The fireball hit with an imaginary bang, sending his mother shooting back in the chair.
“What baffles me,” he continued, trying to ignore the sudden need to sleep, “is how you know the steward.”
“The steward?” She glanced at his empty mug.
Why would Warner know where his mother lived?
Ah, because the duke’s obsession demanded it so.
“Mr Warner. The duke’s steward.” Hell, his head started spinning. “The friend who told you he was sick. The confidant who told you I lived in Brook Street.” The fop who surely knew he owned Bronygarth, too.
Sybil!
“Mr Warner,” he repeated. The urge to hurry, the urge to return home thrummed in his veins. “The servant who t-tends to my father while … while colluding with you.” The last comment was an educated guess. Melrose was the person who held the marionettes’ strings. But there could—
Damn.
Lucius shook his head and fought the need to lie down.
“Lucius? Are you unwell?”
Hellfire!
He could hardly keep his eyes open. He looked to the woman seated opposite. Concern was not the emotion etched on her gaunt face. Relief brought a faint smile to her lips. What the hell had she done to him?
“Angus!” she called. “Angus!”
Lucius vaguely recalled the parlour door opening, caught a hazy look at the solemn man in black, heard his mother say, “Forgive me, but there was no other way” before plunging into darkness, into oblivion.
Chapter Twenty
The sick roiling in Sybil’s stomach told her something was wrong. The tightening of her chest and a trembling trepidation forced her out of bed. She hurried to the window, dragged back the heavy curtains and stared out.
Dark blue waves of sunlight weaved through black clouds.
The morning sun would soon breach the horizon.
Lucius had been gone hours—far too long.
The logical part of her brain said reunions were complicated affairs. More so after a twenty-year separation. Indeed, how did one condense their experiences into a short conversation? Heightened emotions complicated matters. There would be anger, tears, heartfelt explanations. Blame. Remorse.
So why could she not calm her mind? Why did gut instinct scream for her to dress and ride to the Black Swan?
Trust your heart, dear girl.
Trust your intuition.
Her father’s words spurred Sybil into action. She raced to her room, washed in cold water that had been in the bowl at least a day. There was no time to worry about stays. A chemise and petticoat would suffice.
Jonah wasn’t keeping guard outside her door.
Did he have similar fears for Lucius, too?
Were they under attack from an intruder?
Had the floating ghost found its way into the tunnel?
Sybil hurried down the dark staircase, followed the sound of raised voices and came upon Tomas and Jonah arguing in the narrow corridor near the chapel.