2
Anightmare had Lillian waking with a start, her heart pounding against her ribcage. Moonlight came in through the open window, but no breeze. The stale air was thick with humidity and her hair was matted with sweat.
It was a nightmare, that was all. Counting her breaths, she let her eyes adjust to the darkness. The shadows gave way to become the crowded, cluttered space that was her new home. Temporarily, at least.
Only the kindness of a near-stranger kept her from being abandoned on the streets. And what would come of her then?
She had no answer to that. She shut her eyes as if that could change her reality. All it did was make the sinking sensation worse until she snapped her eyes open with a gasp. She was drowning. Her life as she knew it was over, and she was drowning in panic.
How has my life come to this?
Lillian stared up at the worn rafters of the modiste’s attic. It was pointless to ponder how she’d gotten here. Nearly as useless as wondering what might have been.
What mattered was she was here now and she needed to find a way to move forward.
She struggled to sit upright but the room started to spin. She needed food. Her bones felt weary, her muscles heavy with exhaustion.
She needed rest.
Her stomach turned.
She needed aplan.
The sound of the wooden slats moving in the corner had her jumping to her feet. Fortunately she was small in height or she’d have knocked her head on the rafters. The modiste’s assistant wasn’t so lucky and as she clambered up into the attic space, she muttered a curse under her breath that would have made Lillian blush if she had the energy. As it was she found herself swaying as a wave of nausea took hold and made her skin turn clammy.
The assistant Clara took one look at her and tsked. “Ye shouldn’t be standing, miss. You ought to rest.”
Lillian tried to wave away her concern but she couldn’t resist when the older woman hurried over and set her back down on the makeshift bed of hay and leftover fabric.
“Any news?” Lillian asked. She tried to keep her tone light, unconcerned.
Apparently it was too light because Clara fussed about the attic, still muttering to herself as she tried to make the inherently uncomfortable space suitable for the daughter of a viscount.
She took a deep breath, a smile already curving her lips as she waited for an opportunity to ask again. Whom she was trying to fool with this calm demeanor? She did not know. But a lifetime of good breeding left her unable to reveal her panic, as if she’d spent so long hiding behind this perfect young lady facade, she no longer knew how to escape it.
She no longer knew who she was without it.
But despite her cool tones and her expression of mild curiosity, her limbs quaked with nerves.
This was her last chance. Her time was running out. The modiste did not know she was here and even if she did, she did not own this place. No landlord would wish to house a ruined young lady whose own family did not want her.
And the little money she’d left with was gone. She’d given Clara money for her meals the first day she’d arrived, but ever since she’d been living off the kind assistant’s charity.
Clara finally turned around once more to face her and Lillian’s expression inexplicably brightened. Again, habit. “Was your outing a success?” she asked.
Her heart raced. Her stomach turned. If it wasn’t, what would she do?
Clara’s smile was odd. “I did, my lady.”
Lillian’s heart leapt even as her stomach sank. There was something in the woman’s tone. A wariness. A warning. “And?” she asked. “Where is he now?”
Her hands clenched together.Please don’t say he’s dead. Please don’t say he’s left the city.
Dane was her only hope, and it was a farfetched one at that.
“I had my brother and his friends ask about this Mr. Dane Helms gentleman and I’m afraid…” She trailed off with a pained expression.
Lillian shook so badly that even her cool, calm voice trembled. “Please, Clara. Have you found him?”