was not really her father, of course. Not as he was Lambdin’s. Still, he had adopted her when he married her widowed mother, giving Laura his name. She had never dared ask for more than that for fear Father would change his mind and she would be an outsider. As it was, she received the same infrequent attention as he gave the son he had sired.
At times she believed Father originally purchased the remote manor and its accompanying acreage just to keep her and Lambdin isolated and out of trouble.
That had certainly been his motive for hiring Mr. Williams as manager. As for her situation, the number of available suitors had kept her opportunity for misdeeds to a minimum. Thanks to Mr. Williams’s vigilance regarding those few fellows, she had just celebrated her twenty-fifth birthday without any hope of a proposal, proper or otherwise.
Now she would die an old maid. Laura Ames Middlebrook, Proper Spinster. Unwed, untraveled, unremarkable. What a truly rotten epitaph.
Exhaustion finally took over and the next she knew, morning had dawned. The bright sunlight streaming through the tall casement windows seemed out of keeping. She wanted rain, lots of it. And cold, mourning winds soughing through the eaves.
Suddenly Laura leapt out of bed in an unexpected fit of rage. She threw open the windows and stalked out onto the balcony, beating her fists against the railing. Damn it all, this was unfair! When was she supposed to live? Really live, instead of existing in this bucolic little burg, counting sheep and cows, and worrying over crops that were not even hers? Why did she have to do all the work while her parents made merry abroad and her brother played with his horses?
Well, no more!
She slammed back into the bedroom. Lead crystal perfume bottles crashed against the wall leaving gouges in the plaster. No more! The piecrust table cracked beneath the weight of her heavy water pitcher, scattering knickknacks everywhere. No more! Her breath heaved out in furious pants. One swipe of her arm cleared the mantel.
She looked around desperately, hands fisted and lips tight. Panic overwhelmed her. She slid into a crouch by the bed, her nightgown bunched at her knees, glass from the photograph frames biting into her feet. And she wept.
Chapter Two
Ten days later, Laura had gotten herself in hand. She had taken control. Her course was set now. No more useless grieving, she had decided firmly. No more self-pity. Time was running out and she must make the most of what was left to her.
Lambdin had seemed agreeable when she announced her decision to go to London. He had said it was a famous idea to strike out on her own, and had even promised to create a diversion so that Mr. Williams would not notice her leaving until it was too late to stop her. Obviously, poor Lamb didn’t want to endure what was coming any more than she did. He never could face a crisis with any grace. Laura determined that she would.
Better to distance her mind from everything at home. She might long for Lambdin and her wonderful little mare, Cleopatra. Perhaps she would even miss silly old James and the villagers, but she would not return. Mere existence would no longer serve.
Once she had arrived in London, Laura had prepared herself immediately, with every intention of experiencing life to the fullest extent. Beginning without delay.
First she had confirmed Dr. Cadwallader’s diagnosis. The young doctor she had visited agreed with the findings the very moment after she had listed her symptoms. He specialized in treating young women and their ills, he had assured her. Though the man proposed a lengthy and rather expensive treatment, Laura had declined when he offered no promise of a cure. Obviously, there remained little anyone could do for her condition. That only strengthened her determination to carry out her plans. Voracious shopping had occupied the time she might have spent in further useless moaning about her fate. She found that if she stayed constantly on course, never stopping to think too deeply, she absorbed the pain of acceptance gradually.
Why, by this time she could even look forward to the bit of time she had coming to her. What adventures she intended. And not for tomorrow. Today was the thing. Right this very moment.
Laura straightened her skirts and strengthened her grip on her new parasol. Her hair lay expertly coifed under an elegantly feathered chapeau. An undetectable touch of cosmetics brightened her complexion and lips. Her frightfully expensive gown fitted superbly over delectable silk under-things. She wore the confident air of a woman who knew she appeared at the height of fashion.
The only accessory that did not coordinate perfectly was the expensive malacca cane, the one with the hidden catch, a sword cane. Just carrying the thing made her feel totally invincible for the moment.
Heads turned as she entered the Everton Building of Public Offices and crossed to the ironwork lift. They recognized a woman with a purpose when they saw one, Laura thought with a lift of her chin and a secret smile. Death be damned. Today she would begin living every single moment to the hilt. And given a bit of luck and a little more time, she would hire Mr. Sean Wilder to help her do it.
Once she reached the third floor, Wilder Investigations proved easy enough to find. The opaque, half-glass door stenciled gold and black with the company name stood open.
Laura allowed herself a moment to observe the man she had come to see. She watched the broad back and shoulders stretch against a dark brown gabardine coat. He was even larger than she remembered.
Conservative dresser, she mused. The earthen hues he seemed to prefer accentuated his coloring. Like the suit he had worn on his visit to the country, this one seemed designed to avoid ostentation. Not pricey, yet hardly cheap, and cut extremely well. No jaunty plaids or racy houndstooth for this fellow. His clothes were ordinary to a fault. Considering his extraordinary physique, however, Laura knew very well he could not have bought this suit ready-made.
She almost laughed at his studied attempt to avoid drawing attention to himself. Maybe he thought such was necessary in his line of work. He might as well wear glitter-paste stones and purple satin for all the good it did him. Sean Wilder couldn’t go unremarked in a crowd of thousands.
His size and good looks only accounted for a portion of that remarkability, however. Something within the man exuded absolute self-reliance, maybe even danger. Attractive trait, that. Adding intelligence, a sinfully handsome face, and compassion to his list of attributes, Laura knew she had selected the nearly perfect man.
There was his reputation, of course. There were truly wicked rumors about his sordid past, as well as his present endeavors. But those only added to his appeal as far as she was concerned.
When Laura saw him straighten and begin thumbing through the papers he had drawn out of his files, she took a deep breath and rapped on the door frame with the head of his cane. Time was wasting.
“Just leave the coffee on the desk,” Sean muttered. “There’s tuppence for you on the blotter there.” He flicked through the folders in the oak drawer and cursed when he found the one he wanted, misfiled. He pulled it out and riffled through it.
Good thing he had kept his own personal notes while he worked for the Yard. He needed access to the official records, but these jottings he had saved were better than nothing for the moment. Whoever had sent him the threatening letter this week must be one of the miscreants he had given evidence against at one time or another. There were certainly enough candidates for a lengthy list.
He favored George Luckhurst, a well-educated fellow he had nabbed for a murder down near Buck’s Row. The note’s penmanship indicated
