Chapter Two
The Winterbourne Mansion, Mayfair, London
Clara Winterbourne was kneeling by the large mahogany sideboard in the library of her family home, a look of determination on her face as she hunted through its many cupboards, drawers, nooks, and crannies, in search of any personal mementoes of her deceased parents.
Gerald Winterbourne, the Viscount Marchfield, and his pretty wife, Lady Cora, had been killed in a mysterious carriage accident eighteen months ago, leaving her heart and her world shattered with grief.
And it was not lessening with time, as she had been assured it would.
The pain still came in flashes which stopped her in her tracks, and fresh tears would fall even though she thought she could cry no more.
The dreadful loss weighed on her, a raw wound she suspected would never heal.
Though she had all her mother’s things and many of her father’s too, she often felt compelled to fill the empty hours by going through cupboards and drawers, in search of any small items of theirs, small tokens of her previously happy existence.
It was surprising what she found hidden away in the unlikeliest places.
She had already found a button from one of her mother’s favourite dresses and a broken cufflink of her father’s.
These precious objects were currently nestling in her skirt pocket and would later be transferred to the velvet box containing similar treasures which sat on her dressing table.
“Oh,” she suddenly said to herself, feeling a surge of excitement, “whatever can that be?” She had caught sight of the corner of a paper protruding from a gap at the bottom of one of the drawers.
Hoping for a letter or some other personal document, she reached in, caught the edge in her fingertips, and carefully pulled it out.
“A letter?” she murmured, turning the folded sheet over in her hand. It looked fairly recent. She unfolded it, seeing neat lines of ink written in the bold hand of her father. Her heart clenched painfully to see it.
Puzzled as to what it was doing in the sideboard and eager to read it, she stood up and went to sit in a chair by the bay window, allowing the afternoon light to illuminate her father’s flowing script.
It was dated just two years since, shortly before the accident that had robbed her of her joy in life. Try as she might, she could not quite make out the name of the addressee, but the bulk of the text was clear, and she began reading with a sense of anticipation.
. . . great distress to me that Sirenwood continues to deny my requests for an interview.
As you know, my business with him is far from finished, and his refusal to see me puts me in a very difficult situation which only he can relieve.
Yet he refuses to do so, claiming it is not his responsibility.
Admittedly, our last meeting did not go well. In short, we had a heated argument about the matter, which ended in him making certain threats before having me ejected from his property.
This is alarming because he has proved himself in the past to be a vindictive man, prepared to ruin those who cross him. I hope I do not exaggerate, my friend, when I tell you that I fear he may carry out his threats. I may yet end up floating in the Thames, a lifeless corpse.
In such troubled circumstances, I am forced to presume on our old friendship and beg for your help.
Should anything happen to me, I should like to know that I may count on you to hold Sirenwood to account and, thereby, ensure the safety and future security of my family.
I would be eternally grateful to you if you could see your way into assisting me in this matter.
I look forward most eagerly to receiving your reply.
Winterbourne
“Well, I never!” Clara exclaimed, staring at the letter and feeling rather breathless as the worrying words sank in.
She read aloud the phrases that leapt out at her: “I may yet end up floating in the Thames, a lifeless corpse . . . Should anything happen to me . . .’” The letter fell into her lap as questions raced wildly through her head.
“What on earth can it all mean? That Papa was in fear for his life because of this Sirenwood? Who is Sirenwood?”
“Talking to yourself again, dear?”
The familiar voice drew her attention to the open door and the tall figure now standing on the threshold. “Uncle. I am sorry, I was so distracted, I did not hear you come in,” she said, summoning a weak smile.
“That is quite all right, I am hardly noteworthy,” replied her Uncle Benedict warmly, coming into the room, leaning heavily on his walking stick.
He had inherited her father’s estate and title and become her official guardian.
He had so far proved to be a caring one, always sympathetic to her grief while nursing his own for the loss of his brother.
He hobbled across and sat in the armchair opposite Clara, propping his stick at his side. “Ah, that’s better. My leg is misbehaving today. It is the rain, I expect.”
