Prologue
In the former ancient royal hunting forest, the silence was almost deafening. If a bird had chirped or an owl had screeched, it might have even been comforting to hear. She would know she wasn’t alone. But the still of the night was all the more terrorizing for its emptiness. She put a hand to her breast as it rose and fell with her rapid, shallow breathing.

The snap of a twig nearby sounded like a shot in the night, and she wished she could melt into the trunk of the tree. Sweat trickled down her lower back, and her dress felt sticky against her skin in the cool night air. She looked out into the woodland park, and inky blackness greeted her.

She brushed the back of her hand against her forehead, which was wet with perspiration, then wiped her hand on her skirt. She touched the gold locket that hung about her neck and felt the weight of it in her hand. She released it and put her palms behind her to steady herself, feeling the rough bark of the tree trunk against her smooth palms.

The dark forest was filled with trees upon trees, with no landmark that gave her a sense of where she was. She was lost. The road was somewhere to her left, but as night had fallen, she could not see how far it might be. Even if a carriage came by, the small lantern the driver carried would not penetrate into the woods for her to see.

“Why are you running? I won’t hurt you.”

The words taunting her. She pushed a small fist against her mouth to stem the desire to cry out in a hysterical laugh. She knew everything—why lie to her? And hurt her? She shuddered at the thought of it.

She heard the rustle of steps upon the ground and tried to still her breathing. She wanted to cry out in frustration. Why had she done this? Why had she come out into the night? If she were caught-no.

She couldn’t think that way. She refused to think that way. She moved swiftly in the opposite direction of the footsteps, holding the hem of her skirt as she went.

If only she had waited. If only she had not discovered the secret. She could still see it and the terrifying secret that had been hidden. God, she wanted it erased from her mind.

She felt confident that if she kept going in this direction, she would reach the road. It had to be the right way. Her skirts wrapped around her legs as she moved quickly, and she stumbled lightly on a small mound. But kept moving. She had to keep moving until she found the road.

She moved around a tree, and a low branch swung out and hit her in the face. It stung her eyes and she cried out. She heard the steps behind her quicken and knew she’d been discovered. She swore under her breath. She had to keep her wits about her. Don’t panic, keep moving, she told herself.

She stumbled again, and this time her knee took the brunt of the fall. She skinned it and winced but kept moving. Her heart was beating fast as she felt the brush underneath her, and the grass and rocks made moving in the dark difficult.

Her name was called out, but she moved resolutely on. She looked left, then right, feeling like a hunted hare. Which way to go? Her eyes scanned the land before her, and then, she saw it. Ahead of her to the right. The small cottage with a light in the downstairs window. She sagged with relief. Her heart soared and she almost cried out in happiness. She hoped there was a brawny man inside who would be willing to bar the door and protect her from the evil of the night.

She ran down the small hill in the dark, through the trees and past the clearing of tall grass, and she didn’t even cry out when she hit her toe against a small rock. The cottage door was painted such a dark blue it looked black in the night. She knocked twice on the door, but without waiting to receive word to enter, she flung it open.

The paraffin lamp flickered inside the small room as her eyes adjusted to the light. She saw the large fireplace and hearth and someone seated before it, their back to her in a yellow rocking chair.

“Excuse me,” she said breathlessly. “I’m sorry for entering without being bade to enter but—” 

The figure adjusted its body and turned to stare at her.

“No,” she whispered, her voice catching. “No.”

She took a step back on shaky legs, her toe still smarting from the rock. She took a second step.

You’ve nowhere else to go,” the voice in the yellow rocking chair mocked. 

 

Imogene discovers her sister’s trouble
She pulled the next letter to her and opened it happily. Her sister would be engaged now. She was certain.

 

Dearest Papa,

The picnic at St. James’s Park was magical. I know you might think we are rushing, but he wants me to be his wife. I am delirious! The other girls at the store are pea green with envy, but so would I be if the roles were reversed. He is going to make plans for us, but unfortunately, he was engaged to another woman and must break it off with her, so he is working on that.

Soon you will toast at our wedding, and won’t Immy make an adorable flower girl? She will! I will tell you all about it when I see you.

All my love,

F

 

Imogene placed the envelope aside and pulled the next one to her. 

