Upon a Midnight Dream (London Fairy Tales #1)(50)

“Stefan,” Rosalind’s voice hitched. “What do we do? Everything has gone topsy-turvy…”

Stefan didn’t move for a while, his muscular form rigid. “We must marry immediately.”

“Oh sweet heavens, here we go again.” Rosalind rubbed her forehead with her hands. “Have you learned nothing about proposals, Stefan? Besides, we already agreed to marry.”

“He’s right, m’lady.” Mary said behind her.

“Oh, Mary, I didn’t see you! Have you seen Isabelle?”

Mary’s posture was slumped as if she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders. “I’m afraid she’s gone.”

“But where!” Rosalind was tired of fighting, tears streamed down her face. How had everything gone so horribly wrong? Stefan was back to his insulting proposals, her sister was missing, her mother insane.

“There’s nothing we can do for her now.” Mary handed a piece of parchment to Stefan and walked away, eyes downcast. Her nurse and godmother had been missing these past few days, or at least scarce around the house. Possibly, madness was catching up with everyone. Was there any other explanation?

Rosalind watched as Stefan unfolded the paper and read the contents, his face turning redder with rage by the minute.

“Off to bed, all of you,” he barked.

Rosalind bit back a curse, wanting nothing more than to yell and scream at him. How dare he yell when she was so distraught!

She opened her mouth to speak. His large hand came slicing through the air in front of her making her stop from saying something she would most likely regret.

“To bed, both of you.” The warmth in Stefan’s eyes faded and Rosalind was once again reminded of the brute behind the man she had grown to care for.

Nodding mutely, she turned on her heel and marched to bed, holding Gwen’s hand the entire way up the treacherous staircase.

The last word she heard from Stefan’s mouth as she turned the corner to go down the hall was, “Dominique.”





Chapter Nineteen


For truth is always strange, stranger than fiction—Lord Byron



Stefan paced the entryway for what seemed like hours. Finally, he went into the study and poured himself a brandy, still looking at the letter as if it would somehow grow lips and begin speaking to him. Perhaps he better put down the brandy before he imagined more enchantments in the house. Next thing he would think his horse was talking to him. On second thought…

“Rubbish, that’s complete rubbish.” Stefan shook the thought from his head. Was it a possibility that all of them were to go mad until the marriage was done?

The truth, in black and white ink, lay before him. But more than that, was a clue he hadn’t been expecting.

It was a contract signed by Dominique, the new Earl, to purchase the youngest daughter… but if this was the same daughter the man was talking about in the library at the ball that meant either Rosalind’s father wasn’t dead, or he wasn’t the rightful father to Isabelle. The more likely story.

So who was her father? And why would the contract be sent here? He looked down again and noticed the scratchy handwriting of the Dowager Countess of Hariss. Next to her name was the family crest.

He couldn’t very well run after Isabelle. Her own family had legally sold her to the new earl in a betrothal contract. A sum of a hundred thousand pounds in exchange for one tiny girl.

Closing his eyes against the torment of emotions, he sent up a brief prayer for Isabelle’s safety, and glanced back down at the script.

On the bottom edge of the paper was a tiny riddle. Why it would be on the contract in the first place was beyond him. The fact that it was there was nothing more than an answered prayer. He studied it until his eyes felt like they were sand.

Sometime during the night, it fell from his fingers as he dozed off to sleep.

****



Rosalind went in search of Stefan first thing in the morning. Her goal was to give him a piece of her mind as to how proposals were to work and to also convince the duke to go in search of her sister. After all, she couldn’t be far.

She found him snoring in her father’s old study. Not that it was a huge revelation to see him snoring with his mouth open, but it made her smile nonetheless. With a smile, she slammed the door shut earning a curse from the sleeping man and a very amusing debacle as he righted himself from falling out of his chair.

“Oh, my apologies, did I wake you?” She sang as she walked to the curtains and threw them open, allowing light to stream in. Stefan was sitting, eyes blazing with a piece of paper in hand and an empty bottle of brandy next to him.

“Long night?” She took a seat next to him and noted he looked quite put out, as if he was ready to strangle her for speaking in his presence, that should teach him to get so deep into his cups or continue to propose to her as if she were nothing more than a statue.

“Yes.” His eyes closed as he leaned back against the chair. “Of course I was having this lovely dream of a beautiful redhead until some witch slammed the door and let in so much sunlight that I find myself ready to curse any sort of sunny weather.”

The sun chose that particular moment to blaze into his eyes making his arms flap at his face like a bird trying to fly away from the inevitable heat.

“Son of a—”