The Heiress Effect (Brothers Sinister #2)

“Why do you persist?”


“Because she’s right.”

Oliver jumped. In all his life, he’d never heard Freddy utter those words about anyone other than herself—or, on rare occasion, people who agreed with her.

“She’s right,” Freddy whispered. “She’s right. I’m trapped in here.” Her eyes glittered. “I’m too terrified to go out, and yet here I’m stuck. Without anyone at all, with nothing to do. I don’t even know who I am some days.”

“Oh, Freddy.”

“I opened the door yesterday,” Freddy said. “I put one toe out before I had such palpitations of the heart that I had to stop.”

Oliver put an arm around his aunt. “I’m so sorry. Why can’t you tell her that, though? She’d understand, if you’d just tell her that you’re trying.”

“What, and admit that she’s right?” Freddy snapped. “Not likely. I know exactly how I’m going to end this. One day, I’m going to open my door. I’m going to walk down the stairs, just like I’ve always been doing it. I’m going to open the front door…” Her voice paused; her hands were shaking. “And I’m going for a walk in the park.” She gave a nod. “And then I’m going to write to her and tell her that she’s wrong. That I can go outside, that I did, and that I’ll take no more of her impertinence.”

“Freddy.”

She sighed. “Very well. You tell her I’m trying,” Freddy said, and then before Oliver could promise that he would, a mulish look crossed her face. “No,” she said. “Don’t tell her. I want it to be a surprise. I want it all to be a surprise. I’ll show her. I’ll show her everything.”

He patted her hand. “I’m sure you will. Would it help if I came over to assist you?”

“You’re a sweet boy, Oliver. Don’t have much of your mother in you at all.”

Oliver stilled. “You think so?”

“Of course I think so,” Freddy replied. Her gaze abstracted. “Some people, when they’re hurt…they remember the challenge. They grab hold of the fire once, and when they’re burned, they make plans, trying to figure out how to hold live coals. That’s your mother. But some of us remember the pain.” She reached out and patted Oliver’s hand. “You’re like that. You remember the pain, and you flinch. When you were young, I thought you were like your mother—a regular coal-grabber. But no. Now I see more clearly.” She smiled sadly. “You’re like me.”

He let out his breath and looked at his aunt. She probably intended that as a compliment. But the flesh under her eyes had darkened. Her skin hung loosely on a too-thin frame. He’d never known what she feared, what had made her this way. His mother said that Freddy had never offered an explanation. Maybe, at this point, she didn’t even remember it.

“I can come over more often,” he repeated.

“No.” She shook her head. “Our monthly visits will do, dear. Other people just make me nervous. Even you.” Her chin went up. “But don’t worry about me. In another week…or so…I’ll be in that park. Just you wait.”

He looked at her. Her jaw was set in place, firm and yet quivering. Her eyes flashed with defiance.

“One day,” she said, “one day, I will walk out that door and march around that park. One day soon.”

“I love you, Freddy,” Oliver said, and then, because he knew it was true, he added, “Free loves you, too. You know she does.”

“I know.” Freddy paused, bit her lip. “And she’s out there all by herself.” Her hands shook. “You’d better go after her, Oliver.”

Chapter Eighteen

Some hundred miles to the north of London in Nottingham.

“She wasn’t here.”

The little grove Jane was in shielded her from view. At the sound of that too-familiar voice, she rested her head against the trunk of the tree. Better that than banging her head against the rough bark in frustration. Not that she cared about the damage to her forehead, but the noise might draw attention, and that was the last thing she needed.

That last few months had been…difficult. Annabel Lewis had warned her of this—that her aunt and Lord Dorling had seemed a little too friendly when Jane wasn’t about. She hadn’t wanted to believe it, but…

Jane looked up. The leaves on the trees were no longer young; they waved in the morning breeze, rustling. And her aunt, Mrs. Lily Shefton, harrumphed in the clearing behind her.

It was still early—an odd time to be out, in fact, but her aunt had insisted that this morning would do nicely for a walk in this woodsy park on the outskirts of Nottingham. They had come here, and her aunt had promptly absconded, leaving Jane alone.

She had been trying to throw Jane together with Dorling. Jane rolled her eyes. Whatever did she imagine would happen?