Dearest Papa,

I know it has been over a month since I have written to you. Things have taken a turn, and not for the good. The man who I have fallen in love with is married. I found out from a girl in the store who has been there longer than I.

The perfumes he was buying for his mother were, in fact, for his wife. I am devastated. I know you are not happy with me, but I am coming home this weekend. I must speak with you. Please do not look down upon me. I was deceived and now I am paying the price.

I will be on the evening train. I will see you soon.

F

 

Imogene frowned as she reread the letter. Her poor sister. The man had lied to her and had not been free at all. Thank goodness she had only been on a picnic. Nothing that could not be repaired. She took the next letter in hand and began to read.

 

My darling Papa,

I am writing this even as I have returned to the store this very evening from seeing you. How could you call me those names? Those awful, harmful names that are still ringing in my ears. How could you? I have ever been your loving daughter and do not deserve such hateful words.

Now you know all of it. I was foolish – and the day of the picnic, my friend could not attend as chaperone. I know now that he arranged it. He never wanted to be chaperoned, quite the opposite. The day of the picnic, he brought sweet wine, which I drank. I was foolish. So foolish I can scarce credit it. He had everything neatly arranged. He had done this before. A small hotel was near the park and a room had already been secured a week in advance. He was that practiced.

He took me there but under false pretenses. He listed us as man and wife and even slipped a band on my finger to further complete the tale. Once in the room, he took me. I am a maid no more. I am ashamed. I have been stupid and ignorant believing his honeyed words of love and marriage. I would never have told you, save for the fact that I am with child. The man is married, so he can do nothing for me.

I came home to ask for your help. You alone can help me. Instead, you called me foul names and said I was your daughter no more. Thank goodness Immy was out playing or she would have heard you.

Papa, I am with child. It was not meant to happen, but it did. You alone can help me. I beg you. Do not leave me alone in the world. I will wait to hear from you. Please, do not discard me. I have no one else.

F

 

This place is evil – Felicity writes

Once more, Imogene was alone with her thoughts and the memories of her sister. She took a sip of the rich, sweet liquid and it warmed her. The charity must have helped her, but did she move away after the baby was adopted? She was puzzled.

She grabbed the next envelope and opened it. The paper was made of a different quality.

 

Dearest Papa,

The charity has taken me in, and they are as good as their word. I am well looked after, fed, and given a place to live. They have several families waiting to adopt, but of course, most want a boy, so we will know more once the babe is here.

In the country here, the air is fresh. I go for long walks, which is encouraged. I think of you and Immy often and long for when I will be with you both as a family once more. I read the Bible here and it consoles me. I am a fallen woman like Jezebel, but I repent my sins and want to be back with my family. I am in a good frame of mind here, away from the diversions of the city, and understand what is truly important. You saw it all along, but then, I am young and foolish. I will write when I can. Until then, know that I am once more

Your obedient daughter,

F

 

Imogene looked forward to their reconciliation and knew that though her sister did not want to adopt out her child, she had to do what society dictated. It must have been a difficult decision all those years ago. She had been alone and relied on strangers to help her through the challenging time.

She took another long sip of the hot chocolate, savoring it. The wind blew outside and rattled the window pane. She pulled the next envelope to her and saw that it was creased as if it had been inside a pocket or tossed into the rubbish bin and then taken out and smoothed back.

 

Papa,

I write this to you, but I’m not at all sure of anything yet.

 

Imogene looked at the postmark of the letter she held and compared it with the previous one. They were the same. The town was unknown to her, but they were identical. She turned her attention back to the letter.

 

I stumbled upon something, and I don’t think I was meant to. There is something going on that is not right and I am worried. I’m not concerned for my safety, but exactly what it means, I cannot say. I send this letter to you by way of the milkman and hope he posts it. I will keep my head down and wait until my time. Already my back aches, and I am so tired most of the time. I will not be harmed, but I am afraid.

With love,

F

 

Imogene shook herself lightly as a chill crept down her back. What had happened? What did this mean? When she opened up the last letter in the pile, one sheet of paper was inside. Several words were scrawled across the page, and they made her heart stop.

 

This place is evil. I’m in danger. For the love of God, help me!

 

The cottage

A light rain had begun to fall as she watched Spencer do his work. The stone walls were cold and barren, and as the tenants had left months ago, there was nothing that gave her a sense of what the family had been like. There was an empty bottle on the shelf of the kitchen, and the cottage had a musty smell to it.

