Chapter Thirty

It was still early morning when Oscar left Honoria's bedside. Early enough to catch fingers of morning light wending through

the trees to shimmer across a sea of dewy grass and kiss the stone facade of this grand giantess.

And to think, Oscar might have missed all this and so much more if he'd kept to his plan to leave with Cardew.

But it was too soon to think about the future. There were still matters in the more recent past to contend with... and

when he saw a shadow skulking through the nave toward the old cloister, he knew he wouldn't have to wait long.

He caught Mr. Price carrying a bulging valise through the opening of the priest hole. With the steward holding a chamberstick,

he didn't see Oscar in the shadows by the door until it was too late.

The weasel-faced man startled at first. Then, seeing who it was, he sneered. "If you do not mind, sir, I should like to pass."

"I'm sure you would, indeed." Reaching out, Oscar snatched the valise and peered inside. "Mere silverware? I admit, I'm a

bit disappointed. Then again, you've likely stolen all the most lucrative trinkets by now."

"Are you accusing me of thievery? I'll have you know I planned to take this into my office and polish it today. With so few

servants, I have been more than willing to perform the duties that are otherwise beneath my station."

"We'll see if the magistrate believes that tale."

Price scoffed. "If you dare make such a vulgar accusation, I will tell him that you put the silver in my valise."

Thoughtful, Oscar crossed his arms and studied him. If he were sitting across the table from this arrogant arse, he might

require a moment to consider the cards he held. Price was good at appearing affronted and proud of his elevated status in

the house. It was easy to imagine how the widows were duped.

At one time, Oscar had imagined they were all in on it together, but not any longer. The widows were tired of being embarrassed

by the state of the house and their lack of funding to see to its care. Their gardens were proof of how much they wanted beauty

surrounding them, in addition to the fact that they usually had tea on the lawn.

Oscar might have thought they were all trying to keep the world outside the doors of Dunnelocke Abbey. But the truth was they'd

started to see themselves as part of this house. It wasn't just grabbing hold of their rightful portion of it when the time

came. It was the feeling that they'd failed in taking care of the old place and the fear of the unknown outside these walls.

He knew all too well the power that the fear of the unknown held. It made a person linger in misery for far too long. So long,

in fact, that you began to wonder if you ever deserved anything more.

Understanding the widows better also made his fury toward Price all the greater.

"You may try to tell the magistrate your fiction." He shrugged. "However, nothing will change the figures in the books I found

in the storeroom."

Price's gaze darted down to his waistcoat pocket where he always kept his key.

"Fear not. It's still there," Oscar said and reached out to withdraw it, the brass glinting in the low light as he held it

up. Then he closed his hand, turning his wrist with a flourish before it vanished. "Or is it?"

Price swallowed. "Give that back to me."

"I don't think you'll be needing it where you're going. You see, I know you've been stealing from the abbey for years. Not

just trinkets and baubles, but servants' wages and tenants' rent. You may not have started out a lying, swindling thief. It's

my guess that the first discrepancies were honest errors. But when you got away with it, you felt a surge of superiority.

Arrogance like that tends to lead men toward gambling in other ways, like over a gaming table." He arched a brow at the telltale

guilt draining the color from Price's complexion. "Just as I suspected. But you never developed a head for cards. You're the

type who believes it's a matter of luck rather than skill. After all, any ignorant arse can tumble a cup of dice, right? Toss

a few quid onto the table for a pair of Kings?"

As Oscar paced the floor around him, Price shifted from one foot to the other but said nothing.

But Oscar didn't need him to. "Then, you fell in over your head at the tables and thought you could just perform some clever

bookkeeping. No one needed to know. They're your books, after all. It's all part of the place you've earned above the rabble

that work beneath you. So, what would it matter if you pointed the finger at one of the servants if a pair of candlesticks

were to go missing? All you had to do was fire them and inform the widows that you took care of the terrible thief in their

midst. I'm sure they were grateful."

He thought of Honoria with her eyepatch, telling him of how impossible it was for the widows to keep any servants over the

years, and it only added to his anger.

"None of this is true," Price said. "And I don't have to listen to any more of your accusations."

"I'm afraid you do. You see, through all your conniving, scheming and stealing, you forgot about one thing." Oscar stopped in front of him, his voice deceptively calm, his fists clenched at his sides. "That there's always someone better at being a monster. And beneath this roof, that happens to be me."

"Are you"—Price retreated a step, the candle flame trembling in his grasp—"threatening me?"

Oscar stepped forward. "I am."

Before Price could dart away like the weasel he was, Oscar grabbed him by the lapels and shoved him against the wall. The

chamberstick clattered to the floor, snuffing out. "You were seen yesterday."

"I—I don't know wh-what you're talking about. I wasn't even here. It was my off day."

"I repeat, you were seen. In the upper gallery. Right before that urn fell on Miss Hartley."

Bleary light filtered in through the old slitted windows as his face shifted from indignation to denial to pale fear. "It

wasn't me, I swe—"

Oscar shook him once, hard.

"It w-was an accident," Price stammered, eyes wide. "When the d-door burst open, I was at the top of the stairs with one of

the statuettes from the king's chamber. I didn't want anyone to see me. But when I dashed out of sight, I m-must have bumped

the urn. You have to believe me. I never meant for anyone to be hurt."

"You could have killed her, you bloody bastard!" Oscar lifted him off his feet, ready to strangle the worthless life out of

him.

Somehow, through his rage, he felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to see Baron Hartley.

"Release him, lad. Let him not turn you into the better monster," he said.

Oscar dragged in a breath and lowered Price to his feet. With the rage still running hot through his veins, he had to step

away.

"Oh, thank you, my lord," the weasel said. "This man is positively barbaric. He is certainly no gentle— Auuugh! "

Hearing Price groan, Oscar looked over his shoulder to see him doubled over, his mouth agape like a trout gasping for water.

Hartley dusted his hands together and shrugged. "The better monster just happens to be me, at the moment. She is my daughter,

after all."

***

After Hartley and the magistrate carted Price away, Oscar decided to personally deliver Honoria's breakfast tray.

It wasn't that he was worried the kitchen would try to serve her that foul gray sludge—well, mostly not. He wanted to ensure

she had the best of everything. And with that thought in mind, he decided to adorn her tray with roses.

But no sooner had he cut the first blossom than Millicent appeared, her widow's weeds embellished by a large floppy hat.

"And just what do you think you are doing?" she snarled.

He cut another and jammed the stem into the vase beside the other. "If you must know, I am taking these to Miss Hartley."

" Men ," she muttered, that hint of brogue revealing her frustration. "You cannot give her those."

"I can and I will." He snicked another just to prove his point.

She surprised him by snatching the knife. For a skinny old bean, she certainly was quick. "Each blossom in the garden is a

symbol, a language all of its own. And you cannot offer a woman who is staying beneath your roof a bouquet of flowers that

signify passion, passion and only passion. It is unseemly. Imagine what the servants will think."

He felt the flesh of his brow pucker. "I just thought they were pretty."

"Heaven spare us all from such ignorance." She sighed and shook her head, shoving her basket into his hand. "Fol low me. Now, you'll want bluebell for constancy. Weigela for faithfulness. Some fern for fascination..."

As she was clipping to her heart's content, he stopped by a bright orange cluster. "What about these?"

She scoffed. " That is butterfly weed, and it would tell her your wish for her to let you go."

"No butterfly weed, then."

"And while we're on the subject, no marigolds or dahlias either." She pointed to each in turn. "But some garden sage for esteem,

I should think. This way. Don't dally."

Then she blew by him toward the kitchen garden. He had a hard time keeping up with her. But she was in her element, fussing

and finagling all the leaves and blossoms into a perfect little bouquet. To tie them all together, she withdrew a lace handkerchief

from beneath her sleeve.

