Chapter 10
Emme gazed out the window of the bedroom where Mrs. Patterson had deposited her. It was a large room with warm-colored tapestries
on the stone walls and a canopied bed at the center. Afternoon light radiated through beveled glass windows, casting fractured
rainbows across the dark wood floor.
Her fingers idly traced the embroidered edge of the elegant green day dress Mrs. Patterson had left for her to wear. It had
been Arianna’s, she’d heard Simon say.
Arianna Reeves. An undisputed beauty with her dark hair and eyes a shade of blue matching Simon’s. Where was she? What had
happened to her?
Emme’s thoughts trailed to Charlotte. And why would a viscount’s little sister feel the need to steal chickens?
The events of the morning—and everything since she’d seen Simon again this season—swirled through her thoughts in a hopeless
tangle, not unlike the garden below. She studied the walled sprawl of vines and flowers, noting where a careful hand had once
tried to tame the chaos.
Had that been his mother’s work?
Lowering herself onto the window seat, Emme pressed a hand to her chest. What had happened to her? How had she died? And how did the trinity of losses—his father, his mother, and whatever fate had befallen Arianna—shape
Simon’s choices?
Her heart ached with a strange tenderness.
Perhaps his reasons for leaving her two years ago held more nuance than she had believed.
It didn’t absolve him of not telling her the truth, but it reshaped the heartbreak.
Maybe it wasn’t that he had rejected her, but rather that he had chosen someone else—someone who needed him more.
Could the “ladies” he’d boasted taking precedence over her have been his sisters? His mother?
The realization settled over her like a long-overdue answer to an unsolvable riddle. The nonsensical suddenly made sense.
And despite everything, compassion for Simon Reeves swelled in her chest.
He needed help in so many ways.
A scrape outside the room pulled Emme to her feet.
Opening the door, Emme came face-to-face with a sight that could only be described as the most peculiar kind of adorableness
she’d ever encountered. A little girl stood there, no more than six years old, her golden curls a wild tangle accented with
a few blades of grass and a smudge of dirt on one cheek. She might have stepped straight from the pages of a fairy tale—if
Ravenscross’s library contained such stories.
Surely it did. Perhaps not novels, but certainly fairy tales.
At the girl’s side was a gray hound, who shuffled forward to sniff Emme’s skirts before graciously accepting a pat on the
head and returning to his young charge.
“Hello.” Emme crouched slightly to meet the girl’s wide, fawn-brown eyes. “And who might you be?”
The little girl examined Emme a moment before responding. “I’m Fia.”
“Fia?” Short for . . . Sophia, perhaps? “It is nice to meet you. My name is Emme.”
Emme’s longer name often proved burdensome for little ones and “Miss” seemed much too formal for such an informal introduction.
If this was another of Simon’s siblings, she looked the least like the other Reeveses with that blonde hair and those large
brown eyes. Perhaps through the nose?
Fia’s dimpled smile widened. “Are you a friend of Simon’s?”
The word friend carried a weight Emme hadn’t anticipated. “I am.”
“Lottie said so.” Fia nodded as she pulled something from the pocket of her rumpled dress.
A wriggling something.
A frog-like wriggling something. And from the grip Fia had on the creature, it was likely fighting for its life.
“And you will like my friend.”
Emme’s stomach twisted, but she managed to keep her expression neutral. “Your friend?”
“His name is Blast.” Fia thrust the amphibian toward her. “And Lottie said you’d like him.”
Lottie? Hmm . . . Charlotte?
A flicker of movement in the hallway caught Emme’s eye, and she spotted a dark head of curls vanishing around the corner.
Clearly, little Miss Charlotte Reeves was testing her. But if Charlotte thought Emme would be easily unsettled, she was sorely
mistaken. After all, Emme had been the substitute mother to her brother, Alfie, for years, and he had an unparalleled love
for nature in all its most . . . unexpected forms.
Half out of spite and half out of compassion for the poor creature, Emme smoothed her hands over the fine fabric of the borrowed
gown, then extended her palms to the little girl. “Let’s see what you have there then.”
“He’s a frog,” Fia announced, as if Emme didn’t know. “He’s very happy to see you. Look how he’s trying to jump into your
hands.”
As an escape, no doubt. Emme cupped her palms around the wiggling creature so that his body was free within her hold and his
head peeked from between her fingers.
“You must be a very nice person to like frogs,” Fia declared with the utmost seriousness.
Emme smiled. “If liking frogs is the measure, then yes, I must be.”
Fia’s smile widened into a double-dimpled masterpiece, her missing teeth only adding to the effect. For a moment Emme was overcome with the urge to scoop up the muddy, delightful little girl and hug her.
