Free A Cold Legacy by Megan Shepherd Page A

Who . . .” I paused. “Who is the father?” It was hardly a polite question, but women like Elizabeth and me had never danced around propriety.
    â€œAn American novelist. I went overseas to visit family in eighty-nine and met him. The father doesn’t know, which is just as well.” She let out a sigh, running her fingers along the towel. “He wasn’t a very good novelist.”
    It felt good to smile, after everything that had happened.
    â€œWell,” she said. “It’s not every day one narrowly escapes death. Dry off, and give me a moment to speak with Valentina. Then we shall have a proper talk.”
    W HEN I’ D FINALLY SCRUBBED every inch of the bog from under my fingernails and between my toes, I found Elizabeth, Montgomery, and Lucy in the second floor library, seated around the fireplace, chatting in low voices. There was no sign of Valentina—I imagined she was in her room, trying to get over the sting of losing the inheritance. Hensley sat by Elizabeth’s feet. I was surprised he was still awake since it had to be past midnight, but he hadn’t seen his mother in months and must miss her terribly. It made me even more curious about his brain defect, and if it had to do with his miscolored eye. Elizabeth stroked his hair absently. In turn, he stroked the fur of his pet rat.
    My robe rustled as I entered, and Elizabeth gave her crooked smile. “Feeling better?”
    â€œYes—well, I think so.” I glanced toward Hensley, notsure such young ears should overhear talk of near death and police chases and murder, but he played with his rat silently, ignoring us. “I’m much more worried about what’s on that paper you’re trying to keep hidden in your coat.”
    Lucy and Montgomery sat straighter. Elizabeth raised an eyebrow and took out the paper. “You’re nothing if not observant, Juliet. I suppose you’d have found out sooner or later.” The paper was crumpled and worn, too thick for a letter and the wrong shape. As she unfolded it with her elegant hands, my heart shot to my throat. I knew that lettering across the top.
    â€œA special memorandum poster,” she said regretfully. “The kind advertising rewards for escaped criminals and fugitives. In this case, I am dearly sorry to say, it’s for you. The police haven’t given up the search.”
    She handed me the paper, which I scanned in one glance. Lucy jumped up to read over my shoulder. My own face looked back at me, an inky portrait done by a police artist who had never seen me. They’d captured my eyes but the jaw was too wide, the brow too heavy, making me look like a degenerate.
    I started to feel light-headed. Montgomery took the poster from me. “One thousand pound reward,” he read, “for information leading to the capture of Juliet Moreau of London, wanted for murder. Age: Seventeen. Last known residence: Dumbarton Oaks . . .”
    The rest of his words faded as my head started throbbing. Lucy put her hands on my shoulders, shaking me back into reason, but it was all I could do to keep breathing.
    â€œThis is impossible,” Montgomery said, his voice on edge. “They’ve no way to prove Juliet was responsible for those deaths.”
    Even though I was .
    Lucy had gone white. “It was my father, wasn’t it? He told the police.”
    â€œNo, it wasn’t him.” I answered in a rush, relieved at least to put her worries to rest. I took out the article and handed it to her. “I found this newspaper article in Quick. He denounces his role in the King’s Club and talks about how sad he is you disappeared. He doesn’t blame us for what happened, at least not publicly.”
    Lucy clutched at the newspaper. “He’s worried about me?” She sank into the chair, poring over every word of the article.
    Elizabeth sighed. “Inspector Newcastle was the one who told the police,