Page 46 of The Forsaken

“I bloody should.” But he wouldn’t.

They both knew it.

“Give him a week, Kerr,” said Culross. “Who knows, you might even enjoy it.”

Of a certainty, regular calls to Abington would be what ultimately shoved Kerr into stark, raving lunacy.

While they settled in for another round of drinks, Kerr found some consolation. At least Culross hadn’t saddled him with the hellish nuisance of Andromena and her beautiful, stubborn mouth.

Chapter 9

Secure the accursed necklace of Harmonia. Further orders will follow.

Your humble servant

Seated on a green and white striped klismos chair, with its curved backrest, thoughtfully placed with her comfort in mind and nothing but the steady scratch of her pencil over her pad and the heavy, empty drum of silence, Andromena had plenty of time to consider her life’s decisions. Her current predicament was the worst of all of them.

For her whole life, she had been a fixture in the Earl and Countess of Abington’s home. In small part because their families inhabited the same street in Mayfair, but in larger part because the McQuoids were always together.

As the Scottish saying went, Ciad mìle fàilte—and the McQuoids and Smiths gave actual life to a ‘hundred thousand welcomes’.

Unlike Andromena’s home, quieter with her sisters both married, Lord and Lady Abington’s residence remained increasingly bustling; unpredictably so with all but Quillon wed, but it remained the gathering spot.

In fairness, it had always been Andromena’s favorite gathering spot.

That was why, even with her favorite cousins (and best friends) wed, no one found anything peculiar in her daily trips to the earl and countess’s. She walked through the front door without a knock, the same as the owners and occupants of the grand brick townhouse. She greeted the servants by their names, and they greeted her with the identical warmth and familiarity they did the McQuoids.

Andromena enjoyed free roam of McQuoid Manor. Everyone knew her favorite spots: The Conservatory in winter. The Blue Parlor—any time of year—on account of its westward-facing location, which flooded the room in full sun, made it ideal for painting. The Humphry Repton-designed Pleasure Gardens, particularly at the intermixture of vibrant roses, geraniums, and Sweet Williams in every shade along the shrubbery border. The high-ceilinged, red, Towneley drawing room, specifically at the Spanish mahogany Broadwood fortepiano.

Everyone knew the spot one would never find her—her uncle’s Antiquities Room; that museum of looted treasures, taken from their original home and brought into a room of relics for one man to appreciate.

Until now. Two days ago, to be precise, one would have said with reliance they’d sooner spy Satan sipping tea with the Savior than see Andromena in the earl’s revered space.

And that was absolutely why Andromena was going to hell.

It really was lamentable. Up until now, she truly believed herself a good person; at her worst, never a candidate for the fiery flames of hell. She said a nightly prayer and was sure to include each member of her very large—and swiftly growing—family. She attended Sunday sermons and made no vocal complaints about doing so—at least, not any longer.

At least, not aloud.

She had an affinity for wounded animals and went out of her way to care for even the mangiest, lost dog or cat. She had tried to splint the wings of wounded birds. She never met a stray she wouldn’t take in and accidentally scooped up not-strays in Hyde Park who’d wandered from their neglectful owner.

None of those good deeds mattered—nor had she done them hoping they’d ensure her entrance past the pearly white gates. None of them mattered because the evil she did here erased any and every worthwhile and worthy act in Andromena’s life.

The Lord was going to make her suffer each and every step of her sinful ways. That much was clear as she captured the likeness of the Hellenistic lead sling shot, her uncle had asked her to catalog.

Weapons. He wanted the weaponry documented first. Because of course he did. Men had an alarming fascination with fights and battles and wars and violence, in general—even the scholarly Earl of Abington.

As Andromena distractedly pushed a curl deliberately placed by her maid, she lamented the fact that it couldn’t be the Hellenistic gold earrings set with glass and stones she was to sketch. Or the Greek gold strap necklace with its gilded grape-leaf fastening.

Why should she deserve nice things, though? Here she sat, under the pretense of helping her uncle by inventorying all his pieces. She was a bad thief. Truly. In both meanings of the phrase, horrible as a human and a terrible thief. Stealing from her loving uncle, and then on her way to pay off a blackmailer, she went and got the piece smashed to smithereens.

Better than getting yourself smashed to smithereens, she reminded herself.

Which only reminded her of the gollumpus who’d tossed her bag and then got the artifact crushed to smithereens, which led to her latest sneak-theft in action.

She had cursed Lord Kerr after, but in the thick of it all, right before she’d scrunched herself up as small as possible. Her life had flashed behind her eyes, and in it, Kerr’s embrace became the focal point of her greatest moment. She’d prayed for salvation. She’d prayed to live, and find love, and a family. She’d prayed someone would rescue her, and someone did—Edgar.

The viscount hadn’t just saved her—he had left her breathless. Last night, at Rat’s Castle he railed at her for placing herself in danger. But she hadn’t felt fear. Maybe it was because he had been there, guarding her, protecting her. He loathed her, but would also lay his life down for her. And it was nigh impossible to not be swept away by such heroism. The memory of his sweeping her out of the way and taking the fall to spare her as much pain as possible had also left her more than a little aroused. Then, she had replayed their embrace in the hackney.