rushed to soothe him even as her own heartbeat accelerated. “It was not my intention to distress you.”
His shoulders rose and fell with a tangibly difficult breath. And then he turned and reclaimed his seat as she bade him, though she didn’t have to see the lines of his body to sense the palpable hostility emanating from him.
Perhaps answering his question would help.
“To be completely honest, I didn’t get a good look at him. He told me that I did not deserve what I had. That he was going to take it from me. He sounded— a bit older. Not like an enfeebled elderly sort of fellow. But someone perhaps fifty or sixty. Mature and… and somewhat maniacal.”
“Did he—” The sentence cut off as if his throat wouldn’t allow him to say the words. “Did you suffer any other injuries?”
“No. Fortunately,” she rushed on, compelled to appease him. “The brigand was frightened away by some rather drunken noble lads staggering from one sort of trouble to the next. He ran into an alley and disappeared.”
When he said nothing, she continued. “I returned home that night, unbelievably agitated, only to find this.” She extracted a scrap of paper from the pocket of her skirts, unfolded it, and set it on the table.
In that moment, the door clicked open, and a maid came in carrying tea and biscuits. She set it on the sideboard and curtsied. “Mrs. Pickering said she’d be up directly, miss.”
“Thank you, Jane. Tell her there is no reason to rush. Mr. Severand and I are getting along quite well.”
For some reason she did not dare identify, Felicity didn’t want company other than his at present.
“Yes, miss.” Jane glanced over at Mr. Severand and swallowed audibly. “I-If you are in need of assistance, ring the bell. Mr. Bartholomew is just outside the door.”
This was obviously said for his benefit rather than hers.
“Thank you, Jane.”
When Felicity turned back to Mr. Severand, she found he’d taken the paper and retreated to his seat to study it intently.
It was no epistle or manifesto, merely a sketching of Cresthaven Place engulfed in flames, with a chilling message printed hastily below.
I will claim what is mine.
“Do you have the envelope this arrived in?” he asked in a lethally subdued voice.
“That’s just it,” she explained. “It wasn’t in the post. I found it on my personal correspondence secretary here in my parlor.” She gestured to the desk in question, strewn with stationery and several of her favorite pens.
“Whoever left this was in my house and my staff witnessed nothing.” She shivered as she did whenever the picture of the intruder invaded her mind’s eye.
“This evidence suggests that my attack was not random violence, but something far more malevolent. Needless to say, I find personal protection necessary until I can secure a husband who’s responsible for my safety. Since Parliament is in session, and my mourning for my parents is considered officially over, I’m expected to take a season. I-I need someone at my side so I can feel… so I am safe. At least until this enemy can be discovered and dealt with.”
Felicity paused. Waiting for him to say something.
Wishing he were closer.
As a nervous sort of creature, she’d become a master at reading expressions, sussing out people’s responses and emotions, if only to predict what their reactions might be at any given point so she could avoid conflict or worse.
Mr. Gareth Severand was not a man easily read, nor was he predictable. Even without her spectacles on, she was categorically certain of that.
“What about your family, Miss Goode?” he asked, still studying the paper in his hand. “Is not your brother-in-law a rather famous chief inspector at Scotland Yard? Has he seen this?”
Felicity glanced away, not for the first time wishing her family had not become so infamous through no fault of their own.
Well… almost.
“Chief Inspector Morley and my sister Prudence are abroad for a few weeks, settling my parents’ final overseas interests. My eldest sister Honoria and her husband live above the Alcott Surgical Specialty Hospital. She’s in her confinement with child, and is over thirty years. I’m told that makes pregnancy exponentially more difficult. I could never visit peril on their household or their patients. What if stress or danger caused Nora— that’s what we call her— to lose the baby? I’d never forgive myself.”
Felicity looked down at her lap, plucking a stray fiber off her dark frock. Tomorrow her new trousseau for the season would arrive, and she could put her