Through the morning mists that drifted in from the sea, blanketing the harbor like a bridal wreath, a large passenger ship appeared, cutting through the waters and sluggishly docking, chugging out black smoke that stained the cerulean sky. Despite the early hours, the harbor was hustling and bustling with life, paperboys waving around broadsheets, sailors loading and unloading goods, bells clanging, people calling, whistles and calls ringing.
Delana Ladrian watched it all from the deck of the passenger ship, The Maiden, her face an impervious mask of nonchalance and presumed confidence. Although her whitening knuckles over her luggage suggested otherwise. The briny air tickled her hair and she squirmed uncomfortably as the soupy environment made her dress feel even more restrictive than usual. Sweat gathered under her arms, making her grimace distastefully.
After all these years, she was back. Here. In London. The heart of the West, the hub of trade. Her own personal place of nightmares.
"Miss, aren't you getting off?" asked the captain of the ship, who was standing beside her on the deck, leaning against the starboard railing, calling out greetings to familiar faces. He was a good-humored man, but always with too many troublesome questions. He'd been curious about her and had been prying her with questions throughout their journey. She made a bizarre sight to him, after all. Strutting around like a noblewoman, but with the face of a lowborn—or specifically, a foreign face with slanting eyes and straight, reedy hair that men like him associated with cheap immigrant laborers.
It just so happened that she was a product of both.
She nodded at him, and spun around, struggling down the ramp towards the wooden dock, her legs jellylike. All the while, her eyes wound through the crowds searchingly, looking for a familiar face or two. There was none. But Mr. Shoupe—the old family butler who had written to her—had said there would be people waiting for—
A hand clamped down on her shoulder. Del bit back a startled cry, whirling around, her hand clutched to her breast. Before her, loomed a tall man, his face silhouetted against the rising sun. Del spotted the familiar crest of the Ladrian House on his smart uniform about as soon as he said, "Miss Ladrian?"
"Yes? And who are you?" Del asked.
"I'm the headguard, my lady. I'm tasked to bring you safely back to the Ladrian mansion. If you'll please follow me?" Despite the polite words, his voice sounded curt. And he started walking without even waiting for her answer. Del huffed. Great, a guard with an attitude. Del didn't command much respect on first impressions (suspicion rose in abundance amongst people, however), but fortunately, she did know how to put people in their place.
Right now, though, with her exhaustion and unsteady emotions, she could only follow the guard helplessly. She made sure to sigh and grunt relentlessly until he slowed his giant strides to match with hers and offered to carry her bags. Finally. Honestly, who offered him this position? The fellow looked menacing enough with his brooding mien, but lacked basic courtesy. At least people parted for him easily as he marched towards a waiting carriage.
After stowing her suitcases in the roof and tying it in place with a tawny rope, the guard swung inside the carriage, sitting down opposite to Del, rather than at the front with the driver as would've been proper. Del raised an eyebrow, but didn't comment. Come to think of it, why must she be so concerned if this one man followed ridiculous social propriety or not when she herself had a reputation for spitting on them?
As the carriage rattled away, drawing out of the crowded streets and moving towards the main thoroughfare, Del studied the headguard. His dark hair was buzzcut, black, beady eyes set on a hard, chiseled face. His nose was crooked as if it'd been broken one too many times. A tiny pale scar ran over the bow of his upper lip. Swinging fists seemed to be part and parcel of this man's life. At the very least it meant he must be good at his job.
"So," Del found herself saying, even though she detested having to be the one to break the stuffy silence, "are you new to this job?"
His eyes slid over to hers and he shrugged noncommittally. Not very talkative, it appeared. Del's eyes narrowed. "How long have you been the headguard?" Del asked again, insistently.
"Six months," he finally answered gruffly. She'd expected his voice to be a deep bass, but it was a pleasant dulcet instead.
Oh, she thought. This is why he didn't seem familiar. She'd been away for—how many years now? Three, perhaps. Felt like an eternity. Nevertheless, her father, the late Lord Ladrian, didn't much like changing servants and maids. The old man could be a bit paranoid at times, and felt better sticking to people he knew.
