style="font-size:15px;"> And his.
* * *
Lorene rose from the sofa and reached for Dell’s hand. She held it between her own. ‘I will go to him now. Thank you for sitting with me.’
He covered her hands with his. ‘You mustn’t thank me. But do not concern yourself with me. Take care of yourself.’
His hands were warm and strong and she relished the feel of them against her skin. And instantly felt guilty for even noticing.
She pulled away. ‘Someone should come to show you to your room. At least I hope they do...’ Tinmore’s servants were so loyal to him. But not to her. Never to her.
He looked at her with such an expression of sympathy it almost hurt. ‘I will see you in the morning. You must get some rest.’
The day would not be easy, would it? A magistrate. The coroner. Things she must do but, what? She could not think. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight then.’ She curtsied.
He bowed.
She turned and fled from the room.
Lorene forced herself to make her way to Lord Tinmore’s rooms on the same hallway as her own, but thankfully not too close. She knocked before opening his bedchamber door.
Wicky was seated in a chair next to the bed. The bed curtains blocked a view of the bed. She was glad. She had a sudden horror of seeing the body again.
‘How are you faring, Wicky?’ she asked from the doorway.
He turned his head slowly to face her. ‘I would like to stay here if I may, my lady.’
Her heart went out to the old man. Wicky had loved her husband. Wicky, Dixon and Mr Filkins were especially devoted to Tinmore. Goodness. They’d served him for decades.
‘Of course you may stay,’ she said, backing out of the room and shutting the door.
She walked down the hall to her own bedchamber where her lady’s maid, grim-faced, helped her prepare for bed, speaking only when it was absolutely necessary. Finally the woman left and Lorene burrowed under the bedcovers.
Her heart pounded rapidly as if she’d run a great distance and she realised she’d felt that way since seeing Tinmore at the bottom of the steps. How could she calm herself? She tried to sort through the emotions twisting inside her. Uncertainty about the following day. Would there be trouble with the magistrate or the coroner? Would they question what Dell told them? Would they believe she and Dell had been lovers?
Why had Tinmore thought such a thing? Her infatuation with Dell had always been her private delight. She’d never talked about Dell. She’d always schooled her features when around him. Tinmore could not have guessed. No one could.
Tinmore had never cared a fig when she was thrown into Dell’s company. At social events Tinmore always left her as soon as it was expedient. He’d never shown any interest in whose company she kept while he played cards or conversed with his cronies. He’d shown little interest in Dell, a mere earl, much preferring Dell’s friend, her sister Genna’s husband, the Marquess of Rossdale, a duke’s heir. Or the Duke himself. What had worked its way into Tinmore’s mind for him to make that outrageous accusation?
When Tinmore told her to go to her room, she’d known that would not be the end of it. At least now she didn’t have to listen to him rail at her.
She suddenly felt as if a huge weight had been lifted off her shoulders. She was free! She would wake in the morning with no one to answer to but herself. No worries about being accused of having a lover, or of saying the wrong thing, acting the wrong way. No more pushing down her feelings. No more biting her tongue. She was free to dream again.
If she were ever able to get to sleep.
She tossed and turned in the bed and finally threw off the covers and walked barefoot to her window. She curled up on the window seat and gazed out at the snow-covered park. How bright it looked even at this late hour, so white and clean. It was a new landscape, changed from before the snow.
And now she would have a new life.
She thought over the almost two years she had been married to Tinmore.
He’d done what she wanted most. To provide for her sisters and brother. He’d also given her a home, beautiful clothes, jewels, a comfortable life in so many ways. She’d been grateful to him for that. She never complained about him for that reason. Except maybe that little bit in the carriage when she’d spoken to Dell. That had not been complaining, really. How awful it would be to complain about Tinmore when he’d been the rescue of her family.
After a fashion.
She could say with absolute sincerity that had she not married Tinmore, her sisters and half-brother would not have found their spouses.
What’s more, they’d found love.
Lorene asked very little for herself, only that Tinmore provide her with the means to live in simple comfort after he was gone. She had no idea if he had done so.
Even if not, the jewellery he’d given her would be worth something, she figured. Tomorrow she would make certain she had it safely in her possession. Filkins would help her. Who knew what the servants might do, with their loyalty to Tinmore and resentment of her.
She did not know where she would go or how she would live, but, even so, wretched woman that she was, she would be glad to leave this place.
She left the window seat, found a shawl to wrap over her shoulders and slippers for her feet. Carrying a candle, she made her way to the formal drawing room Tinmore called the Mount Olympus room, because of the murals of Greek gods and goddesses painted by Verrio and commissioned by some earlier Earl of Tinmore.
Placing the candle on the opulent gold gilt pianoforte Tinmore bought for her, she pulled out her favourite music, Mozart’s Quintets in G Minor, and began to play.
Someone had sent her the music after a musicale last Season. She did not know who. Not her husband, though. He’d fallen asleep during music so wonderful, Lorene felt its indelible stamp on her soul.
She played at a slow tempo, appropriately mournful, but the chords she thought of as sword thrusts, piercing what otherwise would have been a typical minuet, perfectly reflected the pangs of anger she felt towards Tinmore for accusing her of infidelity, for involving Dell in his death, for all the times Tinmore had been thoughtless and hurtful.
The music filled the room and it seemed as if the murals of Greek gods and goddesses were watching her and absorbing the music. If her playing could be heard outside the room, she did not care.
She needed the solace only music could bring her.
Lorene played the pianoforte for at least two hours before returning to her bedchamber. She slept fitfully and awoke before dawn. By then it was no use trying to go back to sleep. She sat on the window seat and waited until it was a decent time to ring for her maid, who was even more grim than usual. Lorene could not tell if it was because the woman was grieving