She knew that the families had been moved to a temporary shelter at the edge of the estate until the new cottages were built.

“I’m almost done,” Spencer called from up above as he bounded down the stairs. “One more to go.”

The last cottage they visited was at the end of the road and situated some distance away from the others. It had an abandoned look to it. There was a dead plant in front of the door, and when they entered, Spencer sputtered as he walked into a spiderweb.

“Watch it!” he said, waving his hand in front of them to wipe the web away.

Immediately upon entering the cottage, Imogene felt a sense of unease. She shook herself, trying to stem such a foolish response, but it stayed with her. The cobwebs were dense here, and unlike the other cottages, a layer of thick dust covered everything. The other cottages had only recently been vacated, but this one seemed to have been deserted long ago.

A yellow rocking chair was in the corner of the room and she stared at it. Had a young babe been suckled in that chair? Or had an old woman watched over her grandchild? There must have been happiness here. But the chair looked lonely and empty, and she turned from it. 

She could hear Spencer walking above her, and the overcast sky barely penetrated the two windows facing the road. She crossed her arms over her chest to keep warm from the coldness that had seeped in from the walls.

She glanced vaguely at the fireplace that dominated one wall of the family room and stared at the black soot that had been left after years of use and then disregard. It had not been cleaned for some time and completed the sense of neglect. She was mesmerized by the black soot because the longer she stared at it, the more she could make out a large black void that appeared to be a mouth gaping wide in a scream.

She took a step back, as she had spooked herself, and shuddered. What an absurd thing! There was no face. It was black soot. Nothing more. But she deliberately turned away from the fireplace and looked out the window, wishing she was away from here.

She turned back, looking upstairs, hoping to see Spencer coming down, when she thought she spotted something. Something in the low gray light had caught her eye. She moved her eyes back and forth along the fireplace but lost it. What had she seen? Something had glinted in the dark. The clouds again moved outside, and the room darkened once more. 

“Thank you for waiting,” Spencer said, coming to stand beside her. “I’m done.”

 

The bullet and the kiss
Without thinking, Imogene blew out the lamp. She stood up slowly, knowing that if someone was coming into the cottage it wasn’t for any good reason. She pressed herself against the wall, and the next moment the door opened and closed and someone was inside with her. The room had been plunged into darkness, and Imogene’s eyes had not adjusted. She could see the outline of a tall form against the door but nothing else.

Her heart was beating in her chest as the figure moved toward her. She couldn’t reach the lantern, but she could push the rocking chair into him and run from the cottage. In the next moment, she did just that. The rocking chair was not very sturdy and it fell on its side just as she rushed past the intruder.

But suddenly she was caught by her waist and pressed into the wall, which knocked the breath from her.

“Damn it! Imogene, it’s me,” Spencer said harshly.

Imogene saw Spencer’s face in the dark and noticed he looked pale.

“Why are you here?” he asked, frowning.

“I could ask you the same,” she said tartly.

A cool wind swept into the cottage and she shivered. They stood together in the dark, neither one saying a word. She pressed at his forearms to release her and felt a wet, sticky substance. It didn’t feel like water from the rain. She lifted her hand to see the wetness was bright red. Blood! Her heart leaped.

“Spencer!” she said suddenly. “What’s happened? Is that blood? Are you bleeding?”

“I was shot. Someone mistook me for a poacher.”

“My God!” Imogene swore. “Can you make it back to the village?”

“I’ll stay here for the time being.”

Imogene looked about the room and saw the familiar rocking chair overturned. “Here.” She moved the rocking chair upright and led him to it.

She turned to the lamp to light it.

“Don’t,” he told her.

“I can’t see you.”

“You don’t need to.”

“How badly are you hurt?”

“Just nicked.”

Imogene looked him over. His hair was wet and slicked back from the rain, and the blood soiled his white shirt. She felt a little lightheaded but she stemmed it.

“I’ll be right back.”

“Where are you going?” he asked, sagging into the chair.

Going into the other room, she pulled up her skirts and removed her petticoat. When she rejoined him, he was watching her.

“What are you going to do with your petticoat?”

“What do you think?” She ripped it apart. “Treat your wound. It needs to be bound.”

