Page 38 of A Daring Pursuit

Geneva took her hand and squeezed a warning.

“She had amanin her chamber, Abra.Youhave a reputation to maintain. If we are to secure a match with Martinda—yourbaron—” she quickly corrected. “Then make no mistake Lord Ruskin will not tolerate scandal.”

Abra’s face paled. “If you are angling for a match between me and Lord Martindale—” She sucked in a harsh breath. “You are sadly off course, Mother. I willnevermarry that degenerate.”

The marchioness lifted her hand, an open palm prepared to strike, but Geneva pushed Abra back and stepped in her place.

The sting went deep, the slap wringing her ears through.

Shocked silence blared against the wall before Lady Westbridge donned her cloak of haughty superiority. She aimed a particularly scathing sneer at Geneva, then lifted her chin, addressing Abra. “This is what comes from mingling with your lessors.” She turned on her heel and stalked out.

Geneva covered her hot cheek with her hand and slowly faced Abra. “How often does she hit you?” she demanded softly.

Tears filled Abra’s hazel eyes. “I’m so sorry you had to witness that.”

She lowered her hand. “How often?”

“Not often. Not any longer.”

“I take it Lord Westbridge is unaware of this—ofher… mistreatment?” Allowing Abra to suffer Lady Westbridge’s abuse was unconscionable. “Perhaps she’s right, Abra,” Geneva said gently. “This is a castle. There must be an available chamber somewhere in this monstrosity.” Her impulsive nature was bad enough, but her pride was her downfall. Her temper as well, but she managed to hold on to that.

Unable to bear the hurt in her friend’s eye, Geneva turned and stole through the sitting room of their shared suite, where no sign of Mr. Oshea remained and into the corridor.

Lady Westbridge was a reprehensible woman, but Geneva had promised Abra she wouldn’t cause a scandal. If Abra’s stepmother was attempting to usurp Lord Ruskin for the Marquess of Martindale, then it was imperative Geneva honor her word. Under no circumstance should Abra be forced into a union with a man who had never shown her friend the respect she deserved. And, if push came to shove, Geneva would go to Lord Westbridge, whatever the cost, to save her friend from a fate no better than residing in Newgate for the rest of her days.

*

Geneva found astairwell close to the Morpho Suite and climbed the stairs to an upper level. She didn’t stop there, continuing up another two flights. There were no lit sconces, but the windows near the stairs let in enough natural light to expose dusty, unbeaten rugs. All the doors were closed and the first two she opened turned out to be storage. Odd pieces of furniture covered with tarps. Trunks, paintings against the walls and such.

The third would suffice, she decided, but it was quite chilly. It appeared to be an old servants’ room that included a washstand, a chamber pot beneath the bed, and a pile of linens atop the mattress. There was even a bedside table with an oil lamp. Unlit, of course, but Geneva could manage. She’d suffered worse than Lady Westbridge’s attitude.

Geneva set about making the bed. There was no canopy or curtained area to stave off the cold. She would have to search out coal or fuel for later or, at the least, a few more blankets. The one advantage was its location to Abra. She hurried back down the stairs for her belongings and a candle to light the lamp.

Pasha had always been an ally for Abra and Geneva’s friendship, so Geneva didn’t anticipate any problems from that quarter.

Geneva entered the sitting room. “I located a small chamber—”

But Abra interrupted her, waving a note gripped between her fingers. She paced, her steps furious. “Papa has sent for us.”

Fear touched with a sense of wariness oozed through Geneva. “You mean you,” she said slowly. But she knew another bill had arrived, and this one would prove considerably more costly.

“No. Us. And I intend to inform him of the truth. My stepmother shall not get away with her actions. We’re to meethim in the morning room. He says it is more conducive to privacy. In other words, he’s arranged this little rendezvous with no chance of interruption.”

Geneva nodded, but she had no intention of allowing Abra to sacrifice her future over Geneva. Geneva could take care of herself. Her potential losses were not nearly as consequential as her friends’. Any one of her friends.

With no delicate way out of their predicament, hands clutching, they made their way down the hall and the stairs. Upon reaching the ground floor and with the butler’s direction, they soon found the designated ‘torture’ chamber.

Geneva and Abra entered a sanctuary of refined elegance.

The walls, painted a delicate cream and adorned with gilded moldings, provided a subtle backdrop to the room’s understated opulence. Above the marble fireplace was a portrait of a woman whom Geneva thought might be the Oshea brothers’ mother. It was in the fullness of her lips and the softness of her expression. She’d seen a similar expression on Noah Oshea’s face when he interacted with Miss Isabelle.

At the center of the room, a round table held a vase of freshly cut flowers from the estate gardens. Their fragrance mingled with the faint scent of a lemon polish. Geneva had the most absurd urge to curl up on a pillow in the corner near a small bookshelf overflowing with volumes of poetry and botanical studies. Despite its grandeur, the room exuded an inviting coziness where a fire crackled in the hearth and cast flickering shadows across the walls.

Beneath tall, arched windows, a cushioned seat upholstered in damask fabric offered a tranquil spot to gaze out at the rolling moors beyond. The windows were framed by sage-green velvet drapes and dominated one wall. Sheer, white linings allowed for little light to filter into the space due to the gloomy day that matched Geneva’s day thus far.

Lord Westbridge stood before the windows with his hands clasped at his lower back, looking out at the mist-shrouded gardens. The Persian rug had muted her and Abra’s footsteps.

“Papa?”

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