too volatile. Too fluctuating. A disastrous outcome when it came to chemistry experiments. She’s not an experiment. He wanted her in a way that frightened him. From this position, the second of his largest failures loomed in full view. The collapsed turret he’d destroyed with his stubborn arrogance at following safety protocols being the second.

The first had been his inability to save Isabelle’s ankle from the infection of the adder’s bite. It had stolen her rightful life from her and it was Noah’s fault.

“Gads, you are strung tight as a viola string.” Sander’s goad drew Noah’s glance over his shoulder. “You’re not thinking of that damned snake again, are you?”

Noah’s lips tightened.

“Oh, Noah. When will you realize that such a thing could have happened to anyone?” Verda said softly. “You were not to blame.”

Sander grinned. “You need a wife, Noah. I think Miss Wimbley would suit you admirably.”

His suggestion did not fall by the wayside. Quite the opposite. Because Noah’s thoughts bombarded his every waking moment with the exact same words.

“You should bed her and be done with the business,” Sander went on.

Verda gasped. “Sander!”

A red haze blinded Noah temporarily. His hands clenched into fists. “Is that what you did to Aunt Verda?” he bit out.

A quick hiss showed his mark had hit its target. The charged silence didn’t ease for almost half a minute. “My apologies, son. My remark was uncalled for.”

“Indeed.” Noah turned his gaze back out the window to the churning, dark clouds. A flash of bright green caught his eyes. “What the devil?”

“Where is Geneva?” Docia’s crossness cut across the sitting room. “I’ve been looking for her. I vow, she is hiding from me.”

Noah didn’t blame her for her irritability; Geneva had a way of vexing those of the most calming of natures, and Docia was hardly that. “Hiding from you?” he suggested, watching said woman edge her way around the pile of stones. “If she is, then she took drastic measures.” The hair at his nape lifted with a sense of foreboding.

Docia strolled up beside him, her French perfume forcing him to bite back a sneeze. “What do you mean?” She let out an indignant huff. “Well, that isn’t very sporting of her.”

Miss Wimbley hadn’t donned so much as a shawl, and with the clouds turning dark, she had no hope of beating the oncoming storm. Noah didn’t hesitate, dashing from the sitting room for the nearest stairwell. He skidded down the three flights and out the laboratory door, where the gales nearly knocked him off his feet, and raced for the cliffs—

A grizzled-faced man he didn’t recognize towered over her slight frame. His stringy hair billowed in the demon-gusts. He stepped forward and she stepped back. He took another, edging her closer to an imminent end. His massive hand came up, palm out—

“ Geneva !” Propriety forgotten, her given name escaped from him on a full-throated cry. Using all the strength he could muster into his voice, he prayed she heard over the powerful surf below.

The man’s hand stopped midair. His unshaven face swiveled to Noah. Hate emanated from him in powerful waves. But the man didn’t run. He spun back to Geneva, planted his palm on her chest, and pushed.

“ No ,” Noah roared as she disappeared from sight.