Chapter 25
Harry’s house was cold, bitterly so. No servant greeted them at the door, and only a single candle guttered on the table in the hall. Amelia was willing to bet that every fire in the house was out, the grates cold and miserable.
“I’m sorry it isn’t more inviting,” Harry sighed, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up. “I keep a few servants these days. As I said, times are rather hard.”
“I thought you said you’d replenished the St. Louis coffers?” she asked.
He smiled tightly. “I haven’t topped them up as well as I’d have liked. Come, I’ll show you to the drawing room. It’s not as grand as Stephen’s, but it suits my purposes.”
Without waiting for a response, he set off at a loping pace down the hall, leaving her to scuttle behind.
Goosebumps still pebbled her skin, and the air inside the house was not much warmer than outside.
He had taken the candle, leaving the lantern behind, and held it aloft as he went.
She was forced to jog after him, her breath fogging in front of her.
“Slow down, Harry,” she panted.
He threw a quick glance over his shoulder at her and offered a tight smile. “I’m sorry. I’m used to pleasing only myself, you see. For example, I can’t stand having the servants around after supper, so I send them all to bed so I can prowl around my house. Hence the less-than-warm welcome.”
“I don’t mind. I am not used to servants.”
He said nothing to that and slowed his pace only a little.
Amelia was beginning to feel uneasy. They had kept up an easy stream of conversation on the walk here, and it had almost—almost!
—felt as though she were talking to an ordinary man, not her brother.
Not the man who’d forced them out of their home and driven Mama to her grave.
The same man who bore a striking resemblance to many of the portraits hanging on the walls.
Harsh, austere gazes rained down on her as she trotted underneath them, generations of viscounts, viscountesses, and their relations branching away down the hall.
Many of them had the same red-gold hair that she and Marjory had, and her own long nose and mud-brown eyes peered down at her, made black by the darkness of the hall.
At the end of the hall was a large portrait of her father, about a decade younger than she remembered him, with a faint, nervous smile on his lips and his hair combed forward to hide his receding hairline.
A portrait of Harry hung beside him. He did not smile, but stared sullenly out of the frame at the viewer.
“Don’t fall behind, Amelia,” Harry called, from further up the hall.
She trotted after him, glad to leave the accusatory painted eyes behind. Harry waited for her in a doorway, gesturing for her to step inside. She was relieved to get out of the cavernous space.
“They all seemed to be glaring at me,” she murmured.
Harry snorted. He didn’t even ask what she meant, seeming to understand at once that she meant the endless portraits.
“It’s a rite of passage,” he explained. “A Holt must have their portrait painted and hung on the wall. That’s just how it is. Did you notice mine there at the end?”
“I did.”
He smiled at her. “Perhaps we can paint you and your sisters. The three of you in one frame. We can hang you all.”
Amelia swallowed. She didn’t like the idea of her likeness hung in one of those complicated gilt frames, the three of them crammed together, stuck up on that wall for eternity with the rest of her miserable ancestors.
“No, thank you,” she said.
Harry chuckled. “It’s an honor. Oh, you’ll come round, sooner or later. Now, in you go, and I’ll fetch us some tea.”
“I’m not thirsty,” Amelia answered.
It was a lie. She was thirsty, hungry, and cold. But somehow she did not want to be alone in that drafty, cavernous drawing room.
It wasn’t at all like Stephen and Letitia’s drawing room, which was warm and cozy, with plenty of inviting seats. There were books, plenty of convenient tables, and even blankets and rugs for when one got cold.
This room was designed for style, not comfort.
A pair of high-back armchairs stood before an empty fireplace, an ornate mantelpiece looming over it.
There were a few chaises here and there, overstuffed and uninviting.
Aside from that, there was only one hard-looking window seat and a few straight-back chairs.
Amelia stepped inside, glancing around and wondering if she really could see her breath in the room. There were plenty of windows, massive panes of glass looking out onto the green lawn outside. The windows dripped with condensation, the water seeping into the half-rotted wooden sills.
“Wait here. I shan’t be long,” Harry promised, and slipped out of the room without another word.
“No, don’t—” Amelia began, but the door closed, cutting her off.
She bit her lip, staring at the impersonal rectangle of wood. Unease had settled over her the second she stepped over the threshold. It had not dissipated.
