Page 47 of Cora
“They’re not white, ivory, or cream.”
“Which I am yet again stuck wearing. I would so love to have a colorful dress for once.”
An idea popped into Cora’s mind, a brilliant and perfect way to make up for the way she’d abused her friendship to go and learn about sex and how to play a game typically reserved for men. “Honey, you’d look lovely in yellow. It compliments your coloring, according to your lady’s magazine, right?”
“That’s what the guide says, yes.”
“Can I interest you in a gorgeous gold-tissue gown?” It would need a lot of tailoring to suit Honey’s petite physique, but it could be done.
Honey positively lit up. “You’re not serious?”
Cora nodded. “It’s yours if you want it. It doesn’t suit me at all, but it would make you look like a fairy princess.” She seized her friend’s hands. “You would look amazing in it. I’ll never wear it. Gideon has spoiled me with far too many gowns. Let me give you one of them.”
“You are undoubtedly the luckiest lady in London.” Honey sighed wistfully. “I wish I could find a man who gave me everything I wanted. Thank you, my dearest, loveliest friend.”
Cora refrained from pointing out that she had never wanted fussy clothing. She preferred comfort to fashion, but she didn’t want to sound like an ingrate. She took her leave soon thereafter.
Next time, she would find a way to break it gently to Honey that Martha Wentworth didn’t want her to publicly acknowledge the one friend who’d stood by her through thick and thin. Today’s visit had been too short.
Outside, Cora exhaled a long breath into the cold air.
She’d never felt so rotten in all her life.
CHAPTERTWENTY-TWO
HAWKE
“You don’t have to accept the knighthood,” Violet was saying. Hawke found himself distracted by the elaborate feather and jewel poking up from her purple silk turban. Her dark skin almost faded into the extreme darkness, emphasizing the whites of her large eyes.
Before them on the table was a round glass ball nestled on a velvet pillow.
“Victoria will be personally offended if I do not.”
He did not usually confide his personal problems to anyone. The slow build toward intimacy with Bella had taken years to develop. Hints of interest that might have been only curiosity—until the night he saved her from discovery at a dinner party turned deadly, and their simmering attraction had flared. Weeks later, he’d gone to her for stitching up after a nasty encounter with one of London’s underworld lords.
That kiss.
He closed his eyes against the memory of it again, losing himself in Violet’s chanted monotone.
“Focus. You must help me channel Bella’s spirit.” She waved her long fingertips over the crystal. A faint glow came from inside. Hawke had been trying to figure out how she was faking this for the past quarter-hour. He was usually good at sussing out the source of fraud.
“Spirits from beyond the veil, we have heard you speak. Bella does not rest among you. She yet lives.”
“Tell me you don’t actually believe this nonsense.”
“You’re not helping, Hawke.” Violet cleared her throat and resumed. “We humbly ask your help. Tell us, is she safe?”
The table shook dramatically. Despite his skepticism, Hawke startled. Violet steadied the ball and continued.
“No. She is not safe. Help us find her. I beg you. Help us find her!”
A whoosh of air fluttered the curtains, then sucked them straight out the open window into the cold.
“This is absurd.” He got up, tucked the cloth back inside the house, and fastened the window. There were no footprints outside. No one else in the room. How in the devil’s name had it opened?
“I’m getting an image,” Violet said, her voice vibrating with excitement. “A dark space. Dirty. It smells bad.”
A scent like the worst parts of St. Giles known as the rookery flooded Hawke’s nose. Old urine mixed with unwashed body odor, filth and decay. He gagged and resumed his place at the now-still table.
