The Sins of Lord Lockwood by Meredith Duran

Author:Meredith Duran [Duran, Meredith]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Pocket Books
Published: 0101-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER ELEVEN

A noise awoke Anna.

She sat up in bed, her breath coming quick as some nightmare faded from her mind. The fire in the grate burned low; no noise came from the connecting chamber.

Lockwood had deposited her home, but had not come inside—informing her, with cold courtesy, that he was wanted at the club to discuss some bill. She did not believe him, of course. By the newspapers’ accounts, he appeared in Parliament these days only to cast votes for his party, and his withdrawal from his former, more vigorous role in the debates kept everybody puzzled but her.

He was useless now. Living off her money, throwing parties and buying things, and not much else. He had gone to his club to get drunk, no doubt. But the noise that had woken her had not come from his rooms. When she crossed on silent feet to open the door, she found his bed empty, the sheets neatly tucked.

She stood in silence, conscious of the drumming of her heart, until she was certain she had imagined the noise. She turned back for her rooms—

It came again: a distant yell, abruptly cut off. And then, equally dimly, what sounded like cheers.

It was coming from below. Were the servants brawling? She would sack the lot of them, Lockwood’s objections be damned. She strode back into her room, taking care not to wake Jeannie in the dressing room as she added a wrapper to her nightgown, and then a heavy cloak over that.

Carrying a candle with her, she made her way down the stairs. In the entry hall, a familiar boy lay snoring on the marble tiles. The reek of liquor wafted up from him.

“Hey,” she said, and when that did not wake Wilkins, she gave him an ungentle nudge with her foot.

He jerked awake and leapt to his feet in one simultaneous motion—an impressive trick, but not the reason she stepped backward. His cravat had come unwound. A ropy scar encircled his throat.

Somebody had tried to hang him.

He goggled. “Ain’t—ain’t it late, ma’am?” He scrubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “Beg pardon, I didn’t think—I was listening, I swear! Had somebody knocked—”

“Enough.” Her tone emerged too sharply in her effort to mask her shock. “Regardless of the hour, you are not to sleep on the job. Much less on the floor!”

“I—yes, ma’am.” His bow was a respectable effort, but undone by his half-swallowed belch. “I won’t do it again, I promise.”

She doubted that. But she found herself reluctant to scold him. He looked so remarkably young—nineteen or twenty at most. Yet that scar looked old, silvering. Somebody had abused him terribly when he was but a child.

He shifted, clearly made uneasy by her study of him. “Some warm milk might help,” he said. “If you can’t sleep. I could go fetch it for you.”

“That is not the job of the night porter,” she said sternly. “But . . . Wilkins, I do wonder—”

A raucous cheer came from the interior, causing Wilkins to blanch.

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