“I had another frog last month. His name was Rufus.” She touched a gentle finger to the frog’s head peeking from Emme’s fingers.
“But he fell asleep and wouldn’t wake up.”
Oh dear.
Fia shrugged, only momentarily bothered. “But I found a new one.”
“And why did you name this one Blast?”
“For Simon,” she explained. “It’s one of his favorite words.”
A snicker slipped past Emme’s lips this time. “Is it?”
“Mm-hmm.” She nodded, her hair bouncing around as if it were as desperate as the frog. “Lottie said that naming him Blast-It-All
was too long.”
Emme pressed her teeth into her lower lip to suppress her laugh and glanced toward the hallway to the eavesdropper. This time,
Charlotte didn’t bother hiding but sauntered closer.
“I do believe the shorter name suits such a small creature.” Emme returned her attention to Fia.
“That’s what Lottie said.”
As Charlotte stepped nearer, Emme studied her more closely. What on earth would drive a girl her age to steal chickens? Was
Ravenscross truly in such dire straits that even the children felt the burden?
“I suppose we should be introduced properly.” Emme offered the poor frog back to Fia, ensuring she assisted the little one
in a better grip. Then she wiped her fingers on the tiny—and dirty—apron at Fia’s waist before offering her hand to Charlotte.
“Emmeline Lockhart.”
Charlotte hesitated, her curious gaze sweeping over Emme before finally taking her hand with a confident grip. “Charlotte
Reeves.”
She couldn’t be more than fourteen, but there was gravity to those eyes.
“A pleasure.”
“Is it?” Charlotte challenged.
This child was born to star in a novel.
“Perhaps I should say I sincerely hope it will become a pleasure,” Emme replied, her lips twitching.
One corner of Charlotte’s mouth quirked upward, and her deep blue eyes narrowed slightly. “Did you truly follow me all that
way just because of some chickens?”
“To be honest, justice for the chickens was only part of it,” Emme said, maintaining an air of composure, despite Charlotte’s
growing grin. “I’m terribly curious by nature, and you presented quite the mystery. So, in hopes of liberating those chickens
and discovering your secret, I followed you all that way.”
“And you didn’t come to see Simon at all?” One of her dark brows rose with more accusation than intrigue. “He has quite a
few ladies after his title, from what I’ve heard.”
Oh, she was well aware of Simon’s admirers—most of them ill-suited, the worst being Selena Hemston. But there were at least
five others who had made their intentions plain, not to mention the hopefuls charmed by the enigmatic Viscount of Ravenscross.
The man could do with a secretary just to manage his romantic prospects.
“You don’t like that idea?” Charlotte’s sharp question pulled Emme from her thoughts.
This young lady was much too perceptive.
“Well . . .” Warmth crept into Emme’s cheeks. “Titles are all well and good, but if they don’t improve someone’s life or character,
I fail to see why they should command so much attention.”
Charlotte studied her before offering a reluctant shrug. “I suppose not.”
Emme’s untamed curiosity leapt to fill the pause. “But surely your brother’s travels have yielded better prospects for a viscountess? St. Groves’ social pool is rather . . . limited.”
“I doubt it.” Charlotte’s nose wrinkled with her frown. “The only journeys Simon has taken were to pay off debts or search
for Arianna. He’d have done better staying here. We needed him more than she did. Arianna made her own choice. The rest of
us didn’t have one.”
Emme blinked, her assumptions crumbling. All the rumors about Simon gallivanting across Europe, womanizing and carousing,
were just that—rumors. And Arianna’s disappearance? By her own volition? Had she . . . run away?
A sudden cry cut through her musings.
“Blast!” Fia’s voice rang out as she dashed down the hall, the unfortunate frog leaping for its life. “Come back!”
Emme exchanged a look with Charlotte, and then they both set off after the little girl, skirts flying as Fia continued her
noisy pursuit. The frog sprang toward an open doorway and disappeared under the bed.
“Blast-It-All, get back here!” Fia cried, dropping to her knees to crawl after it.
A highly unladylike snort escaped Emme as she lifted her hem to quicken her pace into the room, only to barrel directly into
Mrs. Agatha Thornbury.
“What is the meaning of this commotion?” Mrs. Thornbury’s narrow-eyed glare swept from Emme to Charlotte and then to Fia,
who was dropping to her knees by the bed.
“Blast-It-All is running away, Aunt Aggie,” Fia announced as she crawled beneath the bed.
“Blast-It . . . ?” Mrs. Thornbury looked up to Emme for clarification.
“Fia’s frog,” Emme offered with a helpless shrug.