His Wicked Sins by Silver Eve Read Free Book Online Page A

of Burndale Academy and listened to the
    maid say that Isobel would not come.
    Will you fetch her?
    After what had happened the last time, he most certainly would not fetch her.
    The maid—what was her name?—Alice. She had eyed him warily, as though she
    expected him to tear her head from her body.
    Bloody hell.
    Isobel was to come for dinner once each week. Usually she was there on the step
    waiting for him, docile. But once before she had refused to come. It had been a stormy
    day, like this one, like the one three years in the past.
    Last time he had lifted her and carried her to the curricle. She had been a limp doll,
    unresponsive, her head lolling to the side. But as he had placed her on the seat, she had
    begun to scream and scream, bloodcurdling sounds that were horrific in their torment. His
    horses had shied and he had been hard-pressed to keep them from bolting with both the
    carriage and Isobel behind them.
    He closed his eyes for a moment at the recollection, pinched the bridge of his nose.
    Isobel was better away from here.
    Hell, he was better away from here.
    Sometimes, he thought they were best off far away from each other. Perhaps she was
    the wiser of the two of them, given his current melancholy.
    He ran his palm along the stubble that roughened his jaw, disturbed by this turn of his
    thoughts.
    From the floor below him came the sound of the hall clock, echoing hollowly. He
    wanted to break that clock, to tear out the workings, to stop time—
    No. He would not allow himself to free the rage. His anger was too close to the surface
    tonight, with the storm and the memories heavy upon him.
    Footsteps sounded behind him, and he turned to find Mrs. Ashton, his housekeeper,
    standing at the far end of the gallery, shadowed but for the glow of her candle. Flickering
    fingers of light and shadow danced along the walls and darker doorways. Her hand shook,
    and the flame leaped and swayed, caught by the terrible draft that found its way through
    the boards.
    HIS WICKED SINS
    Page 27 of 103
    He knew why she had come even before she spoke.
    "Sorry I am to bother you, sir—" Her words caught on a sob. "'Tis my husband's niece,
    Sarah. She is gone. Never returned to her work at Briar House after her half day."
    Briar House. Griffin tensed at her words.
    "Perhaps she has run off with her beau," he suggested, forcing a casual tone.
    "No." Mrs. Ashton shook her head. "No, I feel it. As soon as I heard, I thought of the
    other two, their hair shorn off, their fingers—" She shook her head again, and finished on
    a whisper. "I fear she is dead."
    Not yet. Certainty clawed him, sharp and deep.
    "Have searchers been organized?" he asked, though he knew they would not find her.
    "Yes."
    "I should like to offer—"
    "No!" Mrs. Ashton cut him short, then continued in a quieter tone, though her voice
    shook and the words sounded clipped. "I beg your pardon, sir. I mean no disrespect. But I
    fear that were you to arrive at Briar House, even to offer your assistance, it would"—she
    drew a ragged breath—"it would…" Shaking her head rapidly from side to side, she
    exhaled in a rush. "I only ask leave to go to my husband's brother's home in Northallerton.
    To offer what comfort I may to the girl's family."
    He knew very well what she left unsaid. His presence at Briar House would only make
    everything worse. Likely, they would have him dragged from the premises. He could not
    blame them. He could hardly expect Amelia's parents to welcome him to Briar … they had
    entrusted their only child to him in holy matrimony.
    And he had killed her.
    There was little else to be said about that.
    "You must go to your family, Mrs. Ashton. Offer what comfort you can."
    "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir." The housekeeper turned and walked away, her posture
    stooped, her gait pained, a middle-aged woman made ancient in the space of an hour.
    Griffin closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose.
    And, inexplicably, thought of the teacher,