The Wicked Heir (Spare Heirs #3)(38)
In another moment she would leave. She couldn’t very well miss her sister’s wedding because she was busy strolling through the upper rooms of the British Museum. No one would understand that reasoning at all.
Moving to her favorite piece in the collection, that of a tumbling-down castle standing alone on a hillside, she smiled. She often wished she lived there—
Clunk!
She was knocked to the side, and a sound seemed to echo inside her head. Blinding, sharp, slicing, silencing pain. The room swam before her eyes, then went black.
Her knees buckled beneath her, and she was falling. Falling. Falling.
The last thing she saw was the castle, standing proud against the sky, calling her to come inside and stay within its walls forever.
Nine
Spare Heirs Society
Report of Events
30 September 1813
It’s now known that Mr. Reginald Grapling has been taking funds from the Westminster Boardinghouse for more than two years, beginning when he was first assigned the task of its protection in June 1811 under the authority of the Spare Heirs Society. The discovery of the missing amount (for exact accounting, see appendix C) was made by Mr. Henry Fairlyn while conducting an audit of the Westminster Boardinghouse books for Madame Molloy, proprietor of the house. The audit was administered after allegations against Mr. Grapling were raised by one of the women residing at WBH, Miss Maggie Redmond. This information was presented to Mr. Fallon St. James dated yesterday, 29 September. At Mr. St. James’s instruction, a full investigation was launched. The missing funds were retrieved after a raid of Grapling’s home led by Mr. Kelton Brice. Grapling was not present to be apprehended at that time.
At eleven o’clock this morning, Mr. Grapling was found having tea in the drawing room of Madame Molloy’s establishment. Minutes later, Miss Maggie Redmond was found unresponsive on the floor of her room at the same location. Miss Redmond’s body was bound, gagged, and covered head to toe in shallow wounds from a knife. When she was found, she wore only the locket that witnesses claim Mr. Grapling gave the woman as a gift months prior—a token of his affection. The depth of Miss Redmond’s wounds suggests that she was allowed to bleed out for most of the night. Mr. Grapling had the murder weapon in his possession downstairs where he waited for her passing…
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Spring 1817
“All of London society is here,” Hardaway hissed through clenched teeth.
Fallon scanned the church, attempting to count in rough terms how many were in attendance. “I would estimate it at half of society,” he murmured a moment later. “Of course, there are many who don’t come to town who I’m also taking into account.”
“I meant why are so many people here?” Hardaway asked in his version of a whisper—which was more of a low rumble that the first pew of people in front of them could surely hear.
“It isn’t often a lifelong bachelor and ton darling is finally chained to a lady.” And Fallon had called in a few favors to make sure there were strong numbers present. There was no point in holding a wedding as a diversion from recent disasters if no one came to the event. He didn’t want his friend to marry without reason. Guilt already plagued him over the necessary ruthlessness he’d had to use in sacrificing one of his oldest friends’ bachelorhood. For that high a price, the wedding had to be worth discussing for weeks on end.
“I’m not some spectacle to be viewed in the park, and don’t call me a ton darling.”
Fallon glanced to Hardaway at his side with a suppressed smile. His friend needed to lash out at him to relieve his anxiety over waiting for his wedding to begin. It was the least Fallon could do to rib the man into a fight to distract him. “Today you are both of those things. Isn’t it a beautiful occasion?”
“Shut it before I hit you, St. James.” Hardaway drew back at his own words and turned to stare at him. “You’re far more loquacious as of late. It’s odd. I like it, but it’s odd.”
Fallon didn’t respond. It was true. He’d spoken more in the past few weeks than he had in a year. There was only one change to his schedule where he could place blame for such an oddity: Lady Isabelle Fairlyn.
The woman and her excessively cheerful nature had somehow crawled under his skin, and the situation got worse every time he saw her. Now he found he was talking more often than before. The worst of it was that he wasn’t speaking of anything of importance; they were…almost leisurely discussions. He gave an inward shudder and adjusted his stance at the front of the room, his gaze sweeping the crowd.
Where was Lady Isabelle this morning? He’d yet to catch even a glimpse of her. She must have been keeping her sister company. Or perhaps she was too upset by the wedding to sit about and wait for it to begin. It was taking quite a while to get started.
Fallon resisted the urge to pull out his pocket watch and check the time, knowing many eyes were upon him while he waited at the altar. He wasn’t accustomed to being at the front of a crowd of people, much preferring to rule from the shadows, where he could check the time if he chose. He spotted Ash Claughbane and his new wife, Evangeline, chatting quietly with each other. Claughbane hadn’t seen marriage on the horizon until it happened either, and to his lifelong enemy’s daughter no less. Everything was changing, but the happiness he saw on Claughbane’s face gave Fallon peace of mind about that fact.