Page 33 of Captured By the Werewolf Highwaymen

Her in-laws continued to stare at her, and she stared back. Mrs. Ballantine opened her mouth, closed it, opened it once more, and closed it again.

Finally, Mrs. Ballantine got to her feet. Her husband heaved himself to standing.

“Very well,” her mother-in-law said tightly. “We shall proceed onward, to Cheltenham. Taking some restorative waters should set me to rights after this appalling voyage.”

Clara didn’t allow herself an exhalation of relief. She folded her hands at her waist and gave a nod.

“But before we go,” Mr. Ballantine muttered, “we would like the pair of silver epergnes.”

“As you don’t entertain,” his wife added loftily, “you have no need for them. We host dinner guests often and lavishly in London, as befitting our position in society, and so, we shall take the French epergnes that are currently residing in the dining room.”

Clara’s feet began to move of their own accord, heading toward the dining room, but she forcibly stopped them. “No.”

“Our footman has a special crate that we have brought along—” Mr. Ballantine stopped abruptly. “No?”

“No,” Clara answered with greater force. “You have taken a considerable number of things from this house, but you won’t take the epergnes.”

“Who sees them?” Mrs. Ballantine demanded. “Who makