A Curse of the Heart

“That did occur to me. Perhaps I should be grateful he is not party to my immoral thoughts,” he said. When she plucked out the offending article, he asked, “Would you mind if I had a look at that?”

“Of course not. I’m surprised your innate sense of curiosity has not insisted on making a thorough examination.”

She handed it to him, and he unwound the tiny piece of paper, muttering the words as he scanned the elegant script.

“Coupled with the strange noises at night, I can see why you thought this might be genuine. I shall cast fear unto him,” he read, his voice as emotive as a preacher delivering a sermon to a crowd full of sinners, “and the wind will howl your sins —”

“Don’t read it!” she cried, making a feeble attempt to snatch it out of his hand.

“And the dead will rise again!”

“Mr. Stone!”

“I’ve already told you,” he said in a humorous tone. “There is no such thing as a curse. Until recently, we had no way of deciphering hieroglyphics let alone place a more in-depth meaning to them. This scroll is just an attempt to frighten you.” He thrust his arm in the air and read some more. “Let crocodiles chase her through water. Let —”

“It does not say that,” she said trying to snatch it from his hand.

The sound of someone clearing his throat caught her attention and Rebecca turned to see George Wellford standing in the doorway.

“Oh, don’t mind me,” he said as he walked into the room. “One does not often get the chance to see two people fighting over a piece of paper.”

“We were not fighting, my lord,” Rebecca said as they both stood to greet him.

With his golden hair and warm smile, she found it almost impossible to be angry with him. Perhaps it was the soft timbre of his voice or his bright blue eyes that made her heart forgive all of his sins. Perhaps that was why she chose not to spend time in his company: out of fear she might actually grow to like him.

“Rebecca,” he said with a respectful bow. “You do not have to greet me so formally. Are we not kin?” When she didn’t answer, he looked past her. “Stone. It has been a while.”

“Four years, Lord Wellford.”

George raised a brow. “Has it been so long? My father, or should I say our father, was extremely fond of you. I think he always hoped I would share your enthusiasm for his work, but I’m afraid I was a constant disappointment.” He glanced briefly at Rebecca. “I hope his faith in you as a gentleman was not misplaced.”

“Not at all,” Mr. Stone replied. “It is out of respect and concern for Miss Linwood that I have accompanied her here today.”

George waved his hand at the sofa. “Then please take a seat. I did not imagine you were here to gossip and drink tea.” He waited for them to sit and then sat in the chair opposite, his gaze firm as he steepled his fingers in front of his chest. “But first, I should like to know the nature of your involvement, Mr. Stone.”

Rebecca decided to chirp in. “Mr. Stone is my closest friend and my business partner.” He was her only friend and her partner in the most sinful kiss of her life. “He intends to display some pieces at the museum.”

“Is it wise for an unmarried lady to name a gentleman amongst her friends, Rebecca?” he asked, his disapproving gaze drifting back and forth between them.

Rebecca felt her chest tighten. If she were a cat, she would hiss, arch her back and splay her claws. Why did George make a simple observation sound like a scathing reprimand?

“Thankfully, I do not have to concern myself with what is considered appropriate in Society,” she informed coldly. “As you know, my parents are dead, Lord Wellford. So I may choose my friends and my business associates as I please.”

“As the daughter of a respected peer, your reputation should be important to you.”

The sweeping statement caused her heart to thump against her chest. “I may be the daughter of a peer but I was born out of wedlock, or have you forgotten. Besides, it is hardly an appropriate topic of conversation to have in front of guests.”

The room fell silent. The only sound she was aware of was her own ragged breath.

“Miss Linwood came to me because she believed she had brought a dreadful curse upon herself,” Mr. Stone finally said. The words sounded measured and controlled, yet Rebecca could feel the tension emanating from him. “She was hearing voices at night, scratching and moaning while the wind rattled her shutters, and a mysterious force shook her bed. As a lady living alone, you can imagine how terrifying that would be.”

George did not even attempt to look shocked or embarrassed but just sat there as though listening to yet another report of the day’s weather.

Rebecca heard the sound of grinding teeth and glanced at Mr. Stone to witness the muscles twitch in his rigid jaw.

“The noises were made by an intruder,” he continued, “and frightened her out of her wits.”

The mere mention of the intruder brought the memory of the haunting flooding back. On the first night, she had thought rats were scurrying about the boxes, thought she had imagined the bed move. It was on the second night that she heard the moaning, that she imagined a figure floating up the stairs and held her breath while she waited for it to burst through the door.