in the habit of explaining his actions to anyone. He hadn't been wrong in the matter, he decided, just in the method. Mushrooms and hangers-on did not deserve his consideration; unfortunate, downtrodden schoolteachers did. According to his sister, at any rate.
Wynn could not correlate his sister's meek, mousy creature with the author of the damning diatribe he'd received. According to the letter, he was a condescending, conceited, cockleheaded coxcomb who had hurt another human being without noticing, which was worse than doing it on purpose and not something to be proud of. Wynn Alton did not want to be that person.
Rosellen knew she wasn't dead. She hurt too much. She also knew she'd never leave this attic room alive. Luckily, she didn't think the Merrihews meant to kill her immediately, not with Miss Manley playing Lady Bountiful once a day with an apple or a biscuit. In fact, if she hadn't fallen practically at Miss Manley's feet, Rosellen suspected, the Merrihews would simply have swept her crumpled body out the door like a dust ball. But with the curious students returning to school, how many “accidents” could one instructor be expected to suffer?
And Rosellen was suffering mightily. Her head was concussed, she supposed, making her see double, with both views spinning nauseatingly. Her arm was splinted and swollen, and every other inch of her was black and blue. She would have taken laudanum gladly, but none was provided. She would have traded her mother's lap desk to be clean again, but no one would fetch the tub and the cans of water. Perhaps she was fortunate in that, Rosellen considered, for the Merrihews might decide to drown her in a hip bath. Unfortunately, she still stank of horse.
At least she was in her own nightgown, out of her soiled, torn uniform. A maid had helped her, a new girl who refused to talk to her on the headmistress's orders. She brought a pitcher of water, a bowl of porridge, and a hardened slice of toast. Cook's culinary efforts had not improved; neither had her temper.
Rosellen's prospects had dwindled from poor to nonexistent. With her right wrist broken, she could neither teach penmanship nor hire herself out as a secretary. She couldn't even write to Uncle Townsend, begging for his nonexistent mercy. What in Heaven's name was to become of her? And did Heaven care anymore?
Rosellen was beyond tears and almost beyond hope.
The rain started just beyond Worthing. Wynn switched to the carriage, tying his chestnut stallion in the back. He should have left Jupiter behind with the groom, who was supposed to be on the lookout for the Heatherstone twins, Baron Haverhill, and Tripp Hayes, none of whom were where they were supposed to be.
Red-haired identical twins would make a stir even in Brighton, where His Royal Flamboyance was a byword. No one had seen the Heatherstone heirs, not at the hotels, not at the gaming parlors, not at the clubs. Wynn had checked the coffeehouses while his driver and groom canvassed the livery stables. There were no rumors of cockfights, mills, or races, nothing to take those hellborn blockheads out of town.
Tripp Hayes was not at his family's estate in Bognor Regis. His mother hadn't seen him, didn't expect him, and couldn't imagine why his friend the viscount thought dear Thorence would leave London during the Season. Wynn couldn't imagine one good reason for his old school chum's valet to lie to him. No honest reason, anyway.
And Baron Haverhill had not driven through Worthing on his way to that girls’ school. The place was too small for the locals not to keep count of every carriage and cart that passed through. Wynn's own arrival had been noted by no less than fourteen persons raking their yards, hanging their wash, sweeping their front stoops.
Deuce take it, there was nothing left to do except visit Susan's friend or her grave. He'd come this far and he had a blasted bouquet of flowers in a bucket.
Wynn could not recall what made Miss
Wynn could not correlate his sister's meek, mousy creature with the author of the damning diatribe he'd received. According to the letter, he was a condescending, conceited, cockleheaded coxcomb who had hurt another human being without noticing, which was worse than doing it on purpose and not something to be proud of. Wynn Alton did not want to be that person.
Rosellen knew she wasn't dead. She hurt too much. She also knew she'd never leave this attic room alive. Luckily, she didn't think the Merrihews meant to kill her immediately, not with Miss Manley playing Lady Bountiful once a day with an apple or a biscuit. In fact, if she hadn't fallen practically at Miss Manley's feet, Rosellen suspected, the Merrihews would simply have swept her crumpled body out the door like a dust ball. But with the curious students returning to school, how many “accidents” could one instructor be expected to suffer?
And Rosellen was suffering mightily. Her head was concussed, she supposed, making her see double, with both views spinning nauseatingly. Her arm was splinted and swollen, and every other inch of her was black and blue. She would have taken laudanum gladly, but none was provided. She would have traded her mother's lap desk to be clean again, but no one would fetch the tub and the cans of water. Perhaps she was fortunate in that, Rosellen considered, for the Merrihews might decide to drown her in a hip bath. Unfortunately, she still stank of horse.
At least she was in her own nightgown, out of her soiled, torn uniform. A maid had helped her, a new girl who refused to talk to her on the headmistress's orders. She brought a pitcher of water, a bowl of porridge, and a hardened slice of toast. Cook's culinary efforts had not improved; neither had her temper.
Rosellen's prospects had dwindled from poor to nonexistent. With her right wrist broken, she could neither teach penmanship nor hire herself out as a secretary. She couldn't even write to Uncle Townsend, begging for his nonexistent mercy. What in Heaven's name was to become of her? And did Heaven care anymore?
Rosellen was beyond tears and almost beyond hope.
The rain started just beyond Worthing. Wynn switched to the carriage, tying his chestnut stallion in the back. He should have left Jupiter behind with the groom, who was supposed to be on the lookout for the Heatherstone twins, Baron Haverhill, and Tripp Hayes, none of whom were where they were supposed to be.
Red-haired identical twins would make a stir even in Brighton, where His Royal Flamboyance was a byword. No one had seen the Heatherstone heirs, not at the hotels, not at the gaming parlors, not at the clubs. Wynn had checked the coffeehouses while his driver and groom canvassed the livery stables. There were no rumors of cockfights, mills, or races, nothing to take those hellborn blockheads out of town.
Tripp Hayes was not at his family's estate in Bognor Regis. His mother hadn't seen him, didn't expect him, and couldn't imagine why his friend the viscount thought dear Thorence would leave London during the Season. Wynn couldn't imagine one good reason for his old school chum's valet to lie to him. No honest reason, anyway.
And Baron Haverhill had not driven through Worthing on his way to that girls’ school. The place was too small for the locals not to keep count of every carriage and cart that passed through. Wynn's own arrival had been noted by no less than fourteen persons raking their yards, hanging their wash, sweeping their front stoops.
Deuce take it, there was nothing left to do except visit Susan's friend or her grave. He'd come this far and he had a blasted bouquet of flowers in a bucket.
Wynn could not recall what made Miss
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