She made several long strips of the fabric and then kneeled beside him on the floor.

“Take off your shirt and jacket,” she instructed, and her eyes met his boldly.

He peeled off his jacket, but his eyes never left hers. He tried to remove his shirt but winced. The bullet had nicked him in the bicep, which made movement difficult. She rose onto her knees between his legs and helped pull the shirt from him.

Imogene could feel the electricity in the air. She was a woman who had seen something of the world, but she had never seen a naked man. 

“Do you know what you’re doing?” he asked softly, and the double meaning was there.

“I took a training course in London,” she told him. “I wanted to be able to help the secretaries in the office. In case of an emergency.”

“You’re very capable, Miss York. I’ll give you that.” 

She placed the shirt on the ground next to them, the white fabric covered in blood stains. His masculine chest was muscled, and she realized she had never seen a man’s naked chest before. Even her father had always been fully dressed when out of his room. She swallowed once. The room that had been so cold now seemed warm.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, the shadows shifting inside the room.

“You’re the first naked man I’ve seen,” she admitted.

“I’m not naked.” 

But his words didn’t help. She moved to get the strips of petticoat and took his arm gently. “I’m going to bind the wound to help stop the blood flow. It might hurt when I tighten the strips.”

“Do what you need to.”

She could tell he was in pain, and the loss of blood had made him pale. He gripped the armrests on the rocking chair as she began to wrap the petticoat strips around his arm.

She tried not to concentrate on his naked chest or his handsome face so close to hers. “What happened tonight?”

“I’m not entirely sure,” he said. “I was out walking and I happened onto the Linwood Estate. Someone obviously mistook me as a poacher.”

“Why were you walking so late at night?”

His dark eyes met hers. “Why were you?” he challenged.

She moistened her lips. “No particular reason.”

“Why did you return to the cottage?”

“To get out of the rain,” she lied. “Why did you?”

“I saw the light through the window.”

“You did?”

The bandage had been wrapped around his arm several times, and she was just tightening it when a flash of lightning lit the sky outside and she jumped. Without meaning to, her hands fell against his chest.

In the next moment, he pulled her tightly to him, using his unharmed arm, and kissed her. He held her tightly at the waist, and his mouth was firm against hers. She closed her eyes and felt the kiss deepen and then pulled away from him. She stood up and turned from him.

“You’ll need to have the wound looked at,” she said briskly. “You don’t want to risk infection.”

He stood as well. He pulled his shirt and jacket on, and Imogene was struck by how he looked in the dark. Suddenly, a mask had been removed and he looked like a stranger. She didn’t know him at all. And he looked dangerous. She thought of him as a simple architect in a small village, but there seemed to be something under the surface. Something she couldn’t name. Something that frightened her.

“Why did you come to Linwood, Imogene?” he asked her suddenly.

She faced him. “You know why. I told you.”

“I know what you’ve said. I know what you’ve told everyone.”

“And you don’t believe me?”

“A sketching holiday?” he asked in disbelief.

He walked past her and then turned to look at her. 

“You should return to London, Imogene. There’s nothing for you here.”

 

The medium Madame M
The streetlamps sputtered, a rat scurried deeper into the dark alleyway, and water dripped continuously from somewhere he couldn’t see. The theater door opened easily, and only three people seated at the table remained. Madam M was munching on fish and chips while two swarthy gentlemen were drinking ale.

“Am I interrupting your dinner?” Spencer asked casually. “I do hope so.”

“Oi! What’s this? What do you want?” the man who had collected his coin at the door asked in a thick Cockney accent.

“I’m here to talk to Madame M,” Spencer said easily.

“Show’s over, mate,” the other man said, coming toward him menacingly.

He dispatched the one man easily with several well-placed blows, and Madame M spoke, her voice no longer accented.

“Leave us,” she directed.

The two men slunk out of the room as Spencer seated himself near the older woman.

“I don’t care about Melody’s money or the brother who paid you to say something, nor do I care about the uncle and the land,” he told her, recalling the two encounters she had cited that night.

“What do you care about?” She raised an eyebrow.

“Who’s the daughter?”

Madame M made a slight laugh, and her lip curled on one side. “That’s why you’re here.” She pulled out a box of matches and a hand-rolled cigarette and lit the end of it.

