With This Curse: A Novel of Victorian Romantic Suspense by Amanda DeWees Page A

it, Lord Telford?”
    The glittering eyes narrowed, and he gave a grudging nod. “She’ll do, Atticus,” he announced. “You shall have trouble with her, I’ve no doubt, but she’ll do.”
    Hunched and almost gnomelike, Lord Telford was much smaller and less imposing than I recalled from eighteen years ago. No doubt part of it was my changed relationship to him, but age and ill health had also played a hand, I knew, and I felt a twinge of pity. His pate was nearly bare except for a few straggling strands combed sideways across it, and his face was a web of wrinkles, which concentrated around his mouth to give the permanent effect of a mean little smile. His strength—judging by his continued grip on my hand—was greater than I had expected given his infirmity, but his form had dwindled. This was not the same barrel-chested man who had been so imposing to those of us under his command. His voice was no longer booming but almost reedy, as if his diminished size had robbed it of resonance, and the left side of his face seemed less animated than the right, as if some paralysis lingered from the stroke.
    “A pity you’re not younger,” he mused. “Better see about getting an heir on her right away, Atticus. If she cannot provide one, better to know sooner than later, so you can put her out to pasture and find a woman fit for breeding.”
    That did test my composure. Bluntness I had expected, but not coarseness. My cheeks burned, and I was relieved when Atticus said firmly, “I’ll not be setting Clara aside for any reason, Father, and you’d better accustom yourself to that fact. Now, how have you been faring during my absence? Are you taking any exercise?”
    The baron’s voice grew peevish. “That fool valet of mine insists on my walking every morning and afternoon. He fusses over me like an old woman.”
    “You know perfectly well that the doctor advised just that.” Atticus’s voice was calm, and I admired him for keeping his patience with his ailing, petulant father.
    As they continued their conversation I took a seat on a brocade-upholstered chair and took the opportunity to acquaint myself with my surroundings. The room showed every sign of being the most magnificent one in the house. The oak wainscoting was carved in a linen fold design, and above it the walls were covered in a rich black and gold brocade. The same brocade made up the hangings of the bed that I saw through a half-open door; we were evidently in the sitting room. Glass-fronted curio cabinets dominated the furnishings, and I saw that Lord Telford must be a collector. But the most startling feature of the decor, and the one that immediately seized my eye now that the hurdle of introductions was past, was that on the wall were mounted what looked like dozens of plaster and wax life masks.
    “Go on, my girl, take a look,” the old man interjected, and I rose to follow his suggestion as he resumed his conversation with his son. The two voices—one shrill, the other reassuring—carried on as a backdrop to my tour through my father-in-law’s collection.
    I began my scrutiny with the masks nearest me. As I had suspected, these were casts of distinguished persons’ faces—mostly death masks, I discovered, although occasionally an identifying label would note “life mask,” with the year. The collection seemed to be roughly chronological, starting with early, famous figures, like Cromwell, proceeding through such personages as Voltaire and Robespierre, and in the present century including prominent persons both living and dead, as well as many whose names I did not recognize. Then, as I progressed to the curio cabinets where more wax masks were on display, the neatly hand-lettered labels began to bear names unfamiliar to me. “Cecile, Lady Abrams, d. 1854,” read one; “Owen Black, tin miner, d. 1855,” said another. Some were highborn, some apparently laborers. Were these actual acquaintances of Lord Telford? My suspicion was