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Most of her was in whatever moment of terror she’d been possessed by. Frantically, she counted the horsemen and searched for the identifying banner …
She’d known what it would be, and yet she’d hoped. For George, maybe, for as detestable as his actions were, he surely held her in fondness and he was by all reports as changeable a man as he’d been as a boy. She’d known him since he was tiny and she could use that, could twist all his mixed-up loyalties against him.
But it was not the royal banner with its three silver bars marking George’s distance from his brother’s throne.
It was the white bear and ragged staff on a field of red—the banner of the Kingmaker himself, the Earl of Warwick.
She knew, in that moment, there would be no clemency. Warwick dealt only in death.
“Diana? Diana?”
Diana came back to herself with a shock, like plunging into ice water.
Weston had his hand on her shoulder, shaking her. “What’s wrong?” he demanded.
She blinked three times, although that did nothing to erase the clarity of what she’d just experienced. But the blinking also cleared away the remnants of her vision—or was it a dream?—and what she saw overrode anything else.
Pointing out the window, Diana said, “That’s Joshua Murray’s grandfather walking up from the river. And he’s carrying a boy in his arms.”
Weston spotted them, watching like she did until they were both certain the boy was moving—alive. “You’ll be wanted,” he said abruptly. “Well done, Miss Neville.”
She followed him to the low opening of the stairs, already making a triage list in her head. As she stepped down onto the first tread, something shoved her hard in the back and she fell heavily against Weston. If it had been Joshua in front of her, his repaired leg might have given way, but Weston was solid and only grunted when she hit him.
“Sorry,” she said. “I slipped.”
Except I didn’t, she thought, gripping the rope handrail tightly as she crept the rest of the way down the stairs.
She’d been pushed. Because whatever—whoever—remained in the fabric of this part of the house didn’t like her.
No, not a strong enough word.
They hated her.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
DIANA
NOVEMBER 1918
Jasper Willis had a broken leg. Though Diana knew she was perfectly competent to set it, she had Clarissa ring the local surgeon just to cover all the bases and provide comfort to Beth Willis.
Dr. Bennett, a man in his midsixties, was Northumberland born and bred with a keen eye and an unusual tolerance for progress if his manner to Diana was any indication. She didn’t take his bluntness personally; anyone who’d worked with army officers was accustomed to abruptness. He told Beth Willis that Jasper’s leg had been adequately set, which the mother greatly appreciated.
Clarissa had been present from the moment Mr. Murray brought Jasper in. Her hectic appearance had gone, and the competent headmistress had returned. Still, there was something in her eyes Diana did not like, and she determined not to leave her alone with Jasper.
She’d expected the doctor would want to speak to Clarissa about the circumstances of the boy’s injury, but it was Diana he closeted himself with after everything had been done.
“What’s going on at this school, Nurse?” he asked.
That was more abrupt then she’d expected. “What do you mean?”
“Schoolboys can find trouble locked in the bottom of a barrel, but at the better-run schools you don’t generally misplace eleven-year-olds in the middle of the night. Especially not outdoors. If the weather had been any colder, or if it had been raining, you’d have more than just a broken leg on your hands.”
“I know.”
“Also, I’ve known Clarissa Somersby since she was born. She’s one of the most intelligent people I know, but she’s also high strung and prone to obsession.”
“If you know the family, then you know about her brother.”
