Read Online If He's Wild by Hannah Howell - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Hannah Howell
Ads: Link
Hartley.
“They must be the strongest ones.” Iago pointed to his own sketching done on the facing page. “I saw the same earlier, saw their faces in the miasma surrounding Madame Claudette.”
Lord Uppington was also very skilled at drawing, Hartley decided as he studied the man’s sketches, although his work lacked the emotional impact of Alethea’s. Yet it was still chilling to think this man could see such things. Even more chilling to think that Iago saw it all around a woman Hartley had planned to bed. He was going to have to change his plans. It would prove impossible to feel any desire for Madame Claudette now. Despite his strong need to deny all he was seeing now, he knew he would forever see these images in his head when he looked at Claudette. The fact that he felt relieved over the possibility of ending his seduction of Claudette was something he would have to examine later.
Turning his study to the words Alethea had written by each drawing, Hartley frowned slightly. The word roses was very easy to understand. Alethea had already made it clear that the scent was Claudette’s signature. The other words troubled him, however. As he retook his seat by her side, he was relieved to see that she looked less pale.
“Why did you put the word laudanum next to Peterson?” he asked her. “He was not killed by that.”
“In a way, he was, I think,” replied Alethea. “I saw him dragged from a rose garden. He knew what was to happen. There was fury and fear, but his mind was clouded, and his body would not heed his commands. He could not save himself, and he was enraged.”
“Peterson exactly,” murmured Aldus as he and Gifford retook their seats.
“And the word hate written below the drawings?” Hartley asked.
“It came from many of them. The Rose was the most infected with it, however. Greed, too. That came only from The Rose.” She took a deep breath to steady herself, still trying to dispel the taint of all the ugly emotions carried within the vision. “Bloodlust and power. The Rose savors both, one feeding the other. The killing makes her feel strong.”
“The couple, the compte and his lady, were betrayed? That is the word you wrote next to their picture.”
“Yes. Betrayal, utter despair, and then a demand for vengeance was what I felt from them.” She frowned slightly. “There was something else. No, someone else. Two someones sheltered behind them, but I could not see them.”
Iago nodded. “I felt the same. The compte and his lady are now very clear to me, but they are not alone. There are two essences with them, clinging and shielded.”
“The children,” whispered Hartley, the sting of grief that seared through him telling him that he no longer doubted the gifts of the Vaughns. “But there were four children.”
“Only two others were with them,” said Iago.
Pushing aside her horror over the realization that Madame Claudette had sent children to their deaths, Alethea mentally reviewed her vision and nodded. “Yes, only two others were with them.” She struggled to recall exactly what she had seen and sensed concerning the French couple. “Young. Very young. One young enough to struggle with his words. His words? Ah, a small boy, then.” She shook her head. “Not enough seen or sensed for me to know for certain which two children were there.”
“But young?”
“Yes. Of that I am certain.”
“As am I,” said Iago.
“They had four children,” said Hartley. “Andre, who was but two years of age, Blanche, who was five, Bayard, the heir, and eleven, and Germaine, who was fifteen. The older children are from his first marriage. To my sister Margaret.”
Alethea sighed, knowing there was nothing one could say to ease the pain of such a loss. “I am sorry, Hartley. I did not see or sense the older children. Were they quiet children?”
“No. Bayard was quite spirited, and Germaine was a complete hoyden.”
Iago frowned. “I felt nothing…Yet, a girl so close
“They must be the strongest ones.” Iago pointed to his own sketching done on the facing page. “I saw the same earlier, saw their faces in the miasma surrounding Madame Claudette.”
Lord Uppington was also very skilled at drawing, Hartley decided as he studied the man’s sketches, although his work lacked the emotional impact of Alethea’s. Yet it was still chilling to think this man could see such things. Even more chilling to think that Iago saw it all around a woman Hartley had planned to bed. He was going to have to change his plans. It would prove impossible to feel any desire for Madame Claudette now. Despite his strong need to deny all he was seeing now, he knew he would forever see these images in his head when he looked at Claudette. The fact that he felt relieved over the possibility of ending his seduction of Claudette was something he would have to examine later.
Turning his study to the words Alethea had written by each drawing, Hartley frowned slightly. The word roses was very easy to understand. Alethea had already made it clear that the scent was Claudette’s signature. The other words troubled him, however. As he retook his seat by her side, he was relieved to see that she looked less pale.
“Why did you put the word laudanum next to Peterson?” he asked her. “He was not killed by that.”
“In a way, he was, I think,” replied Alethea. “I saw him dragged from a rose garden. He knew what was to happen. There was fury and fear, but his mind was clouded, and his body would not heed his commands. He could not save himself, and he was enraged.”
“Peterson exactly,” murmured Aldus as he and Gifford retook their seats.
“And the word hate written below the drawings?” Hartley asked.
“It came from many of them. The Rose was the most infected with it, however. Greed, too. That came only from The Rose.” She took a deep breath to steady herself, still trying to dispel the taint of all the ugly emotions carried within the vision. “Bloodlust and power. The Rose savors both, one feeding the other. The killing makes her feel strong.”
“The couple, the compte and his lady, were betrayed? That is the word you wrote next to their picture.”
“Yes. Betrayal, utter despair, and then a demand for vengeance was what I felt from them.” She frowned slightly. “There was something else. No, someone else. Two someones sheltered behind them, but I could not see them.”
Iago nodded. “I felt the same. The compte and his lady are now very clear to me, but they are not alone. There are two essences with them, clinging and shielded.”
“The children,” whispered Hartley, the sting of grief that seared through him telling him that he no longer doubted the gifts of the Vaughns. “But there were four children.”
“Only two others were with them,” said Iago.
Pushing aside her horror over the realization that Madame Claudette had sent children to their deaths, Alethea mentally reviewed her vision and nodded. “Yes, only two others were with them.” She struggled to recall exactly what she had seen and sensed concerning the French couple. “Young. Very young. One young enough to struggle with his words. His words? Ah, a small boy, then.” She shook her head. “Not enough seen or sensed for me to know for certain which two children were there.”
“But young?”
“Yes. Of that I am certain.”
“As am I,” said Iago.
“They had four children,” said Hartley. “Andre, who was but two years of age, Blanche, who was five, Bayard, the heir, and eleven, and Germaine, who was fifteen. The older children are from his first marriage. To my sister Margaret.”
Alethea sighed, knowing there was nothing one could say to ease the pain of such a loss. “I am sorry, Hartley. I did not see or sense the older children. Were they quiet children?”
“No. Bayard was quite spirited, and Germaine was a complete hoyden.”
Iago frowned. “I felt nothing…Yet, a girl so close
Similar Books
