Lord Deverill's Heir by Catherine Coulter (books to read for 13 year olds .txt) 📕

first colorfully bound book that caught her eye. Once in the earl’s bedchamber she realized she had selected a book of plays by the French writer Mirabeau. As her French was as deplorable as her efforts at the pianoforte, deciphering the lines word by word was about as pleasurable as having a splinter in her finger.

After a while she looked up from her shadowed corner and rubbed her eyes.

She was struck again by her desire to be alone, be hidden away from everyone. Had she not unconsciously selected the darkest corner of the room to pass the afternoon?

By the time she had forced herself to translate the supposedly witty lines in the first act, the book lay open on her lap and her head fell against her arm.

Arabella was not certain what awakened her, perhaps her fear that the earl had come into the room to find her, but in an instant she was alert, her muscles tensed for action.

She gazed across to the more lighted portion of the room and saw with some confusion the stooped figure of Josette, Elsbeth’s maid. The old woman moved to The Dance of Death panel, looked quickly about her, and began to run her gnarled hands over the carved, uneven figures on the surface.

Arabella rose from her chair and walked from her shadowed corner, a question already framed on her lips. “Josette, whatever are you doing here?”

The old woman jumped back from the panel, her arms flopping to her sides.

She gazed in consternation at the young countess, her throat so dry with fear that only jumbled incoherent sounds erupted from her mouth.

“Come, Josette, whatever is so very interesting about The Dance of Death panel? If you wanted to examine it, you had but to ask me. Surely it is no excuse for you to be sneaking about.” Arabella frowned at Josette, her mind suddenly alert to the trapped, confused look on her face.

“Forgive me, my lady,” Josette finally managed to say in a strangled whisper, “it is just that I . . . that I . . .”

“You what?” Arabella said, her head cocked to one side. Goodness, the old woman looked as if she expected the grim laughing skeleton to reach out from the panel and grab her by the throat. This was all very odd.

The old woman wrung her hands, clasping them over her thin chest. “Oh, my lady, I had no choice. I was forced to do it, forced.” She broke off suddenly, her eyes rolling upward. Before Arabella could question her further, she ran from the bedchamber in a frenzied, loping gait.

Arabella made no move to stop her. She stared at the closed door, wondering what the devil the old woman had meant. After a few moments she walked to The Dance of Death and stood for a long while looking at the bizarre panorama of grotesque carved figures. She moved her fingers lightly over the surface. The skeleton screamed his soundless commands to his demonic hosts. The panel was as it always was. Arabella stood there before the panel a moment longer, then turned with a shrug and returned to her darkened corner.

Arabella quietly slipped through the door of the adjoining dressing room, her wrapper knotted loosely about her waist, her black hair streaming down her back. She ran noiselessly to the earl’s bed. “Justin, Justin, wake up.” She leaned over him and shook his shoulder.

His eyes flew open and he struggled up to a sitting position. “What?

Arabella?” He was at once startled and alert. He could barely make out her pale features in the dim early light of dawn.

Arabella drew a deep breath. “It is Josette, Elsbeth’s maid. She is dead, Justin. I found her but a moment ago at the foot of the main staircase. I think her neck is broken.”

“Good God.” He threw back the bedcovers, insensible to the fact that he was quite naked, and added impatiently, “Come, Bella, hand me my dressing gown.”

As she handed him the rich brocade dressing gown, she looked at him, she couldn’t help it. He was utterly beautiful, all lean muscle, and big, his chest covered with black hair and his groin as well. She stepped back, appalled at herself, wondering if he had seen her staring at him.

The earl appeared quite oblivious of her panic, and said brusquely over his shoulder as he strode toward the door, “Well, don’t just stand there, come along, Bella. You did come to me first, did you not?”

“Of course,” she said simply. “Who else would I have gone to?” And it was the truth. She took a double step to catch up with him. “I couldn’t sleep and I was going to the library to fetch a bit of brandy.”

“Thank the good Lord the servants are not up and about yet.” She stood back as he leaned over the twisted form of the old woman and made a brief examination. He rose after a moment and nodded. “You’re right. Her neck is broken. Also she feels cold and very stiff. She’d been dead for some time.” He was silent then, looking back up the stairs, then back to the shapeless body. A slow frown spread over his smooth brow, drawing his black brows together.

“What are you thinking, Justin?” Arabella asked, her eyes following his up the winding staircase.

“I am really not certain at this moment what I am thinking,” he said slowly. Suddenly efficient, he added briskly, “We must do first things first. Fetch a blanket to cover her while I carry her to the back parlor.

I will send for Dr. Branyon.”

Dr. Branyon arrived within the hour, his face drawn with concern. He had imagined any number of frightful accidents, for the stable boy could tell him nothing.

As he gratefully accepted a cup of steaming coffee from Arabella later in the Velvet Room, he said, “There are several broken bones, but she died, as both of you supposed, from a broken neck in the fall down the stairs.

It’s a pity.”