Claire stepped back and regarded the sign over the door. “Dulcis domus.”
If only she’d learned to read Latin.
Curiosity won over her normal reticence. What lay on the other side of the tiny door? She hadn’t stepped into a painting since she was a child. The door lacked a door handle to open it, so she carefully lifted the paintbrush and flicked the horsehair ends against her fingernail. Faerie dust sparkled in the air. The brush still had faerie dust? She touched the tip to the painting and painted a tiny door handle onto the door. She could paint just about anything with faerie dust and the magical paintbrush, no paint required.
Claire turned the tiny brass door handle and pushed to open the door. When it refused to budge, she shoved it with her shoulder. It burst open quickly, and Claire fell into the mist that blew into the open doorway. Something magical waited on the other side. It had to be waiting because magic was scarce in her world. And if she didn’t leave soon, the evidence of her betrayal of her own world would soon be visible. She had no choice but to leave.
Eight
Lord Phineas Trimble bounced his knee beneath the wench’s bottom to eject her from his lap. However, the scrawny bit o’ muslin just wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her breasts firmer against his chest. “Not tonight, love,” he murmured. He unwrapped her from his person and set her to the side as he got to his feet.
“Never thought I’d see the day when you turned down a tumble,” the wench remarked, looking closely at him. “You haven’t replaced me with another, have you?” Her auburn brows drew together sharply.
“I could never replace you,” he soothed, stroking a finger along the line of her chin. “I simply have somewhere I need to be.”
“That mistress of yours is keeping tight to the reins,” she remarked.
He held up his hands as though in surrender. He had no mistress, though the wench had no reason to know that. Mrs. Katherine Crawfield had let him down, not so gently, and had found another protector months ago. She’d also started a little rumor about his prowess in the bedchamber. Mrs. Crawfield had a bit of a mean streak. The rumor was spreading like wildfire in his social circle, and he wasn’t surprised by the number of people who’d already heard about his lack of attention to her needs.
It wasn’t his fault that the only woman he even thought about was Claire Thorne. Every time a wench touched him, he recoiled. All because she wasn’t Claire. Just thinking her name made his heart quicken and his manhood get hard.
Finn called for his carriage and climbed into it alone. He wasn’t used to spending so much time by himself. He usually had the Duke of Robinsworth, his brother, and his daughter, Lady Anne, to occupy his free moments. But since his brother had married Sophia Thorne in the land of the fae, they’d been gone from Finn’s world and had no plans to return any time soon.
His last missive from Robin had bid him to check up on their mother, who lived at the family seat, and to take care of Robin’s holdings for a time. So, Finn had moved himself into the Hall and taken up residence in his brother’s house. And taken up Robin’s life, it appeared. Aside from the fact that Robin was a recluse, Finn was beginning to see the attraction to staying at home where one couldn’t hear the whispers. Robin’s life—now that Finn was taking care of his holdings, his lands, his tenants, and his investments—left little room for dalliances or social engagements.
Finn preferred his life of leisure but was certain he would be able to get back to it soon. But what he would prefer even more was to find out what had happened to Claire Thorne. He’d spent one life-changing night with her, and when he’d woken up, she was gone. He’d traveled all the way back to London through the thickening snow, trying to find some glimpse of her, but she had vanished into thin air and was nowhere to be found. At least not in this world. He wanted to ask Robin if he knew her whereabouts, but doing so would call attention to his desire to find her. That simply would not do.
Finn let Robin’s butler, Wilkins, take his coat and walking stick when he walked into the residence. “Lord Phineas,” Wilkins said stoically. The man rarely cracked a smile, though he did seem more lively when Robin was in residence.
“Wilkins,” Finn murmured. “Anything I need to take care of before I retire?”
Wilkins held out a note on a silver salver. Finn’s name was written in Robin’s bold script across the front.
“The garden gnome delivered it this afternoon,” Wilkins informed him.
“How was Ronald?” Finn asked.
“He was… himself.”
“Pity that.”
The land of the fae employed varied creatures to do their bidding. Though the garden gnome, Ronald, hated Finn with all his being, he still carried missives to and from their land. Finn snorted. Their land. Like Robin and Anne belonged there with Sophia. He shook his head. Perhaps they did. It must be nice to belong somewhere.
Finn scrubbed at his eyes with the heels of his hands and headed for Robin’s study. He would look at any pressing matters, any notes from solicitors or business associates of Robin’s, and then he would slide gratefully into his empty bed.
He tore open Robin’s missive and began to read.
Dearest Finn,
We’re planning to return soon
.
Best regards,
Robin
Finn had always appreciated that Robin was a man of few words. Until now. He wanted details. He wanted to know everything there was to know about the land of the fae. It existed. But he didn’t understand how it could be possible. And he wanted to know if Claire would be returning as well, but he didn’t dare ask his brother.