Total pages in book: 105
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97740 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
He finally staggers out of his study, full of Scotch, at three in the morning, and I watch as he practically crawls up the stairs. The moment he closes his bedroom door behind him, I hurry down to his study and let myself in, closing the door as quietly as I can behind me. I walk the foot of the bookcases, my eyes scanning the spines until I find what I’m looking for, and on a deep breath, I pull the thick, leatherbound book out, having to use two hands, for it is as heavy as it looks. And dusty.
The fine particles get up my nose, and, in a panic because I am not known for my quiet, ladylike sneezes, I rush to Father’s desk, drop the book to the leather top, and quickly block off my nose and mouth with my hands, squeezing my eyes closed.
A-choo!
My shoulders tense, and I screw up my face, slowly releasing my hand, listening for any signs of anyone coming to investigate the noise. A few seconds pass before I deem I am safe and undetected, and I start flicking through the pages of the book until I find what I am looking for.
I stare down at two silver unicorns up on their hind legs, except now I can see them perfectly clearly. With the utmost anticipation and with my heart thumping wildly in my chest, I read the piece that will tell me which family this coat of arms belongs to, therefore who will be moving into number one Belmore Square imminently.
‘What?’ I blurt, reading it again, just to make sure I’m seeing right.
I am.
I am looking at the coat of arms for the Duke of Chester.
The Winters.
I frown, resting back in Papa’s chair, my mind racing.
But the Winters are dead.
What in the devil’s name is going on?
Chapter 2
After discovering the coat of arms belonged to the Winters, I was a woman on a mission, trawling through every book in Father’s study searching for anything I could find on the family. I wouldn’t rest until I found at least something to substantiate the wildness of my thoughts, and, actually, if I am to do what I plan on doing, I need that little thing everyone else seems to think is unimportant.
Evidence.
At exactly fifteen minutes past six o’clock, I stumbled across an entry in an art book detailing the buyer of a beautiful landscape painting depicting the English countryside. The painting I saw being carried into the Winters’ residence. The buyer being the dead Duke of Chester.
I spent the next two hours writing fast, my hand struggling to keep up with my brain, my task tricky, only because I was trying to disguise my handwriting. I finish in the nick of time, hearing our butler, Dalton, rise. I fold the parchment and run out to the front door, pulling it open and holding the handle. And the moment I detect our butler behind me, I push it closed and turn, waving the paper.
‘Mr Porter left this for Father on his way to the printworks,’ I say, stretching on a yawn. ‘Would you mind leaving it on his desk, Dalton?’ I hand the paper to him as I pass, not giving him a moment to question me. ‘I feared his knocking would wake the entire square.’ I press my lips together, knowing Dalton will be mortified that I was forced to leave my bed prematurely at this ungodly hour to answer the front door to a visitor. ‘I think I need a few more hours.’ I hurry up the stairs, smiling to myself.
Gosh, I have never been so intrigued.
After a few hours of restless sleep, I spent the remainder of the day trying to keep my whirling tummy under control. Tomorrow, possibly, people will be reading my words again, and as I sit before the mirror now, looking at a polished, painted version of myself, while Clara twirls, skips and pirouettes around our bedroom as fast as my mind is racing, I wonder if Papa has yet read my story, or even discovered it.
I try to pat down the short puffy sleeves of my dress before wriggling and pulling at the bottom of the stay that seems so pointless under my new high-waisted silk garb. I peek down at my generous chest that’s suitably concealed behind a dignified square neckline. I preferred the V-neck version of this particular dress, the one similar to those I have seen in fashion magazines, the more risqué garment. Who knew I would have a preference on fashion? Alas, it was vetoed in favour of this… ladylike piece.
I push my jewelled hair comb further into the mass of mahogany curls adorning my head, wincing as the sharp metal prongs scratch my scalp. ‘Clara, be still,’ I warn, speaking through my teeth, the comb starting to give me a headache already.