The thought of her father struck a chord inside her chest, and she felt herself slump down a little, unsure what to make of the plethora of emotions weighing down her heart. She'd jumped on the fastest ship when she'd gotten the news of the accident, but the letter itself had taken about a month to arrive and the seafaring journey another. She'd missed the funeral by and far.
She had never been much too fond of her father. He was a selfish, entitled arse who'd never spared more than a morsel of affection for her. Yet, he was still her father. The only family she'd had. He'd taken her in when noblemen were known to do worse to the bastards they conceived, just to save face (as if their face had anything worth saving). Of course, he'd also made a point of reminding Del of his benevolence every so often such that she'd lost whatever gratefulness she might have originally felt.
So, it stood to reason she should be celebrating his untimely death.
But...he was still her father. That meant something to her. Del was surprised by the revelation herself; she'd meant to cut off all ties when she'd left—even the emotional attachments. But they hung on tenuously, it seemed.
"How did the funeral go?" Del asked, cursing at her small voice.
The guard didn't answer for a while. When he did, he sounded awkward. "It was...nice. Several sniveling ladies and men voicing their disappointments at losing a business partner and a member of the parliament."
Del sniffed. So, not nice at all. "They don't care about him. There's poetic irony in that, perhaps, since he didn't much care about them either."
The guard nodded. "Lady Ladrian's parents were genuinely upset, however. They not only lost their daughter and their son-in-law, but their grandchild, as well."
Del's heart clenched. She couldn't care less about her stepmother. Despite living underneath the same roof, they'd hardly ever exchanged more than a few words. Alaric, her stepbrother, on the other hand...He'd been kind to her. She was keen enough to realize his lack of hostility towards her came from a place that knew she'd never threaten his position as the heir. A girl, and a bastard at that! Still, she'd taken what she could get.
"I assume Lord Ladrian's brother is taking charge?" Del asked absently, glancing out as horses and coaches rolled past. Couples strolled down the cobblestoned footpath running parallel to the Thames, ladies clutching their paroles. The sun had risen high by now, glinting over the imposing structure that was the Big Ben and the Westminster Bridge.
The guard didn't answer. He sat pensively, looking out the window, refusing to meet her eyes. Delana pressed together her lips and turned away from him as well, stewing in anticipation.
Back in London, she thought again. She just hoped things wouldn't go wrong.
***
The carriage rolled to a stop infront of the porch that was framed with columns which rose to meet an elegant entablature. The double doors opened and a familiar man rushed down the steps to help Del out of the carriage. Not that she needed it, but Mr. Shoupe, if she remembered correctly, liked to be able to do his job to the fullest.
He was gnarled with age, but his eyes, as he smiled up at Del, were the same. Kind, fatherly. He bowed deeply. "Welcome home, Miss Ladrian."
"I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner," Del said as he led her inside, taking her hat and shawl. "I'd like to pay my respects to Father. Where does his grave rest--?"
Del's voice cut off when she realized another man had emerged out of the parlor, dressed in the formal robes of an attorney. "Miss Delana Ladrian, I presume?" He bowed. "I'm Stephen O'Hare. We've been waiting for you."
Del looked to Mr. Shoupe who smiled encouragingly. "How can I help you?" she asked cautiously. What was going on? "And what do you mean by 'we'--?"
In answer to her question, the man gestured to the parlor. Hurrying forward, Del screeched to a halt just beyond the door. Occupying the room were a bunch of a people Del had never thought she'd have to meet again. Her uncle leaned against the fireplace, and her stepmother's parents, the Blackwells, sat huddled together in the couch. No one called to her in greeting.
Something was very wrong. "I-I don't...understand."
"We're here to read out your father's will," the attorney said, smiling pleasantly.
"You haven't done that already?" she asked in surprise.
"No," Uncle Ladrian said with gritted teeth. "Dear old brother made it explicit that you must be present for the reading, lovely niece. And you sure took your time to get here."
"B-but why?"
Mr. Shoupe answered this time, his eyes crinkling as he murmured, "We'll just have to see."