A Most Novel Revenge by Ashley Weaver Page A

hadn’t wanted Desmond to know.
    I glanced at our connecting doorway. Milo was not finished dressing, and Winnelda was not ready to relinquish my jacket. Perhaps I should look in on Miss Van Allen again before we left. I was sure she wouldn’t be pleased to be bothered again, but it would set my mind at ease to know that she was all right.
    â€œI’ll be right back, Winnelda.”
    â€œAll right, madam. I’m nearly finished.”
    I left my room and went down the hall.
    â€œMiss Van Allen?” I called, knocking lightly on the door to her room. It had apparently not been securely closed after she had spoken with us, for it opened beneath my fist.
    I could see inside, but not very well. The heavy curtains were still drawn, and the room was dark. Perhaps she was still sleeping, after all. If so, I didn’t want to disturb her. She had not seemed at all pleased with Mr. Roberts for doing so this morning.
    I hesitated on the threshold, something within in me both urging me to go in and warning me to retreat.
    It occurred to me that she might be worse. Perhaps I should check on her and call for a doctor if her condition had not improved.
    â€œMiss Van Allen?” I called softly.
    I stepped into the room, and stepped immediately into a puddle of wine, the glass lying empty on its side not far from the door.
    My eyes followed the puddle and it was then I saw Isobel Van Allen lying on the floor, still in her black robe, arm outstretched, her head turned away from the door.
    I was glad that I had followed my instincts. We would need to summon a doctor at once.
    I went down to my knees beside her, the wine soaking into my trousers.
    â€œMiss Van Allen? Isobel?” I reached out and touched her outstretched hand. It was cool to the touch, but not cold.
    I tried to gather her into my arms to see if I could rouse her, but as she fell heavily against me, her head fell back, her dark, unseeing eyes staring up at me.
    I gasped, too horrified to scream, and, gently laying her back on the floor, stumbled to my feet and out into the hallway just as Milo came around the corner.
    He stopped when he saw me, an expression I had never seen crossing his face. “Oh, God,” he breathed.
    I looked down and realized that it was not wine in which I was covered. It was blood.

 
    9
    MILO WAS AT my side in two long strides, his eyes moving over me, his hands running over my arms and then my torso. “Where is it coming from?”
    â€œI … I…” I couldn’t seem to speak; to form the words seemed an impossible task. I felt incredibly lightheaded, and my legs felt as though they wouldn’t hold me much longer. She’s dead. She’s dead. The words kept playing over and over in my mind, but I couldn’t seem to make myself say them.
    He grasped my shoulders, his voice firm but very gentle. “Amory, look at me.”
    I blinked then forced myself to focus, to meet his gaze. The intensity in his bright blue eyes captured my attention, as did his next words. “Where are you bleeding, darling?”
    It was only then I realized that he thought the blood was mine. I had stumbled into the hallway, soaked in blood. Of course, he had thought I was injured. I hastened to reassure him, but the words were slow in coming.
    â€œNo, it’s not mine. She … she’s…” I pointed to Miss Van Allen’s room, my hand shaking.
    His hand still gripping my arm, Milo stepped into the threshold and looked into the room. One short glance was apparently all it took.
    Then he moved back to my side. “Are you hurt, darling?”
    â€œNo. I … we…” I wanted to explain what had happened. I wanted to know what he was going to do about Isobel Van Allen and to tell him that we should call for help, but I could not seem to find the words. It was as though I knew what I wanted to say, but my mind was not completely connected to my body. My thoughts were