"There. I think that will do quite nicely. Oh, and I suppose..." She took one of the roses he'd already cut and slid it

into the center, her cheeks coloring. Clearing her throat, she pursed her lips dourly and handed the cluster to him. "Just

so you know, I was dreadfully worried about your Miss Hartley."

"Admitting that you wish I was struck instead?"

She narrowed those dark eyes. "Nephew, if I had pushed an urn down atop your head, I wouldn't have missed."

"You just called me nephew ," he said, just as shocked as she was.

"You are mistaken."

"I'm not. And what's more, I think you like me, Aunt Millie." He waggled the bouquet at her. Then, before she could deny it,

he pressed a swift kiss to her cheek and sauntered away.

He could have sworn he heard her call him a scamp as he stepped inside.

Carrying the breakfast tray, he climbed the stairs and heard threads of an argument.

With a glance across the gallery to the archway leading toward the west wing, he saw Alfreda and Dudley in the midst of a heated discussion, scowls met with finger-pointing.

Oscar did his best to appear invisible and took inordinate interest in the silver dome he carried.

"I am my own man, Alfreda. Though, little you would know of that, considering the fact that you are always judging me for

the crimes of another."

"What am I to think when you refuse to tell me why you claimed the need to speak with the surgeon privately? And immediately afterward you suddenly had an errand in the village?" She scoffed.

"I never knew you to be so secretive, but after sixteen years of marriage, your true nature has been revealed to me at last."

"Unfortunately, I know your true nature all too well, and it's intolerably suspicious. And I have tolerated it long enough.

Too long, I should think."

"If that is all you have to say, then I see no reason for you to linger in my"—she paused, drawing in a shuddering breath—"presence

a moment longer."

"Do not involve yourself," Oscar muttered under his breath, even when hearing the slight tremor in the hard-hearted Alfreda's

voice gave him pause.

But just as he reached the top of the stairs, Dudley tromped directly into his path.

Oscar offered a brief nod in passing, believing that the older man would continue on.

But then Dudley halted, turning to him, his color high. "If I could offer a bit of advice, man-to-man, it's to never involve

yourself with a distrustful and heartless woman."

"You have some nerve!" Alfreda spat from farther down the corridor. "This has nothing to do with him."

"She is right on that account," Oscar said carefully. "So I'll just be going."

Before he could turn away, Dudley leaned over the tray between them and lowered his voice.

"All I did was have one word with the surgeon about a certain"—he glanced down to where his own hand fluttered just below

his waist—"uncooperative appendage without wanting to inform my wife, who has always regarded me as rather virile. The surgeon

recommended a certain powder that hails from the Orient and..."

Wanting to be anywhere else in the world, Oscar dutifully inclined his head in a nod as Shellhorn concluded his all-too-informative

diatribe.

"Surely, it isn't unreasonable that a man be allowed a measure of privacy."

Realizing that he'd become involved, whether he liked it or not, he stepped over to the narrow console table in the corridor

and set down the tray.

He clasped Dudley's shoulder. "I completely understand your desire to address this issue without informing your wife. Odds

are, however, she has already noticed that something is amiss. She has been rather testy lately," he added as if he'd ever

known her to be otherwise.

"And I take full blame. You see, I haven't had the stamina to, well, pop her buttons, so to speak. Why just the other day,

we were in the music room when she did this trilling thing with her fingertips right underneath my—"

"Don't say it. I beg of you."

"Right, well, it was all over before it had begun."

Oscar wondered if the tea on the tray was still hot enough that, if he were to pour it directly into his ears, it would make

him forget ever hearing this. The mental images alone would give him nightmares for months.

"Perhaps," Oscar suggested, "you might discuss some of this with her. Not many wives are fond of secrets, I imagine. And,

considering that her first husband died in an opium den, I'd gather he kept a few."

Shellhorn grumbled. "Of late, a day has not passed without her remarking on her belief that I'll take after him."

"So it is possible—wouldn't you say?—that secrets make her think of death, and she is worried about you?"

"Crackers! I think you might be onto something," he said, his gray brows lifting. "And we haven't had our cuddle time lately."

