George and Dorothea by Amy Quinton

Author:Amy Quinton [Quinton, Amy]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Amy Quinton

Six hours later, Dory cracked the door to St. Vincent’s room for the second time that evening and slowly peeked inside, her excitement overriding a headache and bleary eyes but not sensible caution.

The party had ended hours ago, which meant the bedrooms were all occupied with sleeping guests, including George, and though she had every intention of waking him to share her sensational news, she didn’t want to barge in like a stampeding herd of wild elephants and startle him awake only to have to admit she’d broken into his room, rifled through his personal belongings, and borrowed one of his possessions—against his not-quite-subtle wishes, in fact—whilst he’d been wined and dined downstairs.

No, the situation called for a delicate, subtle touch.

After nothing moved apart from dancing shadows brought to life by a roaring fire, which sizzled and crackled in its hearth, Dory crossed the threshold and gently closed the door behind her. The soft click was a thunderclap in her hyper-sensitive ears, and she winced, certain the entire world had just bolted upright in their beds owing to the noise.

Dory froze and screwed her eyes shut, waiting for an alarm to sound…to be outed as the thief she most definitely was…but all remained silent apart from the crackle of flames in the hearth. That and her ragged breathing.

In all honesty, would waking the entire house be so very bad? She had solved a great mystery and made a magnificent, if not significant, discovery. The bible was indeed both a cipher and a coded message, and she was confident St. Vincent didn’t know.

“Dory…”

Dory darted a glance at the massive bed; its curtains drawn to keep out the chill. It sounded like George. Mostly. Just…sort of sleepy but not quite. Awake though.

Excellent.

“St. Vincent. I have news,” she whispered, loudly, which was amusing. A loud whisper?

“Oh, Dory,” he moaned in reply.

What a peculiar thing to say—or at least, an odd way to say it. Dory tip toed across the room, away from the bed, and procured a candle from the fireplace mantle.

“Mmmm…”

She glanced over her shoulder. Was he ill? He’d seemed fine in her room earlier. Very fine, in fact. A flock of birds threatened to take flight in her belly at the memory, and she forced herself to focus on lighting her candle from the fire in the fireplace.

“George,” she admonished. “Do you want to wake the neighbors? Give me a minute; I can barely see. You’re not going to believe what I have learned.”

“Oh, God.”

Well. She didn’t expect him to be that distressed. “Er…quite so.”

What else could she say? Did he already know what she’d done? Was he worried? Angry? She stood upright and turned, staring at the bed on the opposite side of the room as if she could divine St. Vincent’s state of health—or the state of his mind, really—by the very weave of the dark velvet bed curtains.

He groaned again.

Was he ill? In trouble?

Gracious, was someone attacking him?

As if in answer, he shouted. “Oh, Christ, Dory!”

She dropped the green bible and taking care to cup her flame, flew across the room as fast as she dared.

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