Checkmate, My Lord - By Tracey Devlyn Page 0,35

warning. The air from her lungs was cut off from the rest of her body. Her head swam, her heart broke. “Oh, sweet pumpkin. You do not have to see your papa’s face to love him with your heart.” Catherine laid her hand over her daughter’s thundering chest. “He lives here. Always will.”

Sophie snuggled against Catherine’s breast, clutching her wooden horse and sniffing back her sadness. They both said nothing for a long while, simply sat immersed in their own thoughts. Then, in a low voice, her daughter asked, “Will you invite the earl, Mama?”

Catherine closed her eyes. “Yes, sweetheart.”

Crisis averted, Sophie soon began chattering on about teaching her pony a new command when they returned home. Catherine listened with half an ear, for her mind had settled back onto the earl. Somehow she would find a way to learn more about his lordship. Perhaps she could invent an excuse to visit him at Bellamere. The contrivance made her cringe. He would likely see through her desperation and think she had designs on his person. If she wasn’t in mourning, she might be able to pull off such a scheme—at least for a while.

Her eyes widened. Hadn’t the earl mentioned something about her departure being fortuitous before her worry for Sophie overrode their conversation? What had he meant by that statement? She searched her mind for possible reasons. Maybe he had a question about the repairs or about a particular craftsman. Yes, that would make sense.

Now she had to figure out a way to regain their former discussion without seeming too eager. Although she hated the pretense, anticipation vibrated along every nerve and muscle in her body. If she could somehow burrow her way into his good graces, she could play a small part in fixing Mr. Blake’s disastrous stewardship while tracking down Cochran’s information, plus bring an end to the mystery of her husband’s death.

And for a short period of time, she wouldn’t be alone.

“Can we open the curtain now, Mama?”

Catherine drew back the heavy material, only to find towering black clouds in the distance.

“Looks like rain, Mama.”

“Indeed it does, pumpkin.” Catherine tilted her head back to rest against the carriage seat. She stared at the dark panel above her and tried to ignore the dread seeping into her bones.

***

Sebastian studied the small collection of books in the widow’s library, his impatience growing with each passing minute. He had escaped the vicar’s pointed sermon about forgiving one’s neighbor only to be met with Mrs. Ashcroft’s domestic issue.

He didn’t know what was worse—the vicar publicly challenging the residents of Showbury not to cast judgment on their landlord for hiring Blake, or getting himself involved in the welfare of yet another child.

A girl, no less.

He gritted his teeth against the pain of remembrance, of Cora’s imprisonment. Of the helplessness that followed. But he did not dwell there for long. Recriminations about the past were useless in the present. The decisions he made today, this minute, were all that mattered. If previous mistakes helped guide him down a better path now, all the better.

Shrugging off images of dungeons and pain-filled eyes, Sebastian stared at the door. Where the hell was she? The longer he idled in the widow’s library, the more restless he became.

She had implored him to stay before shuffling her blanket-draped daughter upstairs and issuing a full gamut of orders to her staff. He had thought she was going upstairs to retrieve the letters, but too much time had elapsed for so simple a task.

Why hadn’t he disappeared when he’d had the chance? Their discussion regarding Ashcroft’s letters would be better held at Bellamere, away from the distracting presence of a child. He needed to concentrate and he couldn’t afford to care. Not again. Dammit. Why had he allowed the widow’s beseeching brown eyes to win out against his better judgment?

Disgusted with his weakness, he released a harsh breath. Through all the bustle, Sebastian had admired Catherine’s ability to direct her household with a firm, yet gentle hand. Her staff anticipated her needs, and when they hadn’t, she’d remind them with soft commands followed by genuine gratitude. All signs of a good mistress.

He focused on her bookshelves again. They, too, carried her stamp of authority. Every shelf contained its own category, and every category was alphabetized. Only in the finest libraries had he ever seen such an exacting system.

With her delicate beauty as a distraction, one could easily underestimate the widow’s fortitude. His gaze surveyed the room at large. Took

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