The Game's Afoot!

“Demme, girl. You gave me a fright.” The rotund newcomer blustered, his eyes nervous, his movements without grace as his knobby fingers loosened the pristine ascot secured around his excuse of a neck. “I see you’ve not lost your mother’s sharp tongue, God rest her soul.”

He moved to the couch where Tasha still leaned against her brawny rescuer. Bracken’s arm tightened around her shoulder as the man spoke.

“Saw her go in from the other side of the lake,” he wrung his hands. “Nothing I could do.” He looked from Bracken to Jason and back at Tasha. “You remember ‘bout my bad knee, don’t you poppet?”

“Oh, God. My name is Poppet?”

“Poppy,” Jason corrected. “Poppy Hatchamshire, Lady Hatcher, to be exact.”

“It was my bad knee that kept me from your side, Poppy.”

His excuse didn’t ring true in Tasha’s ears. Her spidey-sense kept up a steady stream of tingles she couldn’t entirely blame on the lies coming from this interloper.

“You saw me go in? Then you know who pushed me?” The sooner she solved this thing, the sooner her fairy god-mother could get her out of this body and back to her own.

The man recoiled, one hand pressed to his chest in an effeminant pose. “I saw no one.” His imploring gaze touched each of them. “I swear it, on my dead wife’s fortune.”

“My Lord,” Bracken’s loaded tones cut the tension in the air. “Sir Jason and I, too, would like get to the bottom of this mystery. But Lady Hatcher’s needs must be attended to first. Your step-daughter has suffered through quite an ordeal. I will carry her to her room. You will send for a physician, immediately.”

“A doctor?” The elder man’s heightened color eased as he backed from the room. “’Course, Your Grace.” He cleared his throat and gave a final glance in Tasha’s direction before he scurried from the room.

Tasha tugged on Bracken’s coat. “Who was that? And why did he call you ‘Your Grace’?”

His expression was one of puzzlement. “Lady Hatcher, do you not recognize your own step-father, the Earl of Rottingham?”

“No. But maybe that’s a good thing.” Tasha shook her head. Rottingham seemed an appropriate name for such a weasel. “What does he want from me?”

“Your fortune, of course,” the one called Jason answered with a snort. “If you die before you marry, he will inherit everything your mother left to you.”

“Dispicable,” Tasha let the word roll out. Thankful she wasn’t living out this era on a permanent basis.

“Dispicable, indeed,” Bracken stated, his attention on the task of picking up her form from the brocaded settee.

Tasha tamped down the butterflies cascading inside her ribcage as he levered her weight against his solid chest. His arms were secure and protective beneath her as their eyes met. Her chest constricted and she broke the contact, leaning her head against his broad shoulder.

He didn’t speak as he carried her from the room and up the grand staircase. The candle sconces on the wall lit up his granite features and accented the hollows of his cheeks. She felt warm all over, despite the draft and her still-damp clothing.

“Thank you, for saving my life.”
He inclined his head but didn’t speak. She assumed it was due to the effort it cost him to haul her none too slim figure up one helluva massive flight of stairs. There were some things about the past that were better left in the past. Like grand staircases. And corsets. She shifted in his arms and studied his expressionless features. She admitted to a twinge of envy for the girl she was supposed to be. Was Bracken in love with his Lady Hatcher?

“So, why me?”

“Pardon?”

“The engagement?” Her step-father had referred to Bracken with such deference. “You’re some kind of Duke, right? So, why Lady Hatcher? Why not some princess or duchess or something?”

“Do you always speak of yourself in third person?”

“Must be the lack of oxygen from the drowning.” She smiled and gave a shrug.

“You are the daughter of the late Earl of Hatchamshire. Your station makes you an acceptable alliance for a duke.” He glanced into her eyes. “Especially acceptable to a duke with an impoverished estate.”

“So, this is a business arrangement? You don’t love me?” She felt sorry for the girl whose body she inhabited. Drowning and finding out your fiancé didn’t love you on the same day sucked.

“You should be happy that I do not love you, my dear Poppy.” He kicked open a door, walked to the middle of the sumptuous boudoir and set her on her feet. “Dispicable fortune hunters. You said so yourself not ten minutes past. And I agreed. Yet, I must count myself among them. Be assured, I am no common fortune hunter, my lady.”

“No, of course not. I didn’t mean … I didn’t know …” She clamped her mouth closed. She’d never meant to insult him. He’d saved her life. She owed him. Besides, what did she care? She was going home as soon as she figured out who killed Poppy Hatchamshire.

“Others may profess their undying love but I would not tarnish our arrangement with lies.” Bracken’s impassioned words reached out to her. “I chose to confess my need for your fortune. After careful consideration, you graciously accepted my offer. To which, I am eternally grateful.” He turned and walked slowly away but stopped in the hallway outside her door where he turned his head to meet her gaze.

“Yes, I am after your fortune, my lady,” he spoke softly, his passion spent. “But your heart, you may keep or give as you will.” He lingered a moment longer before he made his way down the hall and out of her sight.

This job was going to be a lot harder than she thought. A twinge of doubt twisted inside her chest. When it was over, would she be ready to leave Bracken behind and go back to her real life?