curiously.
“Well, for one thing, there would be no profit in such an act.” Venetia made a face. “One can hardly collect blackmail from a dead woman.” She rounded the table and went toward the door. “In addition, there would be far too many witnesses to his crime.”
“There is that,” Beatrice agreed reluctantly.
“Nevertheless, you must promise to scream if you sense that he is about to do you some harm,” Amelia said.
“I will fetch one of the knives from the kitchen, just in case,” Edward said, rushing toward the swinging door that separated the breakfast room from the kitchen.
“Edward, you are not to pick up any knives,” Beatrice called after him.
Venetia sighed. “I trust it will not come down to the use of knives.”
She went quickly along the hall, anger, fear and determination pounding through her. The last thing she needed was a blackmailer, she thought. It was not as though she did not have enough problems to deal with at the moment. The chilling photographs that had been sent to her anonymously were keeping her awake at night, as it was.
She paused at the closed door of the small study. Mrs. Trench hovered uneasily.
“I showed him into the room, ma’am.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Trench.”
The housekeeper opened the door for her.
Venetia drew a deep breath, focused her mind and the part of her that allowed her to see beyond the normal range of human vision and swept into the study.
Chapter 7
In the negative-image world in which she now moved, she saw the man’s aura far more clearly than she saw his face.
She stopped, stunned.
Auras were unique and none more so than that of Gabriel Jones.
Controlled, intense and powerful, the dark energy flared around him.
“Mrs. Jones, I presume,” Gabriel said. He stood near the window, his face in shadow.
The sound of his voice made her lose her faltering concentration. Venetia blinked. The world reverted to its normal hues and colors.
“You’re alive,” she whispered.
“Yes I am, as a matter of fact,” Gabriel said. “I can see that the news has come as an unpleasant shock to you. Forgive me, but speaking personally, I must admit to being somewhat relieved under the circumstances.”
Everything in her was urging her to throw herself into his arras, to touch him and inhale his scent; to revel in the glorious knowledge that he really was alive. But she was paralyzed by the enormity of the disaster that loomed.
She swallowed hard. “The notice in the press-”
“Contained some factual errors. Never believe everything you read in the papers, Mrs. Jones.”
“Dear heaven.” Pulling herself together with an effort of will, she managed to reach the desk. She sat down hard in the chair. She could not take her eyes off him.
He was alive
. “I must tell you, sir, that I am delighted to learn that you are in good health.”
“Thank you.” He remained where he was, silhouetted against the window. “Forgive me, madam, but I feel that, under the circumstances, I must ask it you are… well?”
She blinked. “Yes, of course. I, too, am quite fit, thank you.”
“I see.”
Was that disappointment she heard in his voice?
“Did you expect to find me unwell?” she asked, baffled.
“I was concerned that there might have been some repercussions from our earlier association,” he said gravely.
Belatedly it dawned on her that he had wondered if she was pregnant. She turned very warm and then quite cold.
“I suppose you are wondering why I borrowed your surname,” she mumbled.
“I can certainly understand why you decided to set up in business as a widow. It was a shrewd decision, given Society’s altitudes toward unmarried females. But yes. I will admit to some curiosity concerning precisely why you chose to use my last name. Was it simply a matter of convenience?
“No.”
“Was it because you concluded that Jones was such a common name no one would notice the connection?”
“Not entirely.” She gripped a pen very
“Well, for one thing, there would be no profit in such an act.” Venetia made a face. “One can hardly collect blackmail from a dead woman.” She rounded the table and went toward the door. “In addition, there would be far too many witnesses to his crime.”
“There is that,” Beatrice agreed reluctantly.
“Nevertheless, you must promise to scream if you sense that he is about to do you some harm,” Amelia said.
“I will fetch one of the knives from the kitchen, just in case,” Edward said, rushing toward the swinging door that separated the breakfast room from the kitchen.
“Edward, you are not to pick up any knives,” Beatrice called after him.
Venetia sighed. “I trust it will not come down to the use of knives.”
She went quickly along the hall, anger, fear and determination pounding through her. The last thing she needed was a blackmailer, she thought. It was not as though she did not have enough problems to deal with at the moment. The chilling photographs that had been sent to her anonymously were keeping her awake at night, as it was.
She paused at the closed door of the small study. Mrs. Trench hovered uneasily.
“I showed him into the room, ma’am.”
“Thank you. Mrs. Trench.”
The housekeeper opened the door for her.
Venetia drew a deep breath, focused her mind and the part of her that allowed her to see beyond the normal range of human vision and swept into the study.
Chapter 7
In the negative-image world in which she now moved, she saw the man’s aura far more clearly than she saw his face.
She stopped, stunned.
Auras were unique and none more so than that of Gabriel Jones.
Controlled, intense and powerful, the dark energy flared around him.
“Mrs. Jones, I presume,” Gabriel said. He stood near the window, his face in shadow.
The sound of his voice made her lose her faltering concentration. Venetia blinked. The world reverted to its normal hues and colors.
“You’re alive,” she whispered.
“Yes I am, as a matter of fact,” Gabriel said. “I can see that the news has come as an unpleasant shock to you. Forgive me, but speaking personally, I must admit to being somewhat relieved under the circumstances.”
Everything in her was urging her to throw herself into his arras, to touch him and inhale his scent; to revel in the glorious knowledge that he really was alive. But she was paralyzed by the enormity of the disaster that loomed.
She swallowed hard. “The notice in the press-”
“Contained some factual errors. Never believe everything you read in the papers, Mrs. Jones.”
“Dear heaven.” Pulling herself together with an effort of will, she managed to reach the desk. She sat down hard in the chair. She could not take her eyes off him.
He was alive
. “I must tell you, sir, that I am delighted to learn that you are in good health.”
“Thank you.” He remained where he was, silhouetted against the window. “Forgive me, madam, but I feel that, under the circumstances, I must ask it you are… well?”
She blinked. “Yes, of course. I, too, am quite fit, thank you.”
“I see.”
Was that disappointment she heard in his voice?
“Did you expect to find me unwell?” she asked, baffled.
“I was concerned that there might have been some repercussions from our earlier association,” he said gravely.
Belatedly it dawned on her that he had wondered if she was pregnant. She turned very warm and then quite cold.
“I suppose you are wondering why I borrowed your surname,” she mumbled.
“I can certainly understand why you decided to set up in business as a widow. It was a shrewd decision, given Society’s altitudes toward unmarried females. But yes. I will admit to some curiosity concerning precisely why you chose to use my last name. Was it simply a matter of convenience?
“No.”
“Was it because you concluded that Jones was such a common name no one would notice the connection?”
“Not entirely.” She gripped a pen very
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