No wonder Father hated this place.
No, this house could never be her home. She’d never want to bring Marjory and Nancy here, certainly not.
Amelia had always assumed that nobles’ houses were all the same.
Occasionally, she and Emmeline would visit the houses of grand ladies and gentlemen, sneaking in through the back door to deliver boxes of dresses and accessories.
The places reminded her of this—large, designed to impress, and without any homely comforts at all.
Stephen’s home was different. It wasn’t like this place.
Harry had left the candle, at least. It was too much; she couldn’t stay here. Letting out a ragged sigh, Amelia snatched it up and hurried over to the door. He couldn’t have gone far, and she guessed that she could find the kitchens alone.
I’ll tell him that I’m leaving. Or better yet, that he can come and talk to Stephen. Surely he can make Stephen understand. He’s a rational man, and if Letitia speaks to her grandson too, then surely—
The door did not budge.
Amelia’s heart dropped into her stomach. She imagined it landing with a splash of bile and acid.
The door was locked. The door was locked.
She tried it again, sure she was mistaken. Frantically jiggling the handle, she felt her panic mounting. She felt sick. A sudden gust made the flame flicker, and she hastily set down the candle, terrified that her one light in the gloomy room was going to desert her.
Think rationally. The door is locked. It’s locked. Now what?
She glanced around the room, looking for other doors, other exits, and finding none. The windows were mostly painted shut, or their latches were rusted shut.
He locked me in.
She tried her best to dismiss that thought. It would mean the unease she’d felt upon entering the house had nothing to do with the creepy old place at all. No, the portraits on the walls weren’t glaring at her. They were warning her.
Warning her about Harry.
Amelia squeezed her eyes shut.
How could I have been so stupid?
Footsteps echoed in the hall outside, and she jolted back, a chill shooting up her spine. There was shuffling outside, a click, and the door opened. Harry stepped inside, balancing a heavy wooden tea tray on one hand.
“Making yourself comfortable?” he asked, beaming.
“You locked me in.”
He went still. “What? No, I didn’t.”
“I tried the door after you left,” Amelia said, lifting her chin. “It was locked.”
Harry gave a tight-lipped smile, pushing the door closed behind him with his heel. He set the heavy tray down on a table, and she saw that a teapot sat upon it with a pair of teacups. No milk, no sugar.
And a knife.
There was a long, sharp-looking knife, the sort of thing a cook might use to hack meat from the bone of a joint.
“The door sticks,” Harry said, pouring two cups of tea. “That’s all.”
“It wouldn’t open, Harry.”
“You probably didn’t pull hard enough.”
“Don’t patronize me.”
He turned to face her, that tight-lipped smile still on his face. “Oh, do forgive me. A woman like you deserves respect, doesn’t she?”
His fingers ghosted over the handle of the knife. He didn’t pick it up, but it was there. Tendrils of panic curled around Amelia’s heart, gently squeezing. Quite slowly, as if it had always been his intention, he lifted the knife, turning it over and over in his hand.
“I shouldn’t have come here,” she breathed. “What was I thinking?”
“Yes, what were you thinking, Amelia? I hadn’t expected you to be a sharp-witted lady fresh from finishing school, but I didn’t expect a heavy-handed blockhead.”
“Put down the knife, Harry. Please.”
Perhaps if she kept holding his gaze and using his name, he would remember that they shared blood. She wanted to back away, but was afraid that any movement might set him off.
I’m in danger. So much danger. And nobody knows where I am.
“Why would I touch the knife?” Harry responded, tilting his head. In the gloom, the flickering candle cast an eerie glow over his face, carving deeper circles beneath his eyes, hollowing his cheeks, and sharpening his jaw. “The knife is for you.”
“For me?” She wanted to laugh hysterically. “You want me dead. How could I have been a fool, such a fool?”
He shrugged. “You wanted a brother. You wanted absolution for the part your family played in my mother’s ruin.
She died of shame, you know. Shame and heartbreak.
I think yours did, too. We have that in common as well.
I imagine you wanted to hope I wasn’t really so bad.
Perhaps you simply wanted to imagine there was another option for you than marrying Stephen. ”
“What do you want from me? Speak plainly, Harry.”
