Read Online A Most Novel Revenge by Ashley Weaver - Free Book Online

she didn’t mean to cause any harm,” I suggested, not really believing it.
    Laurel’s doubts seemed to echo mine as she looked up at me, her brown eyes somber. “I think her visit here proves otherwise.”
    She was right, of course. Isobel had admitted as much; she had come to make someone pay.
    â€œI don’t mind a scandal for myself,” Laurel said, “but I’m dreadfully worried about Reggie. His nerves aren’t at all good. He was never the same after the war, you see. Then that dreadful business happened, and I was worried that he might not recover. I had hoped that he would be able to go away and forget it all. I thought we had all left Lyonsgate behind, but it seems as though one can never escape the past.”
    â€œYes,” I mused. “Isobel Van Allen said much the same thing.”
    *   *   *
    BACK IN MY room, I was very much surprised to see that Milo was not only risen from the bed, but gone. The bedclothes were still askew, so he could not have been gone for long. I wonder if he had gone down to breakfast in search of me while I was in Laurel’s room.
    I heard movement in his room and went to look inside. It was Parks, Milo’s valet, engaged in polishing Milo’s shoes. Parks was very fastidious in his duties. Milo called him a dead bore but appreciated his contributions to Milo’s sartorial perfection.
    â€œGood morning, madam,” he said. “May I be of assistance?”
    â€œGood morning, Parks. Have you seen Mr. Ames?”
    â€œHe went out perhaps fifteen minutes ago, madam. He was dressed for riding.”
    Dressed for riding, was he? He certainly hadn’t mentioned anything to me about it.
    â€œThank you.”
    I went back into my room and closed the door. I was mildly put out with Milo for having run off, but I was perfectly capable of entertaining myself.
    I would spend my morning reading The Dead of Winter .
    I settled into the chair near the fire and opened the book.
    The ghosts of the dead walk among us, their breath the fog that hovers low. Their voiceless whispers are the chill along the spine, begging that their stories be told, and none breathe colder than the dead of winter.
    It seemed Isobel Van Allen had a flair for the dramatic. This might prove to be entertaining as well as useful.

 
    6
    I HAD FINISHED five chapters by the time I set the book aside. It was much as I had expected. The various players in the Edwin Green tragedy were all there, outlined quite clearly. Even with my very superficial knowledge of those involved, I could tell easily who was meant to be whom, for Isobel Van Allen had not bothered to disguise their identities other than giving them pseudonyms.
    I could certainly not count the book a literary masterpiece, but it was definitely intriguing. I could see why it had caused a sensation, for there were enough salacious details to keep one turning the pages to see what would happen next.
    As Winnelda had indicated, there were more than a few things that might raise eyebrows. However, I suspected the book might have had more of an impact at the time it had been written. Knowing the people involved as I did now, I felt that these stories somehow belonged to a different lifetime. Youthful indiscretions were not uncommon, after all. Of course, if those indiscretions included murder, it was quite another thing altogether.
    I went back downstairs as the luncheon hour approached, determined not to let what I had read influence my perception of the other guests.
    Isobel Van Allen and Desmond Roberts were not in the dining room when I arrived, and I was a bit relieved. I suspected dinner was likely to be a lively event, and I had been hoping for a bit of peace at luncheon.
    Reginald Lyons came to me as I walked into the room. “Mrs. Ames, I owe you an apology,” he said at once. He seemed to be no worse the wear from his outburst the previous evening, and I was