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A captivating tale from beginning to
end, An Improper Aristocrat will leave a smile on
your face and another author on your auto buy list.
Cataromance.com
Chione straightened her spine
and looked to her empty paper with new
determination. She doubted the trustees would
believe the scarab to be as definitive a sign as she
did. Which meant no money coming in and no further
hope of rescue, either. It could be years before
they decided to release Mervyn’s funds. Her writing
had made the family a little more comfortable in the
past few months. It would have to do more in the
future. Dashing the last tear from her eye, she took
up her pen and bent to work.
Nikolas had at last scrambled free of the collapsing
tomb when she heard the noise. She dropped her pen
and lifted her head, straining to hear.
Chione might not be a mother, but she had the
instincts of one. She knew all the noises the old
house gave forth as it settled during the night. She
knew the far-off buzzing that was Mrs. Ferguson’s
snore. She hunched her shoulders each night against
the gritty sound of Will grinding his teeth in his
sleep, and she recognized the occasional thump that
was Olivia falling out of bed. This sound was none
of those.
Her candle had burned low, its pool of light
spreading no further than the paper she had been
writing on. Heart thudding, she left it and rose to
slip into the hall.
The noise had come from upstairs. Chione paused long
enough to cross to the wall where a collection of
ancient knives was hung. She slipped one from its
mount, an ancient flint blade with an ivory handle.
At the foot of the stairs she removed her sturdy
boots, then silently padded up in stocking feet,
instinctively avoiding the creaking spots.
Halfway up, she froze.
A muffled sound had come from below, from the
direction of the kitchens. Someone was in the house.
One person moving about, or two? It did not matter;
she had to check the children first.
Chione eased onto the landing and tread as silently
as she could into the hall. There was another,
smaller noise that still sounded loud in the inky
darkness. Her room, she thought gratefully, not
Will’s and not Olivia’s.
But Will’s room was nearest and the door was
slightly ajar. She put her back against the wall
right next to the door and listened. Nothing.
Peeking in, she saw only Will, sprawled out fast
asleep. But where was Morty? Her customary position
at the foot of the bed was empty.
Chione found the dog a little way down the hall,
bristling silently directly outside the closed door
to her own room. Sending out a silent prayer, she
crouched next to the dog and placed one hand on the
knob. The ivory knife handle in her other hand had
grown warm. She gripped it tight, breathed deep,
then gave the knob a quick turn and thrust the door
open.
Morty was through in an instant, emanating a
dangerous rumble as she went. A bark, a crash, a
thump. Cautiously, Chione followed the dog in. Her
window was open. Bright moonlight spilled through
it, illuminating the shambles her room was in,
framing the figure crouched in the window frame, and
blinking wickedly off the long blade he held over
Morty’s head.
Chione didn’t stop to think. She hefted the
well-balanced blade and threw with all her might.
The black figure grunted, then turned and went out
the window.
“A very nice throw,” a deep voice said right behind
her.
Chione gasped, and her heart plummeted to her feet.
She spun around and fell back. Two large and capable
hands reached out to steady her and she looked up,
directly into the brilliant blue eyes of the Earl of
Treyford.
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