Midnight Star (Star Quartet 2)

“Had I been Alec’s older brother, rather than his sister, it would be I to own it! Lord knows you haven’t made the wisest of investments, and you in trade! We’ve three daughters, Alfred, and husbands to find for each of them.”

Alfred said mildly, “At least you’ve obtained a free governess for them, my love. That is a saving, I should say, to your houshold expenses. As for my investments, you know that Owen outspends his very generous allowance and brings in not a sou.”

“Owen is a gentleman,” Augusta said angrily. “He will marry well, I will see to it. And as for that haughty little niece of mine, I vow she wouldn’t raise that proud little chin of hers at me if she but knew the truth about her dear father.”

Truth? What truth? Leave, Chauncey, go now. But she still didn’t move. She wondered wildly if her uncle were sweating under his wife’s tirade.

“Leave it be, Gussie. The girl earns her keep.”

“So, Alfred, you want to protect her, and I know why. Isobel’s precious daughter, that’s why! Well, if she dares to bring tales of Owen to me again, I will tell her that her dear father took his own life. Just see if I don’t!”

Chauncey stared blindly at the bedroom door. Her dear father took his own life. . . .

“No!” It was a soft, agonized sound that tore from her throat. She doubled over, the pain so terrible that she thought she would die from it. “No!”

Mary, the one servant in Heath House who treated Chauncey courteously, found her huddled on the lower stairs to the third-floor servants’ quarters. “Miss,” she said softly, lightly touching her hand to Chauncey’s shoulder. “Are you all right, miss?”

Chauncey raised dazed eyes to Mary’s face. “He could not have done such a thing,” she whispered.

“No, of course not,” Mary assured her, having no idea what Miss Elizabeth was talking about. She saw the despair in the young lady’s eyes and wished there was something she could say to ease her pain. It was likely the mistress and her sharp tongue that had brought her to such a state. Damn the old bitch anyway!

“Oh, Mary!” The tears gushed from her eyes, and she sobbed brokenly, nestled against Mary’s ample bosom.

Chauncey raised her chin and quickened her pace along the sidewalk. She had no money, and the walk from Bedford Square to Uncle Paul’s office on Fleet Street was long and tiring. She had worn a heavily veiled black bonnet, and it protected her from the advances of the young men, who took it for granted that a woman by herself was asking for attention. She was perspiring and shallow of breath when she reached the three-story brick building. For a moment she couldn’t make her legs walk up the shallow steps to the entrance.

Don’t be a coward, Chauncey. Aunt Augusta is a vicious old harridan. She was lying. Uncle Paul will tell you the truth.

Several black-garbed clerks were seated on high stools, their heads lowered, their pens scratching industriously on the papers before them. Chauncey cleared her throat.

“Excuse me,” she said, drawing the attention of one young man. “I wish to see Mr. Paul Montgomery. My name is Elizabeth FitzHugh.”

“Have you an appointment?” the young man asked shortly.

Chauncey shook her head. “Please

tell him that I am here,” she said firmly, drawing back the black veil from her face.

The young man’s eyes widened in admiration. “Be seated, miss. I will see if he is free.”

Paul Montgomery emerged quickly from his office. “Chauncey! My dear, what a pleasant surprise! Come in, come in!”

Chauncey smiled back at him, her first smile of pleasure since her father’s death. “I appreciate your taking time to see me, Uncle Paul.”

“Nonsense, my dear!” He led her into his office and pulled back a chair for her in front of his massive oak desk. “Now, tell me what I can do for you.”

For several moments she couldn’t speak.

“You are looking lovely, Chauncey,” he said as her silence stretched long. “I trust you have settled in nicely with your aunt and uncle?” Please let her say yes, he thought, forming the words in his own mouth that he wished her to speak.

“Uncle Paul, did my father kill himself?”

The stark words hung in the air between them. She saw him stiffen, saw the betraying gleam in his dark eyes through the thick lenses of his spectacles.

He slowly removed his glasses, cleaning them on the cuff of his shirt, a stalling habit Chauncey recognized. “Wherever did you get such a notion, my dear?”

“It is true, then,” she said. “Please, Uncle Paul, do not lie to me. I . . . I overheard my aunt say it to my uncle.”

“Stupid woman!” Paul Montgomery muttered. He studied her pale face intently, and seemed to come to a decision. “I am sorry, my dear. There was no reason for you ever to know. I had no idea that your aunt . . . But it doesn’t matter now, does it?”