Spencer tried not to let the sight of it shake him. He was not used to seeing a woman smoke, as those who did were considered to have loose morals.

“Tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you anything.”

“I think you do. I said I don’t care about your little scams, but someone else might,” he said flippantly.

“Very well. But remember, I may use these little scams for the theater and to sell tickets for my livelihood, but other things I know with certainty. I have a gift. Or curse, depending upon who you ask.” She tapped the cigarette ash into the tray.

“Sure,” he said dismissively.

“It’s true!” she defended herself. “It’s true.” She met his eyes.

There was a moment of long silence between them before she spoke.

“An older man came to me this evening. Recently crossed over.” She took a long drag from her cigarette. “Someone’s missing. I didn’t get a sense of who. Someone important to him. Someone he wronged. He felt a need to right a wrong, and the man said, ‘She’s there’ and to keep looking. He was very insistent and almost sad. It was odd timing.”

Spencer knew she was a con artist, but was it possible she could connect with the dead? It seemed fantastical.

“If you can really speak with the dead, why do you do all this?” he asked.

“Why do you think?” She scoffed. “For money. You think those two toffee-nosed cretins would do the right thing if their life depended on it? Ha!” She took a long drag from her cigarette. “And I have found over the years that people need—no, want—a little bit of the theatrical. They’ll pay good coin to see the show, and the working class loves to see the posh ones squirm.”

She seemed lost in thought, and Spencer didn’t rush her.

“And I can’t control it,” she admitted quietly. “The man who came today, I didn’t expect him. I didn’t want him. I didn’t even know he was here for your woman.”

Spencer felt himself grow warm. “She’s not my—” he began and then stopped.

“But you’d like her to be,” she said, a sly smile on her face.

Spencer ignored the words. “So it wasn’t planned.”

“Planned?” Madame M rolled her eyes. “What on earth do I get out of some dead man coming to me in the middle of a séance talking about ‘keep looking’ and ‘she’s there’? It was muddled and irritating, as the real ones so often are.” She flicked the ash again.

“Often are?” Spencer wondered.

“They’ve always come to me. I’ve made peace with it now. When I was a child, I thought they were imaginary friends. Figments. As I grew older, I realized they were lost or stuck and needed me to talk for them.” She shook her head. “Then I realized I could make money, and I traveled and used them. But the real ones…” She stared into space. “There’s always a bit of a thrill and terror when you know what they are.”

“I’ve taken up too much of your time.” Spencer nodded to her.

“You should be careful,” she warned him. “I sense danger for your woman. I don’t know how it will all end.”

“But I do.” He stood then and she watched him carefully.

“Does she know?” she asked him suddenly.

Spencer’s throat constricted and he said nothing. He met her assessing eyes one last time and then left her alone, smoking in the dark with the small lamp flickering on the table.

 

Hettie’s Story
They walked out into the sun, where Mrs. Philpot was lingering. “Did you enjoy the sermon, dearie?”

“Very provoking,” she said as Spencer winked and left with Ox.

“The vicar is most talented.” The older woman sighed. “He brings the word of God to life.”

“I can imagine him speaking to my father over a glass of port,” Imogene mused.

“Yes.” The woman nodded happily. “Two men of God,” she recalled from their conversation.

Hettie and Rowena passed by, and Mrs. Philpot squeezed Hettie’s hand as she passed.

“Such a caring woman,” Mrs. Philpot told Imogene. “Not at all like her sister. But then, Hettie was blessed with a kind spirit. It happens that way.”

“She’s been very nice to me,” Imogene agreed.

“And she’s not had it easy, I can tell you that.” They walked together along the side of the church where the cemetery lay. “Most would think living in the grand house with money and the name, you have it all. But that’s not how it’s been for Hettie.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“It was years ago.” She picked up a rake that had fallen into the walk and put it back in its rightful place. “We were all young then, even Gertie. Hettie, Rowena, and me. And Rowena, such a beauty with high cheekbones and her face just like a cameo,” she remembered.

“She’s still a good-looking woman now,” Imogene admitted.

“She is.” Mrs. Philpot nodded. “That she is.”

They found a bench and sat together. “It was summer. Hot and next to nothing to do. We would go for picnics and take a dip in the river, but country villages are for the old.”

“I grew up in a small village. I know what you mean,” Imogene added.

