Page 64 of The Villain's Fatal Plot
She returned inside to start building her new life. If the pub was to be a temporary schoolroom, it needed bookshelves. Perhaps books could be a permanent part of the décor. Rafe hadmentioned setting up a library for her father’s volumes. But some of them were needed in the schoolroom.
Wolfie chose not to follow her. He trotted off to guard the perimeter.
Aware that she was alone, probably for the first time since her arrival, Verity straightened her weak spine and limped up the narrow stairs. She’d seen the book crates toward the end of the hall in the old part of the inn. The first earls must have had a lot of tradesmen visiting that they couldn’t house them in the enormous manor. Although, she supposed, the old part of the manor was not so large and the late earl had an enormous family.
Thinking the inn’s gloomy oak paneling should be painted or papered, she lit an oil lamp. Like the manor’s, this corridor had no windows. Gas lights would be wonderful.
She could almost sense the ghosts whispering from the walls, raising the hairs on the nape of her neck. Perhaps she should wait for Rafe. But she had to learn to do things on her own...
A noise overhead startled her. They hadn’t spent much time in the attic common room where the inn had once housed lesser sorts on cots. She assumed it was even darker and gloomier up there. She didn’t wish to encounter rats or bats in locating the source of the noise. Her courage only extended so far.
Books, she reminded herself. She’d come up to seek the reassurance of her beloved books. She located the room snugged in between two larger chambers—a place for a personal attendant, perhaps. It had no windows but was large enough for a cot and washstand. There might be a connector door behind the stack of boxes and furniture. Setting the lamp on the floor, she searched for the crate with the geographies and histories.
Only when she was holding the volumes did she realize she couldn’t carry them, the lantern, and her cane. In frustration, she abandoned the lantern, turning off the wick until she could return for it. The unfamiliar hall might be dark and scary, but she couldn’t get lost.
Despite the furniture polish that had been used on the oldpaneling, the inn still smelled musty. If the manor grew lavender for perfumes, might they make it into pomanders? She shifted the books in an attempt not to stumble about on the cane.
Speculating on other means of improving the aroma—like baking—Verity didn’t pay attention to the first step of the narrow staircase until, in her usual clumsiness, she managed to trip. Emitting aneepof dismay, she dropped her books and tried to balance her cane and grab the banister. While she was still off-balance, she felt a shove from behind.
Her bad foot twisted. Flinging herself sideways, she bounced against the wall, hit the stairs with her hip—and tumbled. Screaming, she fell
By the time she finally stopped her fall with her cane, Rafe’s frantic shouts resounded from outside. Her shoulder hurt from hitting the wall, but her ample bottom had taken the worst of the fall. It took a moment to orient herself before she regained the sense to understand what had just happened.
Had sheimaginedthat shove? Had she simply tripped over her worn boots in her usual awkward manner?
No, no, no.She had no more fallen on her own than she had driven that carriage over her foot. Yes, she had tripped, but then someone had very distinctly shoved her. That someone was still up there.
“Upstairs!” she shouted as Rafe pounded into the lobby.
Even her brave new self wasn’t stupid enough to believe she had a chance of catching a scoundrel, but by the time Rafe reached the upper hall, Verity had regained her unsteady feet. Using her cane, she limped past her fallen books and up the stairs. There it was, a feeble thread, barely seen and easily broken. She hadnotfallen over her own feet!
Shaking with as much fury as pain and fear, she clumped down the corridor. No more. This waspersonal. She didn’t know what she’d done to anyone for them to want her dead, but this time, she wasn’t running and hiding.
Furious, she stomped after the murdering coward. Havingsearched this floor, Rafe caught up to her before she could reach the rickety back stairs.
“He escaped out the back, I know he did!” It was the only place an intruder could run, unless she wanted to believe one of the workmen had taken a dislike to her and was hiding.
Amazingly, Rafe didn’t even question. “Bar yourself in the first chamber,” he ordered.
Coward that she was, she considered it. She couldn’t exactly run to give chase.
Who would want her dead?
The old Faith Palmer was already dead. What could the new Verity Porter have done?
If someone wanted her dead, she had to think fast and not freeze into inaction. She couldn’t abandon Rafe to take off after a killer alone.
Frantically, she hobbled down the main stairs to the lobby, where the next load of furnishings had just arrived in the yard.
Shouting for their attention, she pointed at the hill Rafe was running up. “Killer!”
To her relief, Henri and his large brother didn’t question either but dashed off in pursuit. People believed her here. Theyheardher. Only then did she allow herself to collapse in the arms of the manor’s heiress decorator.
She had almost died—a second time. The realization brought terror. No one person could be so prone to misadventure.
Did that mean the explosion in London had been meant for her too?
THIRTY-SEVEN: RAFE
