His Lady Mistress Read Online Free PDF

hands. Clenched fists were not the best way to draw information out of a reluctant man. Not discreetly, anyway.
    ‘Perhaps you could give me her direction, Faringdon. I should like to pay my respects.’ What had they done to her? Could he help her? Might Lady Arnsworth, his Aunt Almeria, employ her?
    Lord Faringdon said quickly, ‘I fear you misunderstand me, Blakehurst. When I said that Miss Scott was no longer with us, I meant that she has…that she is…’
    Cold horror, laced with shocking pain, shuddered through Max. ‘She’s dead.’ Statement, not question, and something inside him tore apart as Lord Faringdon inclined his head in assent.
    ‘Wh…when?’ He could not control the break in his voice. That poor, gallant child. Dead. It lacerated him.
    ‘Oh, quite soon after she came to us, you know.’ Lord Faringdon manufactured a sigh. ‘All very sad of course, but no doubt for the best. There was nothing much one could do for her after Scott’s disgraceful end, you know. Dare say she felt it.’
    Max remembered a fifteen-year-old girl crouched, weeping in the mud of her father’s grave, planting bluebells, and came close to strangling his host.
    ‘I’ve little doubt she did.’ He hardly recognised his own voice, hoarse and shaking.

    Faringdon glanced at him. ‘Sure you won’t have a drink, Blakehurst? You sound as though something’s caught in your throat.’
    Something was—bile. A drink wouldn’t answer the purpose. He’d be tempted to fling it in Faringdon’s face. Somehow he managed to say, ‘I take it she’s buried in the churchyard, then. I’ll pay my respects there.’ Bluebells. She’d liked bluebells. He’d beg some bulbs from the gardeners. A queer sound from Lord Faringdon brought him around. His jaw clenched, Max raised his brows questioningly.
    Lord Faringdon looked as though he might strangle on his cravat as he tugged at it. ‘Ah, well…um…as to that, Blakehurst…no marked grave, y’know. Sad, very sad. Weakness in the bloodline, no doubt. Only glad it bypassed my family.’
    Max’s stomach churned at the import of Faringdon’s words. No marked grave…
    Then she had…the memory of another suicide’s grave rose in accusation. He could feel the rain, smell the wet earth…and hear the awful blows…And he saw again a girl’s tear-streaked face, heard her breaking voice struggle to finish a psalm, felt the slight, trusting weight in his arms as he attempted to comfort her. Saw dark, shadowed eyes shining in the firelight with tears and gratitude for too little, too late.
    Blindly he turned and walked from the room without another word.
     
    Verity slipped away from the kitchens as soon as she had finished helping to count the silver. Swiftly she made her way along the upper corridors towards the back stairs that led up to her chamber.
    The sound of footsteps ascending the main stairs hurried her the more. Her aunt had made it quite plain that she was to remain out of sight of the guests. So far she had managed to get through the day without any serious trouble—a run of luck she had no intention of breaking.
    Reaching the back stairs, she caught up her skirts and tookthe steps two at a time, only to let out a shriek of fright as a shadow detached itself from the wall and grabbed for her. The familiar reek of stale brandy assailed her. ‘Let me go, Godfrey!’ She hit out at her slightly inebriated cousin and tried to dodge around him, but he caught her easily in the confined space.
    ‘Just a cousinly kiss, then.’ He leered at her. At least she assumed he was from the slur in his voice. He usually leered when his mother wasn’t looking.
    She was trapped between Godfrey above her and the footsteps below in the hall. ‘Stop it!’ she hissed, clawing at his eyes.
    He grabbed her wrists as he jerked his face away and dragged her close. ‘Not without my kiss,’ he muttered. Brandy and foul breath surrounded her.
    ‘No!’ Gagging, she kicked out at him and