Page 19
Story: An Improbable Scheme (Courting the Unconventional #1)
T he early sunlight spilled gently into her bedchamber as Elsbeth sat beside Clara, who was carefully dabbing honey onto her wound. The faint stickiness of the salve was the least of her concerns. Her thoughts were tangled with fragments of the conversation she’d had with Niles the night before.
What if I’m wrong about Alfred?
What if I’ve been the problem all along?
She quickly dismissed the idea as absurd, but the doubt lingered. Alfred’s collection of newssheet clippings about her father’s death had rattled her. Why keep them locked away? Why not discard them altogether? It was suspicious, wasn’t it?
Clara’s voice broke through her spiraling thoughts. “The honey should prevent infection,” she said, securing the bandage. “Did I hurt you?”
“No,” Elsbeth replied absently, her gaze fixed on the corner of the room.
“You seem rather distracted, my lady,” Clara observed.
“I am,” she admitted. “I used the key you gave me to unlock my stepfather’s desk and all I found was newssheet clippings about my father’s death.”
“That is strange.”
“Exactly,” Elsbeth said. “It is not the proof I was looking for, but it is something. Isn’t it?” Clara leaned back in her seat. “Perhaps it’s just what it appears to be. Mere curiosity about your father’s passing. It doesn’t mean he’s hiding anything.”
“Then why lock them away?” Elsbeth countered.
“There’s nothing illegal about owning newssheet clippings.”
“It’s still… odd,” Elsbeth insisted, pulling down the sleeve of her pale green gown. Her movements were sharp, betraying her frustration.
Clara gave her a knowing look. “There’s no shame in admitting you’re wrong, my lady.”
“But I’m not wrong,” Elsbeth snapped. “I just need more time.”
“I fear time won’t change anything.”
Rising abruptly, Elsbeth crossed the room to her dressing table, picked up the small key, and handed it to Clara. “Please return this to Alfred’s valet.”
Clara accepted the key with a faint sigh. “I will, but I wish you would let this go.”
“I can’t. Not now,” Elsbeth murmured.
The feeling of disappointment was palpable in the room. She understood why Clara felt the way she did, but Elsbeth knew in her heart that her stepfather was not the man he was pretending to be. Why could no one see it but her?
“Will there be anything else, my lady?”
Elsbeth shook her head. “No, thank you.”
Once her lady’s maid departed from the room, she walked over to the window. Niles was helping her fight this battle… for now. She suspected he would stop when she couldn’t find further proof about her stepfather.
Her stomach grumbled and she decided it would be best to go down for breakfast. She dreaded nearly every interaction with her stepfather. He would smile, act cordial, but she knew it was just an act.
She departed from her bedchamber and the sight of Charles in the corridor brought a smile to her lips. “Good morning, Cousin.”
Charles returned the smile, though it lacked its usual warmth. “Good morning,” he said. “I trust that you slept well?”
“I did,” Elsbeth lied as she noticed the deep-set shadows beneath his eyes. “Although, I suspect you cannot say the same.”
Charles exhaled heavily, raking a hand through his already disheveled hair. “I did not. I couldn’t stop thinking about how I almost shot you. It kept replaying over and over in my mind.” His voice wavered slightly before he steadied it. “I want you to know how terribly sorry I am, Elsbeth.”
She placed a reassuring hand on his arm. “It is all right, Cousin. Consider it forgotten.”
Charles’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You are most gracious,” he murmured, though there was a stiffness to his tone, as if he struggled to believe she could forgive him so easily.
Together, they made their way down the grand staircase, the rich mahogany railing cool beneath her fingertips. Charles glanced at her arm as they reached the last step. “How’s the wound?”
“Sticky,” she said with a wry smile. “Clara applied honey to it this morning.”
Charles nodded approvingly. “An old remedy, but an effective one.” He sneezed abruptly, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket.
“Are you catching cold?” Elsbeth asked.
“Hardly. I slept with my window open,” Charles admitted, dabbing his nose. “The fresh air is worth a sneeze or two. ”
“My mother would scold you for such recklessness,” Elsbeth teased.
Charles chuckled and reached into his pocket, pulling out a small tin. “I’ve been taking these lozenges. They work wonders. Care to try one?”
She hesitated before accepting a lozenge and placing it in her mouth. The faint taste of rosewater was surprisingly pleasant. “They’re quite good,” she admitted.
“They are, indeed,” Charles replied with a grin. “My cook prepared a fresh batch for me before I left.”
Entering the dining room, Elsbeth found Alfred seated at the head of the table. He rose politely as they approached.
