Amanda Scott Read Free

coast near Scarborough, you know—after Christmas, and only look what came of that! Poor Laurence took a chill and died of it, that’s what.”
    “Good gracious, Sabrina, surely you are not blaming your husband’s death on the fact that he finally paid some little heed to his children!”
    “No, no, don’t be absurd. You have diverted me from what I was telling you. Emily, Giles has written from Eton to say he will not come home for the long vacation because he does not wish to do so, and poor dear Melanie scarcely speaks a word to anyone anymore. I promise you, she was used to be the most delightful, cheerful little girl. She is very like you, you know.”
    “I pray you will cease to think of me as a child, Sabrina. I promise you that I am as fully grown as I am ever like to be.”
    “Nonsensical girl.” Her sister regarded her fondly. “You know perfectly well that I meant only that the child resembles you. You were just such a fairy creature when you were her age. Her hair is as flaxen as yours and just as straight and fine. Her governess, Miss Brittan, has convinced her to wear it in two plaits, and the look suits her.” Sabrina paused, but when no one else said anything, she looked down at her teacup and said hesitantly, “I have not told you the worst of it, Emily. Indeed, I am ashamed to confess that such a dreadful thing has come to pass in my very own house.”
    “Good gracious, what else can there be? You have cited quite a list of woes to me already.”
    “But this last thing is really worse than all the rest,” Sabrina said, glancing apologetically at Miss Lavinia. “Miss Lavinia’s sister, as I believe I have told you before, was Laurence’s mother, Letitia Arncliffe. Dolly is named for her. Her full name is Dorothy Le—”
    “For goodness’ sake, get on with the important part, Sabrina,” Emily said impatiently. “The Rivington family tree can be of only the smallest interest to me.”
    “Very well.” Sabrina sighed. “Miss Lavinia inherited some of her mama’s jewelry, including a number of excellent pieces—”
    “Particularly the rubies,” interjected Miss Lavinia reminiscently. “I was always partial to the rubies. Never could wear them, of course. Looked like a mouse with apples tied round its neck, but I liked ’em.”
    Emily’s eyes widened. “You speak in the past tense, ma’am. Can it be that your jewels have gone missing?”
    “Stolen,” said Sabrina tragically. “Right out of her jewel case in her own bedchamber. And pray do not suggest that one of the servants may have taken them, for if anyone else makes such a suggestion, I am sure they will all leave. Every one! It is quite odious enough that Meriden has called in the Bow Street Runners. Bumptious beasts asking officious questions. Pompous, dreadful, common little men who—”
    “Meriden?” Emily ignored the rest, her attention riveting on the name. “The Earl of Meriden, Sabrina? Crazy Jack?”
    “Of course, the Earl of Meriden,” her sister replied tartly. “Who else should have done such a thing? And I do not think it at all becoming in you to refer to him by that dreadful nickname, though now I come to think of it—”
    “But all the bucks in London call him Crazy Jack,” Emily said calmly, “and most of the ladies do too, for he is always ripe for mischief. They say he will bet on anything, that he fights duels for the fun of them, and that he is always in the thick of things. I have met him, you know. He is a handsome man, I believe, though I candidly admit that I am partial to men with dark hair and gray eyes. But I liked his quick smile and friendly manner too. Of course,” she added, reflecting on certain specific occasions when she would gladly have slapped the earl’s flashing grin right off his handsome face, “he can be dictatorial, impertinent, and unbecomingly arrogant at times. However, I do not see what he has to do with you.”
    “But surely I told you,” Sabrina said, staring