Mrs. Philpot’s eyes grew hazy as she looked off into the distance. The air was cool and the leaves were in piles about the cemetery.

“I should have guessed he was the devil. He was too good-looking.” She shook her head. “Dark eyes and dark hair. He looked like a gypsy—he was a gypsy,” she corrected herself. “Some wandering tribe who never stayed anywhere long. Travellers,” she said with a sniff of disapproval.

“Travellers?” Imogene asked.

“Dirty mongrels.” The woman sighed as she touched a hand to her breast. “Fornicators and thieves. The worst sort. Heathens!”

“They came to the village?”

“There was a fair in the next village over and it attracted the gypsies. They dealt in horses and performed—nonsense really,” she recalled. “And he was trouble. Even as a young woman, I could tell. He wanted Rowena.” The woman laughed. “She wouldn’t have him. Too much sense. So, he looked at Hettie. She was different then. Carefree and silly. Always giggling.”

Mrs. Philpot seemed to realize where she was and that she might have said too much. “Oh, where has the time gone!” she said more to herself.

“It’s still early,” Imogene said. 

The clock struck the hour, and it was still midmorning. Mrs. Philpot settled into the bench.

“That summer, we were all so young, with not a care in the world.” She smiled then. “To be young and in love.”

“In love?” Imogene asked.

“Maybe in love with the moment, as I was.” She took a deep breath. “Hettie was in love with a mirage.”

“A mirage?”

The old woman seemed lost in thought, and Imogene didn’t prod her.

“You see, you must understand the way it was.” She turned to face Imogene. “The old master, their father, was a cold man. I don’t think he even wanted children except for what they could provide. Howell, the heir, and the women to breed more sons. He was never affectionate. He only cared about his hounds and his horses.”

Imogene nodded.

“Howell was stuck, but the girls could leave. They could marry and leave Linwood forever. And that’s what Hettie wanted to do. She wanted a life far away from here. And that’s what he promised. She told me,” Mrs. Philpot said sadly.

“He said he owned land in Ireland. That he would build a grand house from the horses he bred,” Mrs. Philpot recalled. “Soon, one hot summer night, they lay together. She didn’t tell me much, but her father found out. He was furious! A gypsy nobody married to his daughter? It would never happen. But my God.” She put a hand to her mouth. “There was a picnic one evening and Hettie made a spectacle of herself. Everyone was dancing and eating, and she’d had too much to drink. And she told him in front of everyone that she loved him.”

Imogene stared at the church spire and thought of young Hettie, her plump cheeks red and tears streaming down her face as she professed her love to the gypsy devil.

“Hettie got on her knees and said she would do whatever it took to make him hers.” The old woman shook her head. “She had no shame.”

“What happened?” Imogene was invested in the story.

“He laughed at her. All the gypsies laughed at her. She found out then that he was long attached to another woman and had been for ten-odd years. He had several children by her, and the woman turned a blind eye to his wanderings because he always returned to her.”

“How awful,” Imogene breathed out. “Poor Hettie!”

 “She was never the same after that.”

“I can well imagine.”

“You see,” the older woman said, “some people can take adversity and use it to strengthen themselves. While other people, like Hettie, it simply breaks them.”

 

Red is shot
With the gun firmly in hand, he hit several targets one after the other, winning a prize. She turned to help a woman choose a fern when a flash of lightning ripped through the sky and everyone collectively gasped. A lone shot rang out, and thunder rumbled through the sky. She stayed in her booth just as several people ran by trying to take shelter from the worsening weather.

The gray skies darkened as a soaking Red and Spencer came toward her. Red was holding his arm as Spencer had him about the shoulders.

“Red!” she said as Spencer led the other man into the booth. “What happened? Are you all right?”

“I got shot, Immy,” he said, frowning. “Why would anyone shoot me?”

Imogene’s first instinct was to look at Spencer, who looked back at her.

“Not by me,” he said coldly. 

“Of course not,” she said sharply. “What happened?”

“A gun must have discharged accidentally,” Spencer said. “I’ll find the doctor. He was milling about earlier. Look after Red. Keep pressure on the wound.”

Imogene did as he suggested as the image of her ripping her petticoat to help Spencer flashed through her mind.

“Red, do you want me to get you some brandy? Do you feel lightheaded?” she asked soothingly.