“Elsbeth,” he said. “Lord Bedford.”
“Please, call me Charles,” he corrected. “Family does not make use of titles.”
Alfred seemed pleased by Charles’s remark as he returned to his seat. “I’m afraid Isabella was not feeling well this morning and she requested a tray be sent to her room.”
“That is unfortunate,” Elsbeth said as she sat down.
Breakfast was served swiftly, but Elsbeth barely touched her plate. Her thoughts raced as she decided whether to broach the subject of the clippings. Finally, setting her fork down, she turned to Alfred.
“Did you know my father?” she asked.
Alfred looked momentarily surprised before answering. “I knew of him but never had the privilege of an introduction. Our paths rarely crossed in Society.”
“His death must have been a shock to you,” she pressed.
“As much as it was to anyone,” Alfred replied.
“Some people have a morbid fascination with death,” Elsbeth said lightly, watching him closely.
Alfred frowned. “I suppose some do, but I’ve never understood it. It seems a waste of one’s time. ”
“Have you ever visited the site of a death?” she asked pointedly. “It’s quite the trend in London.”
Alfred’s frown deepened. “I find such things distasteful. If you’ll excuse me, I have work to attend to.”
Pushing back his chair, Alfred left the room, leaving Elsbeth to wonder if his measured answers were as innocent as they seemed or carefully constructed lies.
“Do you want to explain what that was about?” Charles asked, his tone more accusatory than curious.
“Nothing,” Elsbeth said quickly, hoping to dismiss the subject before her cousin asked more questions.
Charles arched a skeptical brow. “Try again, Cousin.”
Elsbeth sighed, lowering her voice. “Did you know that my mother and Alfred grew up in the same village?”
“I did not,” Charles admitted, leaning back slightly, “but why does that matter?”
“Doesn’t it seem… unusual to you?” she pressed, watching his reaction carefully.
Charles chuckled. “Not at all. If anything, it explains why they married so quickly after your mother came out of mourning.”
“Does it?” she asked, her tone laced with doubt. “I found clippings from the newssheets about my father’s death in Alfred’s desk.”
“Why were you searching his desk?”
“That is not the point?—”
He cut her off. “Then what is the point?”
With a glance over her shoulder, she lowered her voice. “My stepfather is keeping secrets and I intend to discover what they are.”
The humor drained from Charles’s face, replaced with a serious expression. “Why can’t you just be happy for your mother? ”
The question landed heavily, stirring guilt deep in Elsbeth’s chest. “It’s not that?—”
“Then what is it?” he interrupted.
She reached for her cup of chocolate. “I would do anything for my mother,” she murmured. “Even if it means I go about it alone.”
Charles’s brows furrowed in concern. “Elsbeth…”
She cut him off, turning the conversation back on him. “What about you, Charles? Would you do anything to keep your estate afloat?”
His lips pressed into a thin line, his hesitation speaking volumes. “There are some things I wouldn’t do,” he said firmly.
Returning her cup to the saucer, she leaned forward. “Didn’t you say you’d marry for convenience rather than love? You’d sacrifice your happiness for the survival of your estate?”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?” she challenged.
Charles abruptly stood, his chair scraping against the floor. “I’m going riding,” he announced, his tone clipped. “Perhaps when I return, we can have a frank conversation about how not to be troublesome.”
“I’m not trying to be difficult,” Elsbeth countered. “I’m merely trying to make a point.”
He stepped closer and placed a hand gently on her shoulder. “If you continue down this path, you’re going to push everyone away.”
She looked up at him, her heart heavy with the truth in his words. “I’ve become well acquainted with loneliness,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.
“That’s by choice, Cousin,” he said, letting his hand drop before walking out of the room.
As the door closed behind him, Elsbeth groaned softly, leaning back in her chair. She hated that Charles might be right, and that thought gnawed at her more than she cared to admit.
Her stomach churned unexpectedly, and a wave of nausea washed over her. She pushed her chair back, intending to leave, but as she stood, dizziness overtook her, and she clutched the back of the chair for support.
A nearby footman rushed to her side, his face etched with concern. “Are you all right, my lady?”
“I… I think so,” she said faintly, sinking back into her seat. “I just need a moment.”
The room seemed to spin, and the thought of climbing the stairs to her bedchamber felt impossible. Instead, she rested her head on the table, hoping the feeling would pass.
The footman’s voice was urgent. “I’m going to send for the doctor.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, though the words barely left her lips. Her focus was consumed by the effort to keep her stomach from rebelling.
Table of Contents
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- Page 19 (Reading here)
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