The Solemn Bell(37)

“I’ll walk you upstairs.”

“No, Brody, I—I’d rather someone else did that. You stay here with your family.”

He frowned. “Alright, if you’d rather. I’ll ring for your maid.”

“Please do.” Angelica rubbed her eyes. She was either very tired, very frustrated, or both. And it was all his fault. When the maid came to escort her to her room, she bid everyone good-night.

Brody watched the two women weave their way through the room, moving carefully between the tables, armchairs, and the plant stands. He felt sorry for Angelica then. He’d always done the leading, and had never seen her be led—until that moment. She reminded him of the lines of gas-blinded soldiers walking hand-to-shoulder through the hospital corridors.

When they were gone, his father turned to him. “Poor girl. How did she lose her sight?”

“Fever, I think. When she was young.”

“What the devil happened to her family? Couldn’t they at least put her in one of those places that care for people like her?”

He wanted to tell the old man that she was not some creature to be pitied or packed away. She was stronger than anybody. The last place Angelica Grey belonged was in some Home for the Blind.

“Places for ‘people like her’—as you put it, Father—are little more than dungeons. She’d be mistreated. Beaten, starved, and quite possibly raped.”

His father nearly dropped his cigar in his lap. “Broderick! Your mother and sister are present! I’d thank you not to use such language in front of ladies!”

“Not saying it doesn’t make it not true,” he explained. “Ask Angelica. She’ll tell you.”

Father stubbed out his cigar. “I’d rather not.”

Mother eyed him curiously from her seat on the sofa. “What exactly is she doing here, Broderick?”

“I told you, she is a dear friend, and I owe her my life.”

“Yes, yes. So you’ve said,” his mother stroked Clarence’s fur with ruthless calm. “But what you’ve failed to explain—yet again—is why you thought to bring her here.”

Brody watched her long fingernails rake lines into the dog’s back. How had he believed Angelica could stand up to this woman’s scrutiny? That his own half-hearted plan would be bought, and shrugged off, by his mother?

He frowned down at her. “Didn’t know I needed a reason.”

“You always have a reason for everything you do. Some ulterior motive. Some scheme. If you’ve somehow sank so low as to use a blind girl to wring money…”

At that, he fled the drawing room. He couldn’t listen to another word. In the old days, he would dash up the stairs and race to the bathroom, barely able to strip out of his dinner jacket before reaching for his syringe kit. Tonight, he did not know what to do with himself.

He walked to the garage, and checked on his car. The big, beautiful Bentley—his second in less than a year—had been secured for the night next to Marcus’ Daimler. Brody climbed in, and sprawled across the rear seat. He enjoyed the chill night air and the musty smell of the motor garage.

It was his only place of refuge.

His family would never understand him. Truthfully, he’d given up trying to please them years ago. If it weren’t for Marcus and Mary Rose, he would never have come tonight. He desperately wanted to be a part of their lives, for them to be a part of his.

Angelica was part of that life. Besides his one sweetheart during his university years, he’d never had a girl before—certainly not one he considered bringing home to meet his family. Brody had foolishly wanted to bring the people he cared about together, so that he might feel complete. Yet, his parents had only seen another selfish gambit, another grab for money. They had failed to believe that he was past all that. That he was a changed man.

Or, at least, he was trying to be.





CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN





Creaking floors. The rush of water through a pipe in the walls. A door groaning on its hinges. Every house made sounds, but Angelica couldn’t shut these out. They were all foreign to her, each one reminding her that she was a stranger here.

The maid had led her to her room, undressed her, and put her to bed hours ago, but she couldn’t sleep. Angelica tossed and turned, cringing at every scrape, every creak, every cough. She didn’t know this place. She didn’t know her way out—what if there was a fire, and everyone forgot about her in the panic? She’d be trapped, alone and afraid, with no choice but to jump or burn.

Angelica would take her chances out the window. Even if she broke her neck, she’d be better off. It didn’t matter that she was only being paranoid—the chances of the house catching fire were slim—but she swore to herself that she was not going to die here, a forgotten girl in a forgotten room.

She wiped a tear from her cheek. Then, she wiped another. Angelica didn’t know why she was being childish. She cried for a fire that would never happen. She cried for her mother, father, and Freddie, who’d been dead for years. She cried for herself, for Captain Neill, and the lies he almost made her believe.

She was a fool for that man. He didn’t want her love, he only wanted her body—the only thing she had worth giving, apparently. Spreading her legs was the way to keep a man. Offering it up, little by little. Keeping them surprised and satisfied were the only ways to keep them coming back. Not love, not whispered promises, or sighing kisses.