Page 50 of After the Abduction

As they approached the hall, however, an all too familiar figure vaulted down the entrance stairs, heedless of the treacherously icy steps. Sebastian muttered an oath under his breath. Knighton.

“Where in the hell have you been?” Knighton asked Lady Rosalind as the sleigh halted before him. Then he scowled at Sebastian. “And what do you mean, taking my wife out in this weather, Templemore?”

“Oh, don’t blame him, Griff,” Lady Rosalind said as Knighton hastened to help her out. “I was so very tired of being cooped up inside. We rode over to his uncle’s house, so Mr. Pryce could show me that edition of Hamlet he was talking about at dinner day before yesterday. You were sleeping and I didn’t want to wake you.”

Knighton looked only slightly mollified by that explanation. “Where’s Juliet? The servant said she went with you.”

“She did start out to go with us,” Lady Rosalind lied, “but she wasn’t feeling well and decided to return to bed instead. The servant probably didn’t see her come back in.”

Sebastian would have applauded the woman’s ingenuity if she hadn’t made it appear as if he’d been having a tête-à-tête with her in the sleigh. Knighton looked as if he wanted to strangle someone, and Sebastian had a fairly good idea who it might be.

Blast, blast, blast! These three were nothing but trouble. And God only knew what Uncle Lew was revealing with his loose tongue even as they stood here dawdling.

“Well, Knighton,” he said quickly, “now that you’re up, you two can have a cozy breakfast. I promised my uncle I’d go back and speak to his…er…steward about one of the tenants. You understand—estate business and all that.”

Lady Rosalind raised an eyebrow, but merely told her husband, “Yes, dear, let’s do have breakfast. I’m simply famished. And then I’ll look in on Juliet.”

As the couple climbed the stairs, Sebastian turned the sleigh back toward Foxglen, praying he wasn’t overtaxing the draft horses in this snow. But he dared not leave Juliet with Uncle Lew any longer than necessary.

“You’ll have a nice bag of oats in a moment,” he crooned to the horses. “Just a little farther, and you can relax in comfort.”

A pity he couldn’t say the same for himself. He began to think it would be some time before he got to relax anywhere.

Chapter 10

Much effort, much prosperity.

Euripides’ The Suppliant Women, embroidered on a towel by Juliet Laverick

“You simply must see Lucinda’s favorite sitting room,” Mr. Pryce said an hour later as he accompanied Juliet down a middling hall toward an open door. “I think it would appeal to you.”

She managed a smile. Ever since Sebastian had driven off, she’d tried to turn the subject to him and Morgan, but Mr. Pryce always deftly returned it to some innocuous topic—like his late wife’s sitting room. She didn’t want to be rude, but for goodness sake, how could she find out anything to help her unmask Sebastian when Mr. Pryce wouldn’t discuss his nephews?

“You promised me family secrets,” she told him lightly, “and I haven’t heard a single one.”

“I’m building up to it.” He patted her hand where it rested on his forearm. “All in good time, my dear, all in good time.”

She was still pondering that enigmatic statement when he showed her into the sitting room. Thoughts of his nephews fled her mind. “Oh my word…” she whispered as she gazed in awe around her.

From the tapestry of breathtaking beauty on one wall to the intricately worked seat cushions of every chair, the room was a celebration of needlework. Hangings and a fire screen and even the tablecloths were embroidered or worked entirely in delicate silks on linen or satin or even lace. Half in a daze, she left his side to stroll from piece to piece, admiring the choice of colors, the delicacy of the stitching, the consistency of design.

“It was my wife’s passion, you see,” Mr. Pryce said behind her. “Like you, she was never without her tambour or her needle.”

“She worked all these?” Juliet murmured in sheer admiration.

“Not entirely. The tapestry has been in the family for generations, and I purchased some of the other pieces for her. But the rest—” He swept his hand in an elegant arc to encompass the entire room. “All done by her hand.”

He spoke the words with a soft pride that brought a lump to her throat. She glanced at him. “If you don’t mind my asking, how long were you married before she…that is…”

“Ten years.” The gray morning light dusted his pale hair with ash as he scanned the room. “And she spent most of the last two in here, during the final stages of her illness. Being in this room surrounded by her own handiwork soothed her.” A faint smile touched his lips. “It soothed me, as well.”

His clear affection for his Lucinda made her want to cry. After seeing Rosalind try desperate measures to conceive a child by her beloved husband, then hearing Mr. Pryce speak so adoringly of his late wife, Juliet felt envious. She had no one for whom her needs and wishes were tantamount, and vice versa. No matter what she protested to her sisters, she wanted that so badly she ached from the need.

Feeling tears well up, she glanced away. Mr. Pryce’s hand came to rest on her shoulder in a fatherly gesture that only made the tears burn more urgently.

His voice dropped to a comforting murmur. “Lucinda preferred needlework because it was something she could master during a time when she lacked mastery over anything else—like what was happening to her body. No doubt you understand how necessary it can be to pour your energy into a passion that gives you some measure of control when elsewhere you have none.”

All she could manage was a nod. She’d long ago noticed that her fondness for needlework waxed and waned according to the feelings of helplessness that assailed her. Whenever Papa and Helena admonished her, or Rosalind started to meddle, Juliet went looking for her tambour.