The Lover's Knot (No Better Angels Book 2) by Satie Erin

Author:Satie, Erin [Satie, Erin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: mystery, duke, second chance, poison, Romance, victorian, Historical, 19th century
ISBN: 9781942457022
Publisher: Little Phrase
Published: 2014-12-03T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Fifteen

People made mistakes all the time. Little ones, big ones. Medium-sized, too. Mistakes came in all sizes, to suit every situation. For example, one of High Bend’s excellent servants had filled a beautiful stoneware bowl with unshelled walnuts and kindly, thoughtfully placed it on Julian’s desk.

Mistake.

Julian scooped up a handful of walnuts and threw one at a no doubt priceless, quite possibly ancient Chinese vase tastefully placed atop the mantelpiece of his clean, comfortable, well-lit study. He judged the vase to be a foot high. Orange and blue. Fish on it. The vase wobbled, fell from its perch, and shattered. Oops.

What else was he supposed to do with unshelled walnuts? He didn’t have a nutcracker.

Julian stood up from his chair, walnuts still in hand, and paced over to take a closer look at the shards. He stepped on the largest fragment, grinding his heel into it to break it into tiny pieces, and collected the walnut he’d thrown.

Mustn’t waste.

Julian left his study. He paused in the alcove where the chamber orchestra had played the night before and leaned against the ledge. By the time he’d awoken, the courtyard had been restored to its usual tranquility—potted plants, scattered seating arrangements, bare flagstones. This sort of seamless perfection had been out of his reach as a moderately paid eminence grise of the Crown, and he took a moment to appreciate it.

The waltz hadn’t been a mistake. In an evening rife with disaster, it might have been the only thing he’d done right. He’d shown her something she hated to acknowledge, in a way that didn’t frighten her.

In the old days, he’d tried teasing her about her poor memory:

“Your memory isn’t as bad as you think it is, you know.”

“You don’t understand, Julian. If I remove a necklace in the evening and don’t place it directly in my maid’s hand, it will be lost by morning. Every time!”

“That’s one example, Sophie. Tell me this: Does your uncle form an open loop when he writes the letter ‘l’, or a closed loop?”

“Closed,” she answered immediately.

“What about your aunt?”

“Open.”

“When was the last time you saw a sample of either of their handwriting?”

She looked up, panic already tightening her cheeks and forehead. “I don’t know. A few days—no—last week—maybe?”

He’d checked her answers against actual writing samples, and she’d been right in both cases. She remembered when it mattered. He’d often thought Sophie fixated so intently on how much she forgot so she wouldn’t have to think about what, exactly, she cared to remember.

She remembered loving him, she remembered trusting him. She remembered his body and how well they’d once fit together. She just didn’t want to.

“Your Grace?” The polite, officious voice belonged to Vasari Jones, who stood at attention a few feet behind Julian. He’d dressed somberly this morning, at least by his unique standards, wearing brown tweed but for a red waistcoat that clashed horribly with his orange hair.

“What can I do for you, Mr. Jones?”

Jones coughed into his fist. “I’d like to speak about something that I could do for you, rather.

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