Alyssa Everett Read Online Free PDF Page A

realized with a jolt of alarm that she must be every bit as determined to protect her sister as I was to clear my cousin.
    “I’ll be back,” I ground out, and I charged off to stop her before she put the last nail in Teddy’s coffin.
    Barbara
    I’d never seen a dead man before, and certainly not up close. When I’d last crossed paths with the Woodfords’ footman, he’d been a grinning rascal with a familiar wink. Now he lay lifeless on our tiled marble floor, Mama’s jackal-headed Egyptian statuette beside him and his brains a bloody mess.
    In the hour since I’d first heard Helen scream, the house had filled with grim-faced strangers and horrified acquaintances of the victim. Even that arrogant Lord Beningbrough was here, having apparently learned of Cliburne’s difficulties and rallied to his side. The cousins were sitting together on the next-to-last stair, speaking to each other in low voices, their long legs stretched out before them. At any other time I would have relished the opportunity to observe two such well-favored gentlemen unnoticed, but Cliburne’s face was so pale and Beningbrough looked so...so vehement , seeing them only reminded me of the dead body on the floor.
    “Excuse me, Lady Barbara, but I’m Dawson of Bow Street,” said an unfamiliar voice, and I wheeled around to find a man with a notebook in his hand. “Might I ask you a few questions?” He was middle-aged, short and stocky, with thinning ginger hair and a cheerful expression that seemed strangely at odds with the grim nature of his work.
    “Yes, but it’s really my sister you should be talking to.”
    Mr. Dawson glanced to where Helen stood near the front door, weeping brokenly on Papa’s shoulder. “I’ve tried, my lady, but she’s too distraught.”
    Of course she was. When had Helen ever failed to get out of a difficult spot by crying? Dryly, I said, “My sister has extremely delicate sensibilities.”
    He shook his head in sympathy. “Poor thing. She’s a very pretty girl.”
    I nodded without enthusiasm. If one more man referred to Helen as pretty , I was going to give him the coldest, most contemptuous stare I could manage. In our family, everyone had some distinction. My brother Jack was the competitive one, Will was the fun-loving one, I was the headstrong one, and Edmund was the quiet one. Helen, needless to say, was the pretty one.
    All my life, I’d wanted to be the pretty one. The pretty one drew all the attention and was loved just for showing up. No one ever pitied the pretty one because a suitor had trifled with her affections, or worried the pretty one was going to turn out an old maid. Unfortunately, I had inherited my grandmama Merton’s looks, and everything about me was just a little too —my height a shade too tall, my hair a shade too red, my bosom too generous for real refinement. Worse yet, I didn’t have Helen’s talent for that fetching air of helplessness that brought men crashing to their knees. I was never going to be the pretty one.
    I could shrug off most of the resulting sorrows and slights, but Cliburne’s recent defection had hurt. It wasn’t so much that he’d broken my heart past reclaiming. It was more the idea of what Cliburne had represented—a good-looking, sought-after young man who thought I was every bit as special as Helen. Someone I could count on. Someone capable of loving me for myself.
    I’d met him first, a good month before Helen had, when he’d called to collect my brother Will for an expedition to Bond Street. He’d been so friendly, and over the next six weeks we’d met again and again as we’d found ourselves at the same social functions. I’d tried to keep a level head despite his sweet smile and warm brown eyes. After all, I was used to gentlemen rushing past me to get to my sister. But Helen had been visiting our aunt Archer in Brighton, and little by little I’d allowed myself to hope Cliburne might be developing feelings for me. Even after Helen