Hunters

III. Discovery

III. Discovery

It had been dark and uncomely for days. Though Lecia had never minded rain—sometimes relished it—London storms were not the same. While the clouds most certainly deterred arduous callers, there was far too much grey for any one person to bear. The city wept like a monstrous old hag, sopping tears that caused a wrinkled face to sag.

Time at home had always been worth the gloom, if only to spend time by the fire with her family, but these somber showers would be the death of her. The Baron had locked himself in his study, emerging only for supper and when duty called him elsewhere. His wife was losing her wits in captivity, incessantly blabbering about this Lord or that Lady to their uninterested daughter. The parties may well have been put on hold, but the gossip would never cease. Lecia would have willingly spent a day listening to Lisette gush over her single dance with the Duke if it meant being spared what was nearly a week of her mother's chatter.

But Lisette hadn't come. Not even a letter had arrived. Odd, considering her provisions were just down the street.

A rueful sigh escaped Lecia's lips as she watched the rain coat a sleek black cab as it trotted across glazed stones. She turned her head at the chime of porcelain as Nettie brought in the afternoon tea. The tray was set on the elegant new table her mother had found, arranged between two uncomfortably rigid new settees. Beneath them sprawled a vibrant Persian rug and fresh wallpaper had been put up throughout the house. The harsh scent of glue still lingered in the air, so the Baroness had potpourri set out in every room.

"Oh, thank you Nettie," the Baroness dismissed the maid, clacking over the freshly finished floors. As the serving woman bowed out of the room, the Baroness spotted her daughter at the window. "You look marvelous, sweetheart," she beamed. "The blue is a lovely compliment to your eyes. Now, come sit."

The Baroness sorted herself on a settee, her polite posture a reminder to her daughter of how odious London's societal influences were. As Lecia rose from the window she realized—rather suddenly—that something rotten had been concocted. With each step forward she noted how the elegant blue silk of her skirts moved like lapping waves, how the pristine white pleated sash made her waist look delicate, and how the draping lace bodice and sleeves accentuated the milky complexion she'd been blessed with. Her mother had insisted that she wear her best daywear as if someone was to visit. It was a loathsome afternoon; for anyone to come calling meant that such a gathering could not be postponed. There was nothing of such importance that Lecia could recall being aware of. Or, at least, nothing pleasantly important.

"What is going on, mother?" Lecia asked, sitting beside the Baroness, their backs to the only escape way.

"Your father has a very important guest," was all the woman would say.

Lecia counted two minutes as the clock ticked before she could hear the low, bellowing rumble of her father's voice. He grew closer, floorboards creaking as he guided his companion toward the sitting room.

"Oh yes, it is quite lovely at this time of the year," a second voice replied to something the Baron had said. But Lecia had no need to see the gentleman's face to know exactly who he was.

They rounded the women to sit across in the identical settee. The lack of formal introductions was a telltale sign to Lecia that this was—somehow—not a rare occasion. A Duke sat just over an arm's length away from her, his neat hair as dry as his expertly tailored suit. She eyed her uncomfortable father, he glowed from a few too many tumblers, but his unease was directed at her. A subtle gasp escaped as the Baroness wrapped warm fingers around her own frozen hand. This was dangerous; it was everything she ever feared. Everything indicated that the day would not end well.