There was a glimmer of suspicion in his eyes again. Clearly, her connection to Beadle made him mistrustful. He hesitated a moment before replying. It ensures their silence.
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Wet from the cemetery lawn, her skirt now dragged the ground. The horses set a somber pace as they traveled down the road. With his cane, Beadle lifted a corner of the curtain.
Shame on Sloan and his shady ventures. She clutched her trembling hands together. How would she work up the courage to walk past them? For comfort, she slipped her hand into her reticule and rubbed the stone once. Beadle rapped the roof of the carriage hard with his cane. She jolted back against the seat as the horses lurched forward. He gave her a cunning, sidelong glance, and she quickly released it.
Naturally, he bequeathed it to you. Selling it may help remedy the situation. But it will take some time to dispose of, located as it is in such an unfashionable part of London. She swallowed a scream. She quickly pulled her hands away to avoid touching them. She took a closer look. Not mice, just fur. Actually, commas of fur. He tugged on a coil of her hair and released it. The curl sprung back. When her father was alive, the man would never have dared lay a finger on her.
She pressed herself against the wall. She put her fingers to her lips, wondering what he found so offensive about her smile. He seemed to read her thoughts. What ideas? She did not want to pursue the question. Sloan swindled her husband, as well. When Lord Stadwell died, she was forced to move from Crossfield Hall to the dowager house. The poor dear is living in very reduced circumstances. The viscount turned down every suitable offer. Her cheeks felt on fire.
She rubbed the odd, furry eyebrows between her fingers. Her throat tightened, but she refused to cry. He placed his hand on her thigh. She stiffened.
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