"Again, I don't... need... to know that," Oscar said haltingly, shaking his head. He drew in a breath to quell a sudden

bout of queasiness.

Dudley looked over his shoulder with hesitation at Alfreda, pacing on the other side of the gallery. "The problem is, old

chap, I've said some rather terse things, and my Freda isn't altogether quick to forgive. Do you think you could ease the

way a bit?"

" Me ?" he balked. "I'd only make matters worse."

"Not true. You have a way of cutting directly to the heart of a matter. And I fear she's ready to close the door on me, once

and for all."

Devil take it! He should have walked away or, better yet, gone up the servants' stairs.

He heaved out an exhale. "I am only going to ask her if she would be willing to speak with you. That's all."

Resigned, he walked across the gallery, Dudley watching with the hopeful gaze of a dog waiting for a scrap at the dinner table.

Oscar lightly rapped on the doorframe of the sitting room. "I am here on behalf of Mr. Shellhorn, who begs an audience with

you."

"I don't care what either of you have to say." Alfreda crossed her arms, immovable as a mountain.

Oscar would have accepted that and walked away, if not for the strain of uncertainty and worry around her eyes.

So he kept his tone gentle. "And that is your prerogative. All I want to offer is that sometimes a man finds it difficult to reveal any weakness to the woman he loves. He wants to be strong for her."

"And I have never doubted that. Not once. But that is no excuse for secrets and lies."

"Quite true." Oscar hoped he wasn't standing too close to the chapel or any stray bolt of lightning that might smite him.

"However, it may be a bit more difficult for a man to be completely forthcoming when, say, his wife compares him to her first

husband."

"I do no such thing. They are—or were—complete opposites, until recently."

"And yet, by wearing black every day, aren't you refusing to release the memory of Sylvester?"

She blinked, owl-eyed, her bottom lip close to pouting as she uncrossed her arms. "Did Dudley say that he doesn't like my

dresses?"

"Nothing of the sort. He completely adores you. All I'm suggesting is that, instead of mourning your first husband, perhaps

you might wear a splash of color for your living husband to admire. Because he does—admire you, that is."

She swallowed and looked down at her stiff black bombazine. "I do have one gown tucked away. Babette gave it to me years ago.

So you can imagine that the cut is rather bold, especially around the..."

When she gestured to her bosom, Oscar changed his mind about the lightning bolt. Let it strike him. He was ready.

"But the silk is a rather lovely shade of violet," she continued and glanced across the gallery. After a moment, she nodded.

"Very well. I will grant him an audience."

Leaving that circle of hell, Oscar returned to Shellhorn. "Your lady awaits."

Without warning, Shellhorn reached out, snatched his hand and began pumping it up and down. "I'm overflowing with gratitude,

Vandemere."

"My pleasure," Oscar said, feeling as though he hadn't done a thing. Walking over to the tea tray, he sighed again, then picked up the flowers. "Wait. Give these to her. Apparently, they'll tell her everything you want to say."

"Mmm... And a rose for passion. Capital!" Dudley grinned, then clapped him on the shoulder. "No matter what their opinion

may be, I think you're a right solid chap."

In that moment, as he watched the warring factions reunite toward a tentative cease-fire, he wondered if he actually might

have done something, after all.

It felt almost... good, like something family might do for each other. Not quite the I baked your favorite biscuits type of family that the Hartleys had but more of an I don't loathe you quite as much today type of family.

The problem was, this wasn't his family. One day soon, Warring would write to him of news about the real Vandemere. And since

Oscar had given his word to the dowager, he would make sure she had her grandson when he left.

But he felt a pang of yearning that only intensified when he stepped into the king's chamber and saw Honoria sleeping amid

a tower of burgundy pillows in the center of a dark walnut four-poster bed.

He knew in that moment that she was the reason he'd started thinking about family. Just by being under this roof, she made

this stark abbey feel brighter, colorful, alive...

She made it feel like home.

And he knew that he wanted this life—Vandemere's life—more than he had ever wanted anything before.