Read Online The Heartbeat Thief by AJ Krafton, Ash Krafton - Free Book Online
Authors: AJ Krafton, Ash Krafton
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better.”
She glared at him before turning the corner, bringing the platform into full view.
“Oh, no.” She jerked back and flattened against the wall before stealing a peek around the corner.
Mr. Isling. Her father’s merchant. He would recognize her. Here she was, an unmarried woman in the presence of a young man—people would talk. Her reputation, her prospects—
She stifled a groan. Her mother. She’d be furious.
Knell tilted his head and peered at her. “What’s the matter, bien-aimé ?”
“My father’s acquaintance.” More than acquaintance—Mr. Isling was a clerk in Thomas’s law firm, and knew his father’s business well. Her breath was high in her throat. “He must have gotten off the train. I think he saw me.”
“Where are your manners? We must say hello.”
She shook her head. “No, no—”
But he’d captured her hand beneath his arm and dragged her around the corner, marching straight up to Mr. Isling.
“Isling,” he boomed. “Just arrived from London, are you?”
Mr. Isling nodded, beaming broadly, his abundant cheeks plumping. “Ah, I thought I recognized your daughter. Didn’t expect to see you here, Fyne. I thought you were at the port this week.”
Senza stared up at her companion, mouth agape. What was happening? Why did Mr. Isling call Knell by her father’s name?
She looked around, wondering if anyone else looked familiar. When her gaze flitted across their reflections in the glass ticket window, she froze.
Herself, standing next to Bertram Fyne. Her father. Speech utterly failed her and she twisted back to Knell, searching his face, her entire being a question.
He winked down at her. “Back early. I promised my daughter a ride to London. It’s a rather special day for her.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Isling bowed his head toward her. “Enjoy the city, Miss Fyne. It’s an entirely different world than the one you’ve known.”
She hastened a smile into place, no longer able to feel her feet. Her companion tightened his hand over hers.
“Good day, Fyne.” Mr. Isling made his way off the platform, leaving Senza alone with a very smug-looking Knell.
“How did you do that—my father—I saw—”
“Finally, you understand.” He straightened his collar. “You see one thing, they see another.”
“I see nothing that makes any sense.”
“Not now, perhaps. But it will, one day. Think. Think back to the day we met.” He pointed to a staircase and the balcony above, passengers waiting in the shade for the next train to arrive. Offering his arm, they walked upstairs. “We met at a funeral, did we not?”
“No.” Senza struggled with reconciling sense with what had just happened with Mr. Isling, but only for a few moments. A magician’s illusion. That had to be all it was. A hypnotic suggestion, perhaps. When no logical explanation presented itself, she abandoned pursuit and settled for the first flimsy excuse that fit.
He had a way about him, a certain manipulation of all within his reach, and his reach seemed to extend far beyond them, or even their surroundings. His influence completely commandeered her, made up her mind for her, and held her in thrall. That he could appear to be her father and fool even the closest of his acquaintances seemed secondary to the way he pulled her entire attention.
All she knew was that she was safe with him, safe from gossip and safe from harm. She reveled in that safety the same way a child enjoyed the security of a parent’s care. Many an admiring glance came their way but she barely noticed. He was all that she saw, all that she heard. “No, it was a ball. We met at a ball and I would not dance with you.”
“And even that is not accurate, but I will not argue…with a lady.” He added the last bit with a bow of his head. Patting her hand, he led her to the balcony from which the bridge spanned, tipping his head at the view beyond the trees and the tracks. “But for now, let us talk about the thing you fear
She glared at him before turning the corner, bringing the platform into full view.
“Oh, no.” She jerked back and flattened against the wall before stealing a peek around the corner.
Mr. Isling. Her father’s merchant. He would recognize her. Here she was, an unmarried woman in the presence of a young man—people would talk. Her reputation, her prospects—
She stifled a groan. Her mother. She’d be furious.
Knell tilted his head and peered at her. “What’s the matter, bien-aimé ?”
“My father’s acquaintance.” More than acquaintance—Mr. Isling was a clerk in Thomas’s law firm, and knew his father’s business well. Her breath was high in her throat. “He must have gotten off the train. I think he saw me.”
“Where are your manners? We must say hello.”
She shook her head. “No, no—”
But he’d captured her hand beneath his arm and dragged her around the corner, marching straight up to Mr. Isling.
“Isling,” he boomed. “Just arrived from London, are you?”
Mr. Isling nodded, beaming broadly, his abundant cheeks plumping. “Ah, I thought I recognized your daughter. Didn’t expect to see you here, Fyne. I thought you were at the port this week.”
Senza stared up at her companion, mouth agape. What was happening? Why did Mr. Isling call Knell by her father’s name?
She looked around, wondering if anyone else looked familiar. When her gaze flitted across their reflections in the glass ticket window, she froze.
Herself, standing next to Bertram Fyne. Her father. Speech utterly failed her and she twisted back to Knell, searching his face, her entire being a question.
He winked down at her. “Back early. I promised my daughter a ride to London. It’s a rather special day for her.”
“Indeed.” Mr. Isling bowed his head toward her. “Enjoy the city, Miss Fyne. It’s an entirely different world than the one you’ve known.”
She hastened a smile into place, no longer able to feel her feet. Her companion tightened his hand over hers.
“Good day, Fyne.” Mr. Isling made his way off the platform, leaving Senza alone with a very smug-looking Knell.
“How did you do that—my father—I saw—”
“Finally, you understand.” He straightened his collar. “You see one thing, they see another.”
“I see nothing that makes any sense.”
“Not now, perhaps. But it will, one day. Think. Think back to the day we met.” He pointed to a staircase and the balcony above, passengers waiting in the shade for the next train to arrive. Offering his arm, they walked upstairs. “We met at a funeral, did we not?”
“No.” Senza struggled with reconciling sense with what had just happened with Mr. Isling, but only for a few moments. A magician’s illusion. That had to be all it was. A hypnotic suggestion, perhaps. When no logical explanation presented itself, she abandoned pursuit and settled for the first flimsy excuse that fit.
He had a way about him, a certain manipulation of all within his reach, and his reach seemed to extend far beyond them, or even their surroundings. His influence completely commandeered her, made up her mind for her, and held her in thrall. That he could appear to be her father and fool even the closest of his acquaintances seemed secondary to the way he pulled her entire attention.
All she knew was that she was safe with him, safe from gossip and safe from harm. She reveled in that safety the same way a child enjoyed the security of a parent’s care. Many an admiring glance came their way but she barely noticed. He was all that she saw, all that she heard. “No, it was a ball. We met at a ball and I would not dance with you.”
“And even that is not accurate, but I will not argue…with a lady.” He added the last bit with a bow of his head. Patting her hand, he led her to the balcony from which the bridge spanned, tipping his head at the view beyond the trees and the tracks. “But for now, let us talk about the thing you fear
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