Chapter 9 #2
“I never suggested you were incapable of doing so,” Everett said tightly. “But for ten years, you were so determined that you would never marry either. Not after what happened. I don’t understand how you fell in love with King in such haste.”
Ten years? There it was again, that odd sensation within her, akin to an itch she could not scratch. What had happened ten years ago with this Lord Leopold?
“I don’t know what you’re speaking of,” she denied, frowning at her brother. “If you would only explain yourself fully, perhaps I could have a better understanding of your concerns.”
She didn’t miss the way Sybil laid a staying hand on her brother’s forearm, as if to warn him against offering further argument.
Everett clenched his jaw. “Now is not the time for it. Let us enjoy our tea before it grows cool. Maman has been missing you dreadfully as well, as has Sybil. I suppose I must not monopolize the conversation.”
Before anyone could say more, a commotion heralded the return of Lady Eastlake and Henry from their shopping expedition. The two joined in for tea, and Verity spent the rest of her call trying to distract herself from the troubling things her brother had hinted at.
A commotion was being unleashed somewhere on the floor above King, a cacophony unlike any which he had heretofore heard. Perhaps one of the maids had spied a mouse, he reasoned. Although he was more than certain there weren’t any rodents here at Castelyn House.
King frowned and attempted to devote himself more thoroughly to his correspondence, a task which proved futile when the noise only became louder and more intrusive.
Verity had gone to pay a call on her brother.
Riverdale had invited her to tea, whilst intentionally withholding an invitation to King.
He hadn’t minded the insult. It was earned.
But he missed her already. Not because of the clamor that was currently nettling him, but because knowing he could find her at any moment and make love to her was one of his favorite things in the bloody world.
She was one of his favorites, actually, full stop.
Being married to her was a joy he had never before imagined.
He woke to her naked in his bed every morning, fell asleep to her in his arms, her soft scent surrounding him, her seductive curves melting against him.
They broke their fasts together, bathed together, and otherwise spent as much of their waking and sleeping hours as possible together.
And perversely, the more he had of her, the more he wanted.
He wanted her more than he wanted to eat, sleep, or breathe. More than he wanted the present uproar in his household to stop.
Blast. He truly was going to investigate what the bloody hell was going on. With a sigh, he rose from his desk and stalked out of the study. He found his butler at once.
“Pierpont, what is that dreadful sound?” he demanded.
“I do believe the source of the noise is our young Miss Emma, Your Grace,” the butler intoned with an almost comical lack of expression.
The sound grew louder, and at once, King knew what it was. Now he understood. The noise was no longer muffled but quite loud and distinct. The child was weeping.
“Where the devil is the maid who is meant to be watching her?” he demanded.
“I shall inquire with Mrs. Sendall, Your Grace,” Pierpont said.
That would only take longer. The wailing grew shriller. He sighed.
“Never mind, Pierpont. I will do it myself.”
“But, Your Grace,” the butler protested.
King ignored him, for he was already striding for the staircase.
The sooner he reached the source of the disagreeable screeching, the better.
Pity Verity wasn’t here to help him. He had no doubt that his wife would have already calmed the child by now.
That was part of what made her an angel among mere mortals.
Well, that and the way she continuously and unfailingly saw the best in his own miserable hide.
The wailing child was in the hall outside the nursery, face streaked with tears, lashes spiky and wet. Her cheeks were reddened. The maid was at her side, awkwardly patting her shoulder in an effort to console her.
“There now, Miss Emma,” she was saying in a soothing voice. “We’ll find it soon. Don’t you fret.”
All this because the child had lost something?
“What is the matter?” he asked, startling Emma and the maid both.
“Your Grace!” said the maid, dipping into a curtsy. “Forgive me for the noise.”
“Noise? It sounds as if there is a ballroom filled with wild animals in here,” he grumbled before directing his attention to the girl. “What is the matter, child?”
“My locket,” Emma cried. “I’ve lost it and can’t find it anywhere.”
It must have been the locket the girl had received from her mother, he realized, recalling Verity speaking about it when they had been searching for the child.
Something inside him felt as if it had broken open.
He understood the need to hold on to an object because parting with it meant that one’s last hold on someone who was forever gone would vanish.
Heaven knew that was what he had done with the nursery, first leaving Daphne’s meager belongings within because removing them had been more than he could bear.
And later, leaving them there because it had made him feel close to her.
King swallowed hard against a rush of unwanted emotion and sank to his knees on the carpeted hall. “Where did you last have the locket? Do you recall where you were and what you were doing?”
Emma sniffled, trying to catch her breath. “I-it was o-on the t-table by m-my bed.”
“I’ve looked everywhere, Your Grace,” the maid offered, her expression pained. “I can’t seem to find the locket anywhere.”
The child was quite plainly not going to be mollified unless she had her locket restored to her.
But that begged the question of where the piece of jewelry had gone.
King had no doubt that his servants were loyal and of high moral character.
None of them would have absconded with a child’s treasured locket.
Which meant that the necklace was lost, likely somewhere within the nursery.
The child sniffled, fat tears rolling down her cheeks. “It’s gone forever.”
“There now,” he said, reaching into his coat and extracting a handkerchief to offer to the girl. “It isn’t gone forever. We shall find it.”
She tentatively accepted the handkerchief, using it to mop the tears from her eyes and cheeks before noisily blowing her nose.
Gads. Now it was filled with snot. The memory of giving Verity his handkerchief when she had been weeping at Riverdale’s ball rose in his mind.
He rubbed idly at his chest, that new, strange feeling continuing to unfurl.
It wasn’t horror.
Wasn’t disgust.
It wasn’t even annoyance.
No, it was something else entirely. Something profound and shattering. Something capable of undoing everything inside him. Something his instincts told him he must avoid at all costs. He had experienced it once. Had allowed himself to be vulnerable, to see the wonder in a child. In his child.
And then within days, he had laid that babe into the earth as if she had never existed.
He should quit the house and leave the girl in the care of the maid. This was not his problem to solve. He ought to seek out solace and quiet at the bottom of a bottle somewhere that neither tears nor a small girl with luminous blue eyes and a red, snot-shiny nose could reach him.
But for some reason, he couldn’t. He didn’t.
“Shall we look for the locket?” he inexplicably found himself asking the child instead.
Emma nodded, sniffling into his handkerchief.
“Come,” he said, rising to his full height and extending his hand for her to take. “We’ll make an adventure of it.”
And when little Emma placed her hand in his, he was rather mortified to discover that it was wet. Snot or tears, he couldn’t be sure. But he didn’t recoil. Instead, he walked the child into the nursery, and they set about looking for the missing locket.