“Someone shot me,” he said in a childlike voice.

“They didn’t shoot at you. It was an accident. You heard Spencer.”

But Red shook his head. “No, they shot at me.”

“Why would they do that?” she asked him, but he was silent.

Red slumped against the side of the tent. “I made a mistake, but I’m very sorry for it. Does that count, Immy?”

“Yes, it counts,” she agreed.

She crouched next to him and saw he was shivering. She hugged him to her. “It’s going to be okay, Red. Spencer will bring the doctor.”

He rubbed his forehead and stared off into the distance. “I tried not to. I did. Immy, you believe me?”

“Shh. Don’t overwhelm yourself. You’ve had a shock.” She kept the pressure on his arm.

When Spencer arrived, the doctor held an umbrella in one hand and took Red back to the house.

The rain was pouring down now, and as they stood together under the flower stall tent, Imogene peered at Spencer.

“He was saying odd things,” she said softly. “Even odd for Red.”

“Like what?”

“He insisted he was shot at. I even argued with him. That’s crazy, right?” She looked up at him. “Why would anyone want to shoot Red? It’s ridiculous.”

But Spencer remained quiet.

“I asked him why someone would hurt him. He must know the reason.”

“That’s logical.”

“He said he made a mistake and was sorry for it.” Imogene looked at the rain pouring down. “He’s had a shock is all. I told him as much. He was shaking and wet. That’s all it was,” she said, as if trying to convince herself.

“You were there with him. Did you see anything happen?” She turned to face him. “Or anyone?” 

“It all happened too quickly,” Spencer said.

“But it was an accident. No one would harm Red. Why would they?”

Ox came toward their booth, eyeing Spencer. “Could I speak to you for a moment, St. George? I think one of the booths is unstable, and I’d like you to take a look at it.”

“Certainly. Excuse me,” he directed to Imogene.

Imogene watched the rain falling hard on the ruined fair and cast a glance at the two men. They seemed deep in conversation, and she knew it must be serious. She scanned the Linwood lawn and saw most of the booths were empty. It was an unfortunate way to end the long-anticipated fair, with a thunderstorm and a shooting.

 

She was pushed
Imogene stared at the brown tea inside the cup, not even looking about at her surroundings. Spencer had taken control of the situation, supremely placing Beryl in a hansom cab and taking Imogene to his lodging, stating that she shouldn’t be alone after the shock.

Imogene knew it was highly inappropriate for her to be inside an unmarried man’s apartment, but she didn’t care. Propriety aside, tonight had been revealing in more ways than one. She was exhausted, but she was more than that. She was terrified.

“Thank you for what you did tonight.” She let the warmth from the cup seep into her cold hands.

“It was no less than what anyone would have done.” He poured out two brandies and handed her one. “Drink it. You need it. You’ve had a shock.”

She took a sip of it and the liquor warmed her. He stood near the fireplace, swirling his brandy and eyeing her.

“Did you slip?” he asked. “The rain made the steps quite wet.”

She didn’t meet his gaze. “I must have.” She took another sip of brandy.

“You’re rather clumsy.”

She raised her eyes in a flash to meet his. “Am I?”

“Aren’t you?” he asked. “No one else seemed to fall in front of a mad horse. Just you.”

“Is this your idea of comfort? Save me and then belittle me for falling?”

“Comfort?” Spencer seemed to ponder the word. “You don’t need comfort, Imogene.”

“Don’t I?”

He said nothing and she waited.

“You need my help.”

“Your help?” She put the brandy down and stood to face him. “As if you know anything about me. As if you could help me in any possible way. As if you know what I have been going through. You know nothing, Spencer, so I will bid you good night.”

Her breasts were heaving, and a pink flush covered her cheeks as she walked to the door. But he was there before her, and his hand was flat against the door so that she couldn’t leave.

“Tell me about how you fell, Miss York.”

“Get out of my way.”

“Tell me,” he told her. “How did you fall?”

“I don’t owe you anything, Mr. St. George. Step aside. I want to leave.”

He pressed her back into the door, holding her shoulders, his eyes demanding an answer. “Tell me how you fell!”

“I didn’t fall. I was pushed!” The words hung in the air as tears trailed down her cheeks. “I was pushed.”

He released her then. “I know.”

“You know? How do you know?”

“Because I know more than you think.”