The Baronet's Bride (Midnight Quill #1.5)(20)

Stupid bitch. Edward clenched his right hand. Even after five months, a dull twinge of pain accompanied the movement.

He unclenched his hand and looked down at it, at the stumps of three of his fingers, and felt the familiar sense of disbelief, the familiar pang of loss. Would it ever fade? Or would he always mourn his missing fingers?

At least he’d not had a sweetheart to be repulsed by his injuries.

Strickland grunted, and then struggled to his feet, leaning on the cane. “Please join us in the drawing room.”

Edward stood. “It would be my pleasure, sir.”

Strickland made his way slowly to the door. Edward followed. They traversed the corridor at a snail’s pace. “My niece reads to us in the evenings,” Strickland said, stopping outside a paneled door.

“How delightful,” Edward said, remembering her contralto voice. “Poetry?”

“Sermons,” the old man said, opening the door.

Sermons? Edward almost balked. If you can face Napoleon’s army on a battlefield, you can face an evening of sermons, he told himself, and he squared his shoulders and followed his host into the drawing room.

Like every other room he’d seen in this house, it was a bleak chamber, paneled in dark wood. The furniture was stiff, the fire too small for the grate. All three ladies had shawls draped around their shoulders. He thought he saw Mrs. Dunn shiver as she bent over her embroidery frame.

Edward chose a mahogany armchair. Despite its apparent sturdiness, the chair creaked beneath his weight. He shifted slightly, trying to make himself more comfortable. The chair creaked again, more loudly. He took that as a warning and stilled.

Miss Chapple presided over the teapot. “Tea, Mr. Kane?”

“Please.”

The clink of china was loud as she placed teacups on saucers and poured for himself and her uncle, not because she was clumsy—the movement of her fingers was deft and unhesitating—but because the room was so silent. “Milk?” she asked. “Sugar?”

Edward shook his head. Milk and sugar were things he’d learned to do without on campaign.

He accepted his cup and sipped. The tea was weak and tepid—but it rid the sweet taste of port from his mouth.

Her duties as hostess done, Miss Chapple stood and took a place to one side of the fireplace, where she didn’t block the meager heat. Edward drained his teacup and cast a longing glance at the door. Could he claim tiredness as an escape?

Not when it was barely half past seven.

He sighed, and placed the teacup back in its saucer.

Miss Chapple opened the leather-bound book. She looked at Edward. “I shall be reading from Sermons to Young Women,” she told him. “By the Reverend James Fordyce. Are you familiar with the work, Mr. Kane?”

“Er . . . no.” He sat back in the armchair, making it creak again, and composed his face into an expression of interest.

“Sermon Two,” Miss Chapple said. “On Modesty of Apparel.” She glanced at Mrs. Dunn briefly, as if some silent message passed between them, and then began to read aloud: “Let me recall the attention of my female friends to a subject that concerns them highly . . .”

Edward stopped paying attention. He gazed at the fire and allowed Miss Chapple’s voice to flow over him. She had a surprisingly attractive voice, low and melodic, lulling him towards sleep . . .

He jerked back to full attention. The clock on the mantelpiece had advanced twenty minutes. Miss Chapple still read from the book of sermons: “Is not a constant pursuit of trivial ornament an indubitable proof of a trivial mind?”

Edward glanced swiftly around. Had anyone noticed he’d fallen into a doze?

No.

Lady Marchbank was listening with fierce attention, her lips pursed in approval. Arthur Strickland was watching his niece, nodding as she spoke, agreeing with Fordyce.

“Will she that is always looking into her glass, be much disposed to look into her character?”

Mrs. Dunn, blonde and pretty, was also listening intently, her eyes fixed on Miss Chapple’s face, but . . .

Edward narrowed his eyes. Mrs. Dunn’s lips moved silently, as if she was counting under her breath. He glanced at her hands. Her fingers tapped against her knee as she listened—tiny, almost indiscernible movements.

Was she counting something?

Edward returned his gaze to Miss Chapple. He scanned her from head to toe. She was extremely plain, her brown hair pulled back severely from her face and her mannishly tall figure garbed in an unflattering gray gown.

Edward’s gaze lingered on her breasts for a fleeting moment before he wrenched them away. She’s reading a sermon, he admonished himself. And she was Toby’s cousin. His favorite cousin.

Edward observed Miss Chapple more thoughtfully. Toby had spoken highly of her. There must be something more to her than was visible at first glance.

He closed his eyes for a brief moment. When he opened them again, the clock hands had advanced another fifteen minutes.

Edward sat up straight, blinking. He uncrossed his legs and crossed them the other way. The armchair uttered a creaking groan.

“The less vanity you betray,” Miss Chapple read, “the more merit we shall always be disposed to allow you.”

He focused his attention on her, trying to guess her age. She was well past girlhood. Somewhere in her twenties, but precisely where was hard to determine; her skin was as smooth as that of a girl in her teens.