Free Obsession by Katherine Sutcliffe

turned away, walked to the liquor cabinet, and poured myself a drink.
    Edwina moved up behind me. “So what have you done with her?”
    I tossed back the Scotch and poured another. “What do you care?”
    “I suppose any hope that you returned her to Menson would be—”
    “Idiotic.”
    She ran her hand up my arm. “You’re filthy, darling. Why don’t I have Iris draw us up a warm bath—”
    “Why don’t you have Iris draw me up a warm bath?” I smiled at her dryly. “I do believe you were just leaving.”
    Taking the glass from my hand, she eased up against me. “Really, darling, can’t we at least be civil to one another?”
    “My dear Edwina, there hasn’t been anything remotely civil about you since you were old enough to spit out your first insult.”
    “Your Grace,” came Herbert’s slurred voice from the doorway. “You have visitors.”
    “Christ,” I said, “not my grandmother.” I was too bloody bone-weary to take her on right now and hope to survive.
    “Grandmother, indeed,” declared the jovial voice that I immediately recognized as Lord Darian Parkhurst.
    As he stepped into the room, he bowed slightly and gestured at his legs wrapped in rough leather riding chaps. “Your Grace, am I not walking on these appendages? Had I been your dowager duchess grandmother I would have slithered in on my belly.”
    “Smashing!” cried Oscar Whitting from the atrium. “Quite a good one, old man. The Salterdon hydra strikes again.”
    Whitting entered the room with a flourish of his coattails and tossed his hat on the nearest table. His wild hair blazed orange as a pumpkin, as did the freckles on his face.
    “Ah, the blushing couple. I expected to find you both absorbed in your disappointment over having the nuptials spoiled at the last moment. Yet here you are, looking at one another as scornfully as ever. Are we too late for the fits of tantrum, heaving bosoms, and tearing of hair?”
    Edwina gave a huff, spewed several vulgarities, and flounced from the room.
    “Imagine it,” Oscar said as he watched her go. “I finally succeeded in insulting her. Declare, Salterdon: has the wench an actual fiber of feeling about her?”
    Having poured another Scotch, I moved to the window. “Who can tell?” I felt suddenly drained of energy. “With Edwina, ’tis all or nothing, isn’t it?”
    Parkhurst joined me at the window as Whitting poured them generous servings of brandy. Leaning one shoulder against the windowsill, he crossed his arms over his chest and fixed me with his green eyes.
    “I’ve seen sick swine look better than you, Trey. Had a rough go of it, have you?”
    “How did you find the gel?” Whitting asked as he joined us, handing Parkhurst his drink.
    I stared out the window toward the thin stream of black smoke rising over the moor. I touched the claw marks on my cheek—as yet slightly tender—and tried to force away the image of her in Menson.
    “She’s quite mad,” I said softly, the admission a tear in my throat.
    They stared at me a long moment, their mouths open.
    Finally, Parkhurst cleared his throat. “Too bad, old man. What do you intend to do about it?”
    “I…don’t know.”
    “Where is she?”
    “Do tell,” Whitting cried. “What have you done with her?”
    I sipped the drink, my gaze shifting from one bounder to the other. Suspicion crawled up my spine. I knew them only too well; knew the lengths they would go to for a farthing or two. I was, or had been, one of their own not so long ago.
    “Did my grandmother send you here to ferret out information about me?” I asked in a soft, threatening tone.
    They looked at one another and burst out laughing.
    “Imagine it.” Whitting choked and gasped for air. “The old crow daring to ask us for a favor. She would gnaw her own heart out before acknowledging our existences.”
    “Come, come, Trey.” Parkhurst gave a toss of his head, causing a wave of dark brown hair to spill over his brow. “You know us better