He pushed out his lips and lifted the knife. He ran one fingertip along the side of the shining metal, tapping the very tip. Wincing, he pulled back his finger, revealing a bead of crimson blood.
“Your death would turn you into a saint,” he said.
“People adore martyrs. And they love excessive morality in women. Think of how mad the world went over that heroine, Pamela, or whatever her name was. She was willing to die for virtue, wasn’t she?
I read that book and could not contain my laughter.
Of course, her reward was to marry a vile, pampered little lordling, and they put her face on teacups.
But think of your story. An illegitimate daughter—a beauty, of course, nobody would care if you weren’t a beauty—wracked with guilt over her birth, ashamed of her treacherous mother.
She kills herself, unable to live with her shame, and in doing so turns herself into a martyr.
Think of that! Your death would be a lot less scandalous than your birth, I can assure you. ”
He paused, as if considering.
“A lot less scandalous than if you had married Stephen. Which you won’t do, of course.”
Amelia swallowed. Her throat was suddenly as dry as sandpaper. “You have to let me go, Harry.”
“No, I don’t,” he said gently, setting the knife aside.
“Do you know what the saddest thing about all of this is, Amelia? It didn’t have to be this way.
If you’d married anybody else in the ton, I would have accepted it.
If you’d promised not to do anything foolish, like claiming a relation to me, we could have been friends.
But you had to go and marry him. I can’t let you marry Stephen, Amelia.
I simply can’t. It’s going too far. You’re going too far.
For heaven’s sake, it’s all so ridiculous!
Everybody is getting what they want except me.
And I certainly won’t let Stephen have more than I do. Not this. Not you.”
Amelia licked her lips nervously. She considered diving for the knife, which was resting on the table beside Harry’s elbow.
But then what? Even if she did manage to snatch it up before he shoved her away, what then?
Would they grapple for it? Would she stab him?
Could she? And even if she did, wasn’t it likely that she’d hang for murdering a viscount?
No, diving for the knife was not the answer. She stood still, hands at her sides, thinking.
“What does Stephen have that you don’t?” she asked.
He gave a bark of laughter. “Oh, don’t be a little dolt.
He’s a duke; I’m a viscount. His wealth is triple mine, even if Father hadn’t been foolish enough to fritter it away on nonsense.
He was about to go on a wonderful Grand Tour, while I scrimped and saved at home because my father had squandered all his money on you. ”
He jabbed a finger in her direction, and she flinched as if he’d slapped her.
“That wasn’t my fault,” she whispered.
He didn’t seem to be listening. Eyes half-glazed, Harry took a step forward, and she shuffled nervously backward.
“One bastard is bad enough,” he whispered.
“But it’s understandable. Men make mistakes.
But three? Three bastards, all girls, and he goes and sets them up in a fine house, spends money on them?
It was too far. I couldn’t go on a Grand Tour, but he paid for etiquette lessons for you and your sisters.
New gowns for your mother. Why couldn’t Father tire of her after the first brat, like all sensible men?
He certainly tired of my mother quickly enough. ”
“I believe Father was wrong to do what he did,” Amelia tried, hoping to find common ground. “He wronged your mother and you. But my sisters and I are innocent. You must see that, Harry.”
Harry shook his head. “No, you aren’t. You never were. I warned you, Amelia. I told you to stay away from me. Now you’ll pay the price. Or, if you don’t, your sisters will.”
A chill ran down her spine.
“What do you mean by that, Harry?”
He only gave a brittle smile. “I’ll leave you with the tea. And the knife.”
He slipped out the door, closing it behind him. This time, he made no attempt to hide the click of the lock.
Amelia stood still, listening to his retreat. She shuffled over to the tea tray, eyeing the knife. His footsteps grew quieter.
Gingerly, she picked up the knife. It was a solid, heavy thing, with a wickedly sharp blade and a handle worn smooth by use. Swallowing, she set it down again.
The tea was already beginning to cool in the cold room, with no steam rising from the cups. She set them aside, too. Perhaps there was only tea in the cups, but she had no intention of finding out.
Pausing, she lifted her head and listened. There was no sound of footsteps now.
Letting out a long, ragged sigh, Amelia picked up the heavy tea tray and hurled it with all her strength at the nearest window.
Smash.
At once, footsteps returned, hurrying closer and closer.