Page 7 of Aurelia

“No, indeed,” Mr. Anderson had chimed in with a chuckle.

“How do you mean?” Aurelia had asked to the delight of her hosts.

“The first Lady Crewe done up and run away from the master less than two years after they wed,” Mrs. Anderson said in a low voice, although Aurelia had been the only guest in the tearoom at that time.

“Now, now, we don’t know that, Mother,” her husband chastised, and then said to Aurelia, “The countess’s boat washed up on Crewe a week or two after her ladyship disappeared. Nobody knows where she was headed or if she ever got there.” He shrugged. “Could be Davy Jones got ‘er.”

“You mean she died?” Aurelia had asked.

Mr. Anderson had merely looked mysterious.

But his wife had said, “But many do say she run off with her lover.”

“Aye, aye. So they do,” the innkeeper had muttered, but then his eyes had sharpened. “As for the second Lady Crewe…”

He and his wife had both chuckled, the expression in their eyes so avid that Aurelia had felt a fleeting pang of shame for encouraging their gossip.

“A right beauty the second ladyship were,” the innkeeper said, his eyes glazing fondly at the memory.

Mrs. Anderson had rolled her eyes at her husband and leaned close to Aurelia to hiss, “A she-rake, is what she were.”

Mr. Anderson chuckled. “Aye, and a merry chase she did run him.”

“A merry chase they led each other,” his wife corrected.

Aurelia had seen, by the sly look in both the Andersons’ eyes as they’d regarded her, that they believed the job title female artist was merely another euphemism for mistress. She had no doubt the garrulous innkeeper and his wife would soon be spreading gossip about Aurelia—if they weren’t already.

She could have told the Andersons that she had no intention of becoming Lord Crewe’s latest conquest. While she was not opposed to women engaging in amorous liaisons if that was their choice, she was opposed to engaging in an amorous liaison with an employer so influential in the scientific community that he could destroy her reputation with only a few words.

Too much rested on the success of this position for her to jeopardize it. She hoped that Lord Crewe would recommend her to his associates at the Royal Society if he—

“Give that back!”

Aurelia spun around at the anguished female cry, which was loud enough that it could be heard over the wind and surf.

A cluster of five young men were facing a fissure in the cliffside, one of them waving something—a satchel?—over his head in a mocking fashion while his mates laughed and jeered.

“Give it back or I will—I will report you.” It was the same female voice as before, but Aurelia still could not see who it belonged to.

“Come an’ get it, if ye want it, traitor!” one of the men yelled back.

“Aye! Report us all ye like, ye Boney-loving tart!” shouted another.

And then one of the gang threw a rock.

A pained female scream shattered the air and Aurelia’s feet were in motion before her mind had even decided.

“You there!” she yelled before she reached the ruffians. “What are you doing?”

The surprise on the youths’ faces—for that is what they were, the eldest probably no older than six-and-ten—would have been comical if not for the fact that boys in a gang could be more vicious than a pack of wolves.

The lead boy threw out his shoulders and swaggered toward Aurelia as she stormed toward them. He was holding the kind of leather bag a messenger might use, meant to be slung crosswise over the torso.

“What is that in your hands?” she asked.

“Why should I tell you?” he demanded sullenly.

“The bag is mine!” A young woman emerged from a deep crevice in the cliff. Although her clothing looked well made, it was torn in several places and her long, almost black hair was half-up and half-down. Blood trickled down one cheek.