The Outrider - A Paranormal Regency Romance ONC 2022

Chapter 5

In which our heroine has to explain herself

A swarm of thoughts ricocheting through Corinna's head, she stumbled along in a daze. Brewster would be back tomorrow and send her on her way to Demoral Park. All was arranged. The cunning beast had taken her agreement for granted and offered her services to the Marquis before ever speaking to her. That his lordship accepted so promptly bode ill for his niece's manners.

Corinna barked a laugh. Not that this would be her biggest problem.

She was headed straight for the fox's den when she should run the other way. How stupid was that?

The heel of her shoe caught in the same hole in the front stoop where it always caught, and she teetered. Just like she always did.

"Oh, combubble it all."

The door flew open, and Mrs. Tuckles peeked out. Strands of grayish hair had escaped from her trademark ruffled mobcap, and flour dusted her perky nose. From behind wafted the glorious scent of freshly baked scones.

"Tsk, tsk. You mustn't swear, my little lamb, you know? It's not proper speak, that's what it is. But come in, come in. You've arrived at the right moment. The teapot is ready. Though why you insist on rambling about the countryside for hours is beyond me. It's not ladylike, for sure. When I was your age—"

Corinna gave her old nurse a peck on the cheek. "When you were my age, girls sat quietly on the sofa and did their needlework without complaining once. I'll never be a good girl, you know that."

What her nurse didn't know was how bad a girl she had become.

"Corinna?" For an invalid, Mother's voice was amazingly strong.

"Yes, Mother, I'm coming."

She strode along the flagstoned hallway, holding on to her skirt. Twice already did the fabric catch on the rusty suit of armor parked next to the staircase. Only Mother's expert needlework had saved the gown from ending up with the rags.

"You must not walk so fast," Mrs. Tuckles said from behind. "A true lady measures her steps. It's improper, that's what it is."

There were lots of things forbidden to ladies, breeches included, which were so much more comfortable than petticoats. Well, the current fashion didn't require tight stays, something she'd always hated with a passion, and she would have to be content with that.

She entered the parlor, stuffed with furniture from the Hall. Once part of her childhood, the old pieces had become rejects just like Mother and herself.

There was the old dining table, all its panels taken out, so it would fit the small room. Lined up along the wall was a mismatched collection of chairs, all in sore need of fresh upholstery. The Turkish carpet also had seen better days, as did the chaiselongue, upholstered in tattered straw silk that clashed with the faded red velvet of the two bow-legged settees. The walls were adorned with paintings of the Wolverstoke ancestry, their artists forgotten, the colors darkened and dulled.

None of this had any value. Even the massive bowl that squatted on the dining table, filled with apricots and nuts, was made of silvered brass, not genuine silver.

But this crowded, stuffy room held everything that was dear to Corinna, everything worth her foray into capital crime.

This house was her home, and the two people in the parlor, one bustling about with the tea tray, one draped languidly over the chaiselongue, were the only family she had left.

She would defend them with her life.

Mother sat up, and her mohair shawl slid off her bony shoulders. "Oh, dearie me."