pushed his chair away from the desk and rose. “Attic? Whatever for?” No one ever went up into the attics. There was never any need. The attic held nothing more than the relics of the past—there was no use for them now.
“I believe she wanted to find some toys and playthings for Miss Juliet. I told Mrs. Clairbourne that she should have asked permission of you first, sir, but she did insist that it was all perfectly harmless.” The slight edge to his tone spoke volumes of his feelings on the matter. Wadsworth and Mrs. Clairbourne had long ago declared an uneasy peace when it came to the running and management of Kellridge, yet every now and again, that competitive spirit showed through once more. Paul suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. It did no good to stoke the fire.
“I’ll go and have a look. Do hurry and tell Jim about the town coach. I want to leave at dawn.” Paul followed the butler out of his study and hastened—without breaking into a run, which might give more weight to the situation and thus more fuel for Wadsworth’s tiff with Mrs. Clairbourne. What sort of things did they have tucked away in the attic? There was no telling. He climbed the back staircase with a growing feeling of unease. The last time they had done any great shifting up there was after Juliana left for Italy.
The door to the left of the stairs stood open, so he ducked inside. Daylight streamed in from the dormer windows, and dust motes danced in the sparkling sunlight. Paul drew his forefinger along one of the trunks and noted the gray smear of dust. For an attic, it was rather clean. All the boxes and trunks lined the walls with military precision. He glanced across the room.
“Miss Siddons?” He spoke in a regular, measured tone of voice. No use in sounding belligerent or ruffled. That would only get Becky’s hackles up again. “Where are you?”
“I am over here.” A scuffling sound caught his ear, and he followed it over to the left rear corner of the attic. Becky was hunched over a trunk, her pretty white dress smudged with dust, and a long trail of dirt marking her cheek. Beside her rested a pile of ancient playthings—dolls, jumping jacks and blocks. His mouth quirked in ruthful recognition—even a puzzle he’d spent hours assembling when he was a boy.
She clicked the lid of the trunk shut and faced him squarely. “Please don’t be angry. Mrs. Clairbourne gave me her permission.”
She seemed almost afraid, and yet her eyebrows held that same defiant arch. His heart dropped a little as he took in her bedraggled dress and widened eyes. He didn’t want Becky to fear him or to think ill of him. If only they could recapture those brief, fleeting moments on the moor when they were comfortable with each other. For some reason, which he did not care to examine, he found himself drawn toward Becky. Of course, he must always maintain his mastery of his household—but couldn’t he do so while befriending Becky? Couldn’t they reach a truce, as Wadsworth and Mrs. Clairbourne had?
“I’m not upset.” He sank onto the floor beside her, heedless of the dirt. “Just...surprised.” He picked up the puzzle and began rearranging the pieces. “You’re in the right, you know. I had no thought in my mind of playthings. I made her room up as I would for an adult guest. ’Twas a sore mistake.”
“Well, no harm done, and I am happy to have plenty to do.” She cast a shy smile his way and reached for a doll. “I shall clean everything up and have it ready for her once she comes.”
“Good plan.” A sudden urge to tell her everything about Juliana struck him. What if he told her the whole sordid tale and unburdened himself to her about his own failings? It might be a relief to share the painful past with someone.
He tamped the urge back. That was weakness. That was folly. He was master of Kellridge and of his own feelings and emotions. His past transgressions were his own to bear, and he must do so alone.
The cold frost that served him so well settled back over him as he clicked another piece of the puzzle in place. “I leave tomorrow. As I said before, do let me know if there is more that I can do. I’ll send some proper toys from London. Not these worn, cast-off old things.” He chuckled dryly and rose, dusting off his trousers. “Be sure to lock everything back up when you leave.”
“I will.” She gazed at him with an inscrutable look in her eyes. “Godspeed, Mr. Holmes.”
He gave a brief nod and walked back out of the attic. He was doing the right thing. He was doing the only thing he could. His duty was done, and now he would fling himself back into London and the season and all its dubious delights as his reward.
Each step echoed through the quiet, still house as he descended.
There was emptiness in his life that only a strategic retreat to London could fill.
Funny how deep and vast that emptiness had grown in just the past few days.
The weather was nothing short of abominable. One of those late spring showers that soaked a man to the bone and made mud of the most navigable roads. Rain ran in rivulets down Paul’s hat as he waited for the carriage to be pulled round, and he drew his overcoat closer to drive out the damp. The sooner they were started, the better. Perhaps they could make it as far as Derby before changing horses. The carriage plodded into view, its slow pace causing his pulse to quicken.
“Don’t spare the whip,” he remarked curtly to his driver as he placed his foot on the board. “We want to get ahead of this weather if at all possible. The roads aren’t a sea of mud yet. Give the horses their heads.” He gave a brief nod to the grooms, who had taken advantage of the rain to move up front onto the box, as he climbed into carriage.
“Aye, sir,” the coachman replied. His tone sounded doubtful, though.
Well, that was simply too bad. Even if his driver had some misgivings about his orders, he was bound to obey them.
The coachman’s whip cracked through the air and the carriage leaped forward. Paul removed his overcoat and cast his hat aside. Then he settled against the squabs and watched Kellridge retreat into the distance. Who knew when he would see it again? ’Twould be months at least.
Guilt gnawed at his insides. He shouldn’t leave. He could turn the horses around now, and no one would say anything. Well, that wasn’t true. The gossip in the servants’ halls would natter on endlessly, for the master never changed his plans, and already he had dithered over the day of his departure. His uniform and practical way of living had been severely thrown since Becky’s arrival, and he simply had to gain mastery over his own life again.
Kellridge would get on just fine. That was why he ran things the way he did. Besides, he had business in London. Selling Father’s shipping shares would grant him a tidy profit and dispose of a responsibility that he had grown too mired within. Everything would be attended to in his absence. The greatest reward lay in knowing he could run with the most decadent crowd in London, and no matter how dissipated his company or his time spent, Kellridge would be waiting for him when it came time for all revelry to cease.
The carriage bounced and jerked along the roads. Was it the high rate of speed that caused such a well-sprung carriage to jostle about? He usually traveled at an alarming pace, so surely that wasn’t it. Perhaps the rain was already making a mess of the roads. Oh, well, nothing to do but endure it. Once they reached Derby, he’d enjoy a fine dinner and perhaps play cards with the innkeeper. He always was a good chap, up for a game at a moment’s notice.
Paul wedged himself into a corner, which eased some of the discomfort of his travel. He could prop his head against one of the cushions and get a good nap in. ’Twas better to do so now, when en route to London. Once he reached his townhome, he’d get precious little sleep.
The carriage gave a violent jounce and skidded down a length of the road. His horses whinnied, his coachman cursed, and through the mixed and jumbled noise of chaos, he discerned the sickening and undeniable sound of splintering wood. He braced himself against the side of the carriage but was thrown like a rag doll. His head bashed against the window, which was odd