Murder on Charles Street - Leighann Dobbs Page 0,8
carriage stopped in front of her house. The first man to exit was not the marquess, but Captain Dorian Wayland, a close friend of Lord Annandale’s. An obscenely tall man with a military build, Wayland was easy to pick out of any crowd. Although the sight of him usually left her with a sense of annoyance, today an uncharacteristic relief washed through her.
Whatever else Wayland was, he was a skilled detective. And, given the spiral of her thoughts, she could use another perspective before she plunged headlong into chaos—or an unexpected murder investigation.
Chapter Three
Prudence Burwick, a woman nearly as tall as Katherine and built solidly, made no attempt to hide her curiosity. As she descended from the carriage, she craned her neck to peer between the two gargantuan men flanking her. “What’s happening down the street? Is there a fire?”
Katherine shook her head. Her teeth chattered, and she couldn’t seem to force out a word. Lord Annandale had taken his fiancée’s lead and frowned, peering in the direction of the raucous gathering. Wayland, positioned closer to Katherine, noticed her state first.
“You aren’t dressed to be out of doors. Katherine, where are your gloves?”
When he gathered her hands in his, cupping them between his leather gloves, she should have pulled away. But the heat of his body seeped through and into her quivering flesh. The tips of her fingers tingled, far from a good omen, and the shells of her ears burned.
Pru turned to her then, her frown emphasizing the sharpness of her nose and chin. “Katherine, where is your cloak?”
Katherine didn’t have an answer for that, either. A moment later, she found herself swept by all three of her friends into the house.
Wayland dropped his hold on her to open the door, throwing his head back and hollering, “Harriet!” Apparently, in the face of near frostbite, he wasn’t about to stand on ceremony.
Harriet bustled out of the front parlor with Emma wriggling in her arms. The dog barked happily, tail wagging as she strained toward Wayland, who always seemed to be her favorite person in the room. Harriet deposited her unceremoniously into Wayland’s arms.
“There’s a fire in the hearth.” She took one look at Katherine, lips thinning, then added, “I’ll put on some tea.”
Her gaze lingered, traveling past Katherine’s shoulder to the soon-to-be-married couple who entered after her and shut the door. After a heartbeat, Harriet turned on her heel and bustled down the corridor toward the kitchen.
With his arms full of Emma and the battle to avoid having his chin washed, Wayland didn’t have the attention to usher Katherine farther into the house. That pleasure fell to Lord Annandale, the great, jovial, bearded bear of a man who had given his heart to her dearest friend. “Och now, lass, go on in and warm yourself before ye catch a chill.”
Katherine barely felt the cold or the numbness receding as she moved closer to the hearth. As with the rest of the house, the furniture in this room was supremely sparse. In fact, the parlor contained only three seats—the pink armchair that had once resided in Katherine’s room and a short paisley loveseat that had seen finer days. Between them was an oval table with a spindly potted plant.
The loveseat was closest to the hearth, which nursed a small crackling flame. But Katherine couldn’t sit there. Thus far, Pru and Annandale had always claimed that spot when visiting. This was the first time they had brought Wayland with them. Katherine stood in front of the fire, staring and wrapping her arms around herself as she struggled to stop shaking. It wasn’t cold in here. Why am I still trembling?
“Katherine.” Pru’s sharp tone captured her attention.
When Katherine turned, she found Lord Annandale impotently holding his greatcoat and Pru’s pelisse over his arm, watching her with a frown. Pru had moved close enough to claim one end of the loveseat, but she hesitated, her attention rapt on Katherine.
“What’s gotten into you this morning? Are you ill?”
Katherine shook her head. “No.”
Harriet trotted back into the room. Absently, she informed, “The tea will be a moment. I’ll take those.” She plucked at the garments on Lord Annandale’s sleeve, but didn’t take her eyes off Katherine. “Who screamed?”
All eyes impaled Katherine with a single-mindedness. She swallowed against her dry mouth, but when she answered, her voice emerged as a croak. “Mrs. Campbell.” She cleared her throat, gathering her wits. She had frequented far more murder scenes than any other person in the room, save perhaps