Secrets of Sloane House(96)

She knew those small pieces of cloth well. Had ironed dozens of them during her time working at the home. When she’d first arrived at the mansion, the linen had intimidated her. She’d never imagined something so fine could be used for wiping tears and noses. But as she crushed the fine linen in her palm and brought it up to her eyes, she realized it meant nothing to her anymore.

Now all it did was allow her tears to fall.

At last, she’d gotten an answer. She swiped her eyes again, tried to tell herself that the news was what she had expected. Truly, it had been the only thing that had made sense. She had never really thought headstrong Miranda could have been snatched from the streets of Chicago. It wouldn’t have been like her.

Besides, the secrets of Sloane House had been powerful, calling all the time from beneath a veneer of privilege and wealth.

And then the reality of it all sank in. And it became too much. Her sister had been molested. Murdered. Her body had been dumped. With a lurch of her stomach, she stood up. Tried to run from the room. But all she really was aware of was the floor spinning and her head pounding.

At last, she’d discovered the truth. But instead of giving her freedom, it only served to make things worse.

Her sister was gone, and she was never coming back.





CHAPTER 34

Reid barely had time to reach for Rosalind before she fell to the floor in a faint. With her body limp in his arms, he gently eased her to the carpet, situating himself so that he could cradle her head. Worry for her, mixed in with the blow of what Douglass and his mother had just admitted, made him feel almost as weak as Rosalind. Their admissions rang through his head as he smoothed her hair from her brow.

“Oh, Rosalind,” he murmured. “I am so sorry.”

He was barely aware of someone in the room calling for smelling salts until his mother was kneeling by his side. After sharing a worried glance with him, she opened a vial and waved it underneath Rosalind’s nose. “Don’t worry, Reid,” she murmured. “It’s just a faint. She’ll come around in a moment.”

To his surprise, Veronica appeared at his side with a glass of water. “This will help when she wakes,” she said simply.

Seconds later, Rosalind’s eyes fluttered open. She coughed a bit, then studied her surroundings. She looked at him, at his mother, at the floor on which she was reclining, in confusion. And then it was obvious that reality consumed her again. A weary look transformed her expression.

And broke his heart. “I’m so sorry,” he said again. It was inadequate, but at least it encompassed everything he was feeling.

She blinked and lifted one shoulder, conveying so much.

“I’ll tend to her, dear,” his mother said.

Reid rose to his feet and walked to Mr. Sloane.

The man looked like he’d aged ten years, and as if he, too, were in danger of passing out. Reid wouldn’t have blamed him in the slightest. The latest revelations had gone far beyond his wildest imaginations.

Reid cleared his throat and did what he needed to do. What he hoped his father would have done if he could have been there himself.

“Sir, we need to contact the police,” he said baldly.

Mr. Sloane nodded. “Yes. I’ll send a footman to the nearest precinct.” Looking beyond Reid, the man motioned toward Hodgeson, who looked as if he, too, was trying to stay steady on his feet. “Send Jerome to the police.”

Hodgeson nodded. “What would you like him to say?”

Mr. Sloane’s expression was so dark, Reid almost smiled. But of course, he understood the butler’s question. Nothing—especially not information like this—left the house without the Sloanes’ approval.

Mr. Sloane glanced at Veronica and Douglass, who were sitting separately, each some distance away from the other and from their parents. They looked as shaken as the rest of them.

“Ask Jerome to say that we are experiencing a matter of some urgency. If someone asks for more details, Jerome should admit that he is not at liberty to say.” His lips pressed together. “That should get them here in a hurry.”

The butler bowed slightly. “Very well, sir.” When he reached the doorway, he paused. “Would . . . would you like a tea tray to be delivered, perhaps?”

“The last thing we need is tea, Hodgeson.”

“Yes, sir. But . . . perhaps for the ladies?”

“Bring it. Or don’t. I don’t care.” He stood up, glanced at his children, glanced at his wife, who was as white as a sheet, and then turned to Rosalind, who was now standing next to one of the windows with Reid’s mother.

Minutes passed like hours. A maid brought in the tea tray. She set it on a side table and walked out without a single person in the room acknowledging her service.