“I am sorry to hear it, Uncle. Sit and rest. Shall I order some tea for us?”
“No, no, dear, I may have a small glass of brandy in a while. Helps a bit with the ache, you know. Or at least, makes me forget about it for a while.” He chuckled at his habitual jest and rubbed his knee.
He then appeared to notice the letter in her lap.
“What is that? Anything of interest?” he asked casually.
She immediately held the letter out to him. “Have you seen this before, Uncle? I found it in the sideboard. It was stuck in a crack at the bottom of a drawer full of papers.
“Oh?” he replied, taking the letter in one hand and rummaging in his breast pocket with the other, extracting a gold-rimmed pince-nez. He perched it on the bridge of his nose. “That drawer does need sorting out, I’m afraid. Now, what have we here?” He regarded the letter thoughtfully.
“It is an old letter from Papa to somebody whose name I cannot make out. I have no idea why it should be here and not with the recipient. Perhaps he never sent it for some reason,” she ventured. “The contents are quite alarming, Uncle. I would like to know what you make of it.”
Her uncle peered at her over the pince-nez, his hazel eyes alight with curiosity. “Is that so? Then I shall read it right away.”
He bent his greying head and proceeded to peruse it, while Clara clasped her hands in her lap and sat poised expectantly on the edge of her chair, watching his facial expression, waiting for him to finish.
However, once he had glanced at the letter, his face fell. He stopped reading, folded it up, and placed it on the low table between them. “Oh dear, this is very unfortunate, Clara. Very unfortunate indeed,” he said, peering at her mournfully over the top of his pince-nez.
Clara frowned. “I am confused, Uncle. You know of this letter already?”
He gave a deep sigh. “I must admit I do, Clara. I say it is unfortunate because this letter should not have fallen into your hands.”
“You are familiar with the contents then?”
“Sad to say, I am. To tell you the truth, I only came across it recently among your father’s old papers.”
“Then why did you not tell me about it?”
“I admit I was in two minds about showing it to you. I hesitated to burden you with the knowledge that comes with it. I feared it would deepen your sense of loss,” he said, his voice laden with regret.
“I thought I had secured it properly, but it seems I was remiss.” Clara’s heart clenched to see the guilt etched on his lined features as he replaced the pince-nez in his pocket and added, “Now it seems I have no choice but to tell you all.”
Clara had already gotten over her initial shock about her father being in fear for his life. He was dead and therefore out of danger. However, her natural curiosity at the source of his fear was ratcheting up. It was clear Uncle Benedict could explain its contents if he chose to do so.
“I understand you were acting in my best interest, Uncle, so please, do not feel bad about it in any respect. There is no need to be so nice. I am a grown woman of twenty. If it concerns our family, then why should you keep the burden alone?”
“You are very forgiving, my dear niece,” he replied, giving her a wan smile. “Would that I could forgive myself for such a blunder so easily. I am a foolish old man.”
“Nonsense. You are an old darling, and you know I adore you,” Clara told him, feeling a rush of affection for the man who had cared for her so solicitously since the death of her parents.
“But you can imagine, having found it and read it, that I naturally wish to know more about it since it has to do with my father.” That was an understatement, for in truth, she was burning with curiosity.
“Uncle, do you know who Sirenwood is?” On tenterhooks, she sat with her hands clasped in her lap, eagerly awaiting his response. Yet at the same time, she felt a sense of foreboding in the face of her uncle’s obvious discomfiture. It took him a few moments to answer.
Finally, he cleared his throat and then said, “Yes, dear, I regret to say I do. And I shall tell you in a moment if you would be good enough to fetch me a small brandy first.”
“Of course, Uncle.” She got up and quickly went to do as he asked, keen to continue their conversation, although she felt a little bad for causing him concern.
“Actually, you had better make it a large one. I feel I need it. Mayhap you should have one yourself.”
“No thank you,” she said, putting the large tot on the table in front of him and resuming her seat. “Now, tell me, who is this villain Sirenwood, and what did he have to do with Papa?”
Ten minutes later, she wished she’d had that brandy after all.
***