‘I will do so, post-haste,’ the man said.
She turned to Dell. ‘Come. We can sit in here.’
He followed her to a comfortable sitting room on the first floor, its walls decorated with a cheerful yellow wallpaper with birds and flowers abounding. The bright setting could not be in greater contrast to Dell’s feelings inside. Lord Tinmore was dead and, though he’d done nothing to cause the man’s fall, it never would have happened if he had not entered the house.
‘Please sit, Dell.’
He placed his hat on a nearby table and removed his gloves and topcoat. She lowered herself on to a sofa upholstered in gold brocade. He sat near in a matching chair.
‘That was Mr Filkins, Lord Tinmore’s secretary,’ she explained. ‘It was kind of him to do as I asked. He is not a servant.’
No, a secretary would be one of those unfortunate souls who fell somewhere between servant and family. Like governesses and tutors.
Lorene averted her gaze. ‘He is the only one who likes me a little.’
Her words broke through his own worries. ‘The only one?’
She gave a wan smile. ‘The servants are very attached to Lord Tinmore—’ She caught herself. ‘Were attached to him. He was not warm to them, of course, but he paid them well and most have been with him longer than you and I have been alive. They considered me...an outsider, I suppose.’
He’d heard members of the ton describe her as a fortune hunter. Unfair when her marriage was more properly a selfless act. Besides, she’d paid a high price. Her husband neglected and belittled her by turns. And the servants resented her?
What a lonely situation to be in.
She wrung her hands. ‘I—I am not certain what I should be doing. I feel I should be doing something.’
‘If you need to leave, do not hesitate. You do not need to stay with me,’ he assured her. ‘This room is comfortable enough.’
‘No.’ She pressed her fingers against her temples. ‘I should have ordered a bedchamber made ready for you. I had not thought of it.’
‘No need. I do not want you burdened with me.’ He paused. ‘Especially because what—what—happened was because of me.’
Her face turned paler. ‘No. Because of me. Because I defied him.’
His anger at Tinmore flared once more. ‘He refused you a visit with your sisters on Christmas Day. That was very poorly done of him.’
‘Still...’ Her voice trailed off.
What would happen to her now? Had Tinmore provided for her? Or did Tinmore neglect to do so, the way he neglected her in other ways?
Tinmore’s accusations would not help. No doubt she’d become the victim of more gossip because of the way Tinmore died. God knew she did not deserve that. Would anyone truly believe he and Lorene were lovers? Or, worse, that he’d caused Tinmore’s death?
They would not be entirely wrong. He’d certainly been the catalyst for it.
She rose from the sofa and began to pace. Dell stood, as well.
‘I wonder...should I have stayed with him?’ Her voice rose, but fell again. ‘I do not know what is expected of me.’
‘What do you wish to do?’ he asked. ‘If you wish to be with him, do not let my presence stop you.’
She glanced at him with pained eyes, but looked away and paced to the marble mantelpiece, intricately carved with leaves and flowers.
It was agony to see her so distressed. He ought to comfort her somehow, ease her pain, but how could he do so?
When he’d caused it.
‘I am sorry this happened, Lorene,’ he murmured. ‘I cannot tell you how sorry I am.’
She glanced at him again with those eyes so filled with torment. ‘Sorry? You are sorry?’
He stepped closer to her and wanted to reach out to her, but did not dare.
Death arrived when least expected.
Tinmore’s death had been quick, but death had not been as kind to Dell’s family. His father, mother, brother and sister, as well as several servants, perished in a fire in their London town house in April of 1815. Think of the terror and pain of such a death.
He shook himself. If he thought of that, he would descend into depression and this time not come out. ‘I never anticipated this would happen,’ he forced himself to say.
She leaned her forehead against the white marble. ‘Nor did I,’ she whispered. ‘I never dreamed he would think—’
That they were lovers? Who could think such a thing? He had been nothing but polite to her.
With a cry of pain she flung herself on to the sofa again and buried her head in her hands.
He sat next to her, his arm around her. ‘I know what it is to grieve,’ he said. ‘Cry all you wish.’
She turned to him, her voice shrill. ‘Grieve? Grieve? How little you understand! I am the most wretched of creatures! I do not feel grief! I feel relief.’
She collapsed against his chest and he held her close, murmuring words of comfort.
The door opened and she pulled away from him, wiping her eyes with her fingers.
‘Your tea and brandy, ma’am,’ a footman announced in a tone of disapproval.
‘Put it on the table,’ she managed in a cracked voice. ‘And please tell Mrs Boon to make a room ready for Lord Penford.’
The footman put the tray on the table next to the sofa and bowed, leaving without another word.
‘Brandy?’ she offered, lifting the carafe with a shaking hand.
He took it from her. ‘I’ll pour. Perhaps you would like some brandy, as well. To steady yourself.’
She nodded and another tear rolled down her lovely cheek.
He handed her the glass and she downed the liquid quickly, handing it back to him for more. He poured another for her and one for himself, which he was tempted to gulp down as she had done.
He sipped it instead.
She blinked away more tears and took a deep breath. ‘You must think me a dreadful person.’
‘Not at all.’ The dreadful person had been her husband. ‘Perhaps you have endured more than you allow others to know.’
She shook her head and took another big sip. ‘He—he was not so awful a husband, really. He merely liked for people to do as he desired. All the time.’
Tinmore
