Captives of the Night by Loretta Chase Read Free Book Online Page B

out of cholera. She should not have let him upset her.
    She rose from the sofa and picked up the offending canvas. She should not have taken a fit about
that
, certainly, she chided herself. It had happened only because she'd let Esmond upset her. What a fool she'd made of herself: running away from Norbury House, after babbling to Fiona about mesmerism, for heaven's sake.
    "Gad, I shall become as deranged as Francis," she muttered. "Just from living with him, probably."
    There was a thump and a crash from down the hall. "That's right, you poor sod," she said, glancing up from the smeared painting. "Knock over the furniture. Throw things about. Maybe that's from living with
me
."
    She righted the easel, set the canvas back upon it, dug out fresh supplies of paint from the cupboard, retrieved her brushes from various parts of the room, and resolutely set to work.
    Her mind — if not her heart — cleansed by the recent tempest, she eventually succeeded in obliterating every trace of the Comte d'Esmond's provoking countenance.
    While she worked, she told herself she
could
leave Francis. She could go away from England and change her name. Again. She could paint anywhere. She was only seven and twenty. That wasn't too old to begin again. But she'd think it over later, when she was calmer. She'd talk to Andrew. Though no longer her guardian, he was still her solicitor. He'd advise and help her.
    Hand and mind occupied, she didn't notice the time passing. Not until she'd finished the painting and begun cleaning up did she glance at the clock on the mantel. Then she discovered it was past teatime. She'd been working for hours in rare, blessedly uninterrupted quiet. But where the devil was her tea?
    She was about to yank the bell rope when Mrs. Dempton came to the open studio door bearing a heap of bed linens.
    As the servant glanced into the wrecked studio, her jowly countenance tightened with disapproval.
    Leila ignored it. Obviously, she and Francis were not ideal employers. They'd been through three different sets of servants in ten months. All had disapproved of her.
    "When will tea be ready?" Leila asked.
    "In a trice, mum. I was only hoping to get in to change Mr. Beaumont's bedding first — but the door's still shut tight."
    And Mrs. Dempton knew better than to knock. When Francis' door was closed, he was not to be disturbed unless the house was on fire. Today Mrs. Dempton had surely heard for herself what had happened when the master's wife had troubled his rest.
    "Then I suppose he'll have to wait until tomorrow for clean sheets," said Leila.
    "Yes, mum, only he did ask particular, and told Mr. Dempton he'd have a bath, and now the water's near boiled away, because I told Mr. D. not to haul it up until that door was open. The last time — "
    "Yes, Mrs. Dempton. I quite understand."
    "And Mr. Beaumont asked for scones for his tea, which I was happy to make, I'm sure, as he don't eat enough to keep a mouse alive, but there they are, turning stone cold in the kitchen and the water boiled away and you looking for your tea, and the bedding not even changed." The disapproving expression sharpened into accusation.
    She thought it was all Leila's fault, obviously. Leila had quarreled with her husband and he'd locked himself in his room to sulk, inconveniencing the servants.
    But surely he'd given the orders after the quarrel, and so he could not have been sulking then — or intending to sleep so long. Leila frowned. Laudanum, of course. He'd complained of a headache. He must have taken laudanum and fallen asleep. There was nothing new in that.
    Nonetheless, she felt a prickle of uneasiness.
    "I had better look in on him," she said. "He may have an engagement. He'll be vexed if he sleeps through it."
    She left the studio and moved quickly down the hall to his bedroom. She rapped at the door. "Francis?" He didn't answer. She gave a harder rap and called to him more sharply. No response. "Francis!" she shouted, pounding on the