The Nightingale Legacy (Legacy 2)

“You are acquainted with the lady, my lord?”

“Yes,” North said.

“But how? I don’t understand any of this, my lord.”

“It’s a rather involved tale, Mr. Brogan. Why don’t we wait for Miss Derwent-Jones.”

Mrs. Trebaw, the housekeeper, served them tea and cakes in the drawing room. Conversation was pleasant. North took his leave some minutes later, before Dr. Treath or Mr. Brogan could inquire how the devil he had met Miss Derwent-Jones, why he was here, and what the hell he wanted.

It appeared that Miss Derwent-Jones would be greeted by a solicitor and Dr. Treath when she arrived. She didn’t need him there to tell her that some madman had killed her aunt. He tried to believe it, but didn’t really.

But Miss Derwent-Jones didn’t go to Scrilady Hall.

At ten o’clock the following night, Coombe lightly knocked on North’s library door. He cleared his throat as he entered, looked over North’s right shoulder at the shadowed mantel, upon which sat a very old clock made in Hamburg that was just quietly striking the tenth of its strokes.

“Yes, Coombe?”

“My lord, this is difficult and unusual and not at all what we are used to. There’s a Young Lady here to see you. It is dreadfully late, and she looks quite in a state, and I was on the point of telling her to peddle her wares elsewhere when she drew this pistol on me and demanded to see you.”

7

NORTH WAS PAST him in a moment, striding quickly into the long narrow entrance hall. She was standing there by the front door, her head bent, her shoulders slumped, the single valise sitting by her left foot. She was wearing her cloak, dreadfully wrinkled and soiled now, but had pulled the hood back. Her hair was coiled around her head in thick braids, now coming loose, trailing tendrils of lazily curling hair over her shoulders. Hanging limp in her right hand was the infamous pistol.

At that moment, she raised her head. It wasn’t fatigue he saw. It was pain, raw and deep, and fear.

“Miss Derwent-Jones,” he said, striding toward her. “God, I’m sorry, so very sorry.”

She gulped, he saw it, and she gulped again. Then he held out his arms, something entirely unplanned, something that didn’t quite seem as odd as it should have, and she threw herself against him. For several moments, she was rigid, her hands fisted against his chest. The pistol fell from her fingers and skittered over the smooth marble of the entrance hall. Then suddenly, she began to sob, deep rending sobs that shook her entire body. She seemed to collapse against him, all the fight, all the bravado swept away by her grief and her shock.

His arms went around her and he pulled her close, stroking his hands over her hair, trying to soothe her, comfort her, saying nonsense really, rocking her against him.

She raised her head finally, pulling back a bit from him. “You knew,” she said. “You knew and you didn’t say anything to me.”

“No, there was no chance. You left rather hurriedly.”

“She’s dead, Lord Chilton. No, not just dead, somebody killed her. I can’t—”

He lightly touched his fingertip to her lips. “Hush, you’re exhausted. Come into the library and warm yourself. A bit of brandy and some food will help. Come now.”

Coombe said from just behind North, his voice disapproving, as North’s father’s would become just before… No, he wouldn’t think about that now. “I will bring refreshments, my lord, though I doubt Mr. Polgrain has much of anything in the kitchen.”

“Thank you, Coombe. Bring what you have. Now, Miss Derwent-Jones, come with me.”

He watched her take off her cloak, fold it ever so slowly and carefully, as if she was trying to get ahold of herself. Then she placed it over the back of a chair. She sighed, but still didn’t look at him. He watched her smooth the folds of the cloak several times without, he suspected, even realizing what she was doing. He watched her walk to the fireplace, place another log on the fire, stir it up a bit, then reach her hands toward the flames. She was utterly silent, utterly still. She didn’t seem at all like the same girl he’d met such a short time before who’d been sitting on Mackie’s lap, all smiles and magic, downing that ale and coughing until her face turned crimson. He quietly closed the library doors to keep in the warmth, then turned, wondering what to say. She’d run away from her guardian to come to her aunt Ellie, only to find tragedy beyond what she could have ever imagined.

He remained silent, just watching her stand there in front of the fireplace, until Coombe brought in a single tray that held an old silver teapot that had more dents in its sides than Major Denny of the Twelfth Lincolnshire Infantry had pox marks dug into his still-handsome face. The cups and saucers were so old and chipped, surely they should have been given to the poor fifty years before. As for the food, there were two slices of bread that surely had a bit of mold around the edges, a cup of clotted Cornish cream that was more yellow than white, and a single scone that looked as if it could be used as a weapon. He looked hard at Coombe, who just shrugged helplessly, not meeting his eyes. North held his tongue. The last thing his guest needed at this moment was to hear him yelling at his butler.

He poured them each a cup of tea, unable to offer her lemon, milk, or sugar, since there wasn’t any on the tray.

“Thank you,” she said, and gratefully sipped the hot tea. She sputtered, coughed, then quickly pressed a napkin to her mouth. ?

??Oh dear, I’m sorry, it’s just that the tea, well it’s rather got big fists, and—”

North took a gingerly sip and thought his tongue would fall off. The tea was stronger than a storm wind blowing off the Irish Sea and tasted as brackish as the drinking water on his majesty’s ships. Fists indeed.

“I’m sorry,” he said, and took the cup from her. “Just rest here a moment. I’ll fetch something else for you.” He wanted to go to the kitchen, line up every pair of buttocks, and kick them all soundly, but decided he didn’t want to leave her alone, at least not yet. She looked white and lost and battered down. He fetched her a brandy from the sideboard. “Here, this will warm you much better than my cook’s notion of tea.”

She sipped it slowly. She’d obviously learned from Mackie’s ale. He watched color gradually come back into her face. “It’s good. Not quite so serious a kick as Mr. Mackie’s ale, which is a relief. Actually it’s not so serious as that tea either. I’ve never had brandy before.”