Free Romancing Lady Cecily by Ashley March

one of James’ knights.
    The horses would have to ride hard through the storm, but he could very well reach the Wriothesly estate the next afternoon. It would be only a short while after Angela would have arrived, and to think he would be able to see her again so soon . . .
    In a matter of minutes, Sebastian managed to eliminate piece after piece of the ebony set, including the king’s bishop. “Check.”
    James tapped the table. “I seem to recall asking you to pretend to notice me. I never asked you to win.”
    Sebastian edged his chair away. “Hurry and make your move.”
    â€œLeaving so soon, are you?” James asked with a grin.
    â€œYes, damn you, now take my rook so I can—”
    A knock sounded at the sitting room door.
    â€œEnter,” Sebastian called, glaring at James as he took his merry time in lifting his queen into the air, then slowly moved it toward the remaining white rook.
    â€œMy lord. A message has arrived for you.”
    Sebastian gestured absently in the direction of the butler, then, realizing how late it was, lifted his gaze to the doorway with a frown. “Who is it from, Wallace?”
    â€œA Mr. Grigsby, my lord. I beg your pardon. I wouldn’t have interrupted your game, but the messenger said it was most urgent.”
    â€œOne moment.” Sebastian turned to find his rook gone. With one last move, he shifted his queen across the board to trap James’ king. “Checkmate.”
    â€œYes, it’s a great surprise, that one is,” James muttered. Then with a wave of his hand toward the doorway, he added, “At least find what your mysterious message is about before you go.”
    â€œYou’re very generous as a loser, aren’t you?”
    With a faint smile at James’ retorted oath, Sebastian beckoned for the folded parchment. It was cheap, the material coarse beneath his fingers, and spattered with raindrops. “A Mr. Grigsby, you said?” he asked without looking up.
    â€œYes, my lord.”
    â€œHmm.” Unfolding the letter, Sebastian bent it toward the light. He read slowly, his mind distracted by thoughts of Angela.
    And then he saw her title.
    Lady Wriothesly . . .
    He read again, and again, and each time the words refused to coalesce into any meaningful coherence.
    . . . identified by crest . . . carriage accident . . . coachman injured, man and woman killed . . . coachman informed . . . Lady Wriothesly . . . Mr. Ian George . . .
    The letter began shaking before his eyes. No, his hand was shaking. The letter . . .
    He must have said something, because he could hear James calling to him.
    Angela was dead. His beautiful, sweet, beloved wife.
    And Ian, too. His closest friend.
    They were dead. Together.
    Fragments of thought collided, then fused into a numbed comprehension. Sebastian stared at the letter, his thumb rubbing the ink until it smeared. He heard James’ voice: “Sebastian, what is it?” Then the letter was gone.
    And all he could think was:
    She hadn’t been lonely, after all.