Free I Thee Wed by Celeste Bradley Page A

what could she learn about Blayne House’s newest occupant? “I see. Your brother hunts for knowledge. What do you hunt for?”
    The child narrowed her eyes at Francesca. “I hunt the people who try to ruin my family.”
    Francesca clapped her hands together. “Excellent!”
    Atalanta stared at her. “Most people don’t say that to me.”
    Francesca snorted. “I am not most people. I would do anything for my family.” She sighed. “Even for my rather awful uncle, although I’m sure he would not say the same for me.” She tilted her head. “Is someone trying to ruin your family?”
    Atalanta nodded. “Your family. Sir Geoffrey lured my brother away from home with promises of fame and fortuneand a boring wife. I can’t believe Rion fell for it. He shouldn’t care about any of that. Worthingtons generally don’t, you know.” Her scowl deepened. She looked so ferocious that Francesca knew she could only be fighting back tears. “I can’t believe he left m—us.”
    It seemed the child was not in favor of the probable union of Mr. Worthington and Judith. Francesca couldn’t much blame her, for she flinched at the notion herself. Probably because Judith didn’t seem particularly thrilled. Francesca’s instinctive objection was only a very natural concern for her cousin’s happiness, of course.
    Francesca put any other possibility out of her mind. Firmly. With a boot to its bottom.
    Then she grinned at the adorably homicidal little Miss Atalanta Worthington. “I’m famished. The giant has gone to market to personally choose more boring, bland food for Sir Geoffrey. Shall we brave the kitchens for teacakes and biscuits? I know they are delicious, for I baked them myself!”
    Atalanta eyed her warily as she rose to her feet. “Is he really a giant?”
    â€œOh yes,” Francesca assured her airily as they headed for the kitchens for a bit of well-timed pilfering. “You can tell by the size of his spoon.”
    A strangled sound came from the child, and Francesca realized it was a rusty laugh, like something rarely used. Come to think of it, she had not heard Mr. Worthington laugh at all, had she?
    Would his laughter be full and warm? Or low and deep?
    Brushing off the shiver that went through her at the notion, Francesca led the way to baked confections and, she hoped, a few more carefully extracted details about the mysterious Mr. Orion Worthington.

Chapter 8
    F RANCESCA was allowed to use the laboratory for only a few hours a day, midafternoon, while Sir Geoffrey read over his notes in his study. This, she had learned, was apparently the scientific term for “napping,” for his sonorous snores could be heard through half of Blayne House.
    After feeding Attie, she had spent an amusing half hour introducing her to the specimens housed in the back garden and explaining the research. Then she had shown the child a safer entry through the cellar and, after exacting a promise that Attie would not use the tree unless absolutely necessary, she’d sent the girl on her way and headed happily to the laboratory.
    Now Francesca stood at the smaller wooden laboratory table that her uncle had reluctantly turned over to her for her work. Unlike the pristine, three-inch-thick sanded marble slabs that covered the other two larger tables, her bare wooden worktable was scarred by years of dissections and blackened by decades of scorching from burner stands.
    However, she’d known when to accede with dignity andhad fully taken over her little corner of the lab. The charts she’d drawn that tracked her research were pinned on both walls, and her notes were neatly stacked at the back of her table, held down with a chunk of Italian marble taken from her family’s courtyard paving.
    It was a practical way to keep her notes pinned down when someone opened the laboratory door, for her table stood