The Dark One by Ronda Thompson Page B

for help,although Rosalind wasn’t sure what the woman could do. No one got the door, and Rosalind realized at this late hour, Mary would be upstairs with the duchess.
    Franklin dragged Rosalind inside, headed toward the stairs and the bedchambers upstairs. Both of them drew up short at the sight that greeted them.
    There along the rafters that ran the length of the tall ceiling hung a rope, on which a body swung slowly back and forth. The corpse was that of a woman. Rosalind might not have recognized her, the woman’s face was blue from suffocation, not to mention the bruises that blackened her sightless eyes and distorted her features. But Rosalind did know her. It was Lydia.

Chapter Nine
    Armond had just come in from a few rounds of cards and removed his coat when the sound drifted to him. He turned an ear toward his open window. Again he heard it. The distant sound of weeping. Always he had been aware of his keen sense of hearing, his even keener sense of smell.
    He had never really thought much of it, not until he learned of the curse. Now he knew why his senses were more adept than those of normal men. It was the animal in him . . . the animal waiting to be set free.
    Why did she weep? That it was Rosalind, he had no doubt. Should he rush to her aid? Or did she simply weep over something insignificant? A slight barb someone had delivered to her at the LeGrandes’ soiree? But no, she cried with her heart, with her soul. Something was horribly wrong, and he would go and find out what it was.
    Without bothering with his coat, he left his bedchamber. There were few servants at his townhome. All men. Women were too frightened to work for him. He saw no one as he descended the stairs, then went out the front door.
    The grass was damp. Fog hung heavy in the air. A light drizzle fell. He’d be soaked through by the time he reached Rosalind’s room. The closer he came to herresidence, the easier it was to hear her tearful sobs. He hurried.
    He climbed the trellis to her balcony without incident, half-worried that she had taken to bolting her doors. The doors were closed against the chilly night air, but they were not locked. He let himself in. His eyes easily adjusted to the darkness. He saw her huddled beneath her covers.
    â€œRosalind?”
    With a start, she threw back the heavy covers and sat up.
    â€œArmond?”
    â€œWhat’s wrong?”
    â€œOh, Armond.” She was out of the bed, racing across the carpet. He couldn’t have been more surprised when she threw herself into his arms. “It was horrible.”
    His hand automatically strayed to her loose hair. It felt like the finest silk beneath his fingers. “What was horrible? Why are you crying?”
    â€œLydia,” she managed between sobs. “She hung herself.”
    Armond steered Rosalind toward the bed. He helped her to sit before settling beside her. “Lydia? Was she a friend of yours?”
    â€œMy abigail,” she answered. “She had been dismissed earlier in the week, but tonight when I came home from the LeGrandes’, there she was, hanging from the rafters.”
    When Rosalind covered her face with her hands and another sob escaped her, he placed an arm around her shoulders.
    â€œIt’s my fault,” she whispered. “I’m the reason Franklin dismissed her. I can only assume that she couldn’t find other employment and then, well, something must have happened to her and she decided death was an easier escape than facing her bleak tomorrows.”
    Rosalind’s deep distress over a servant surprised him. True, what she must have seen would affect anyone, but most young socialites, he imagined, would have spent a few tears over the incident and then simply gone on, quickly forgetting the matter. Of course, she must have discovered the maid only a few short hours earlier.
    â€œDid she leave a note? Any explanation as to why she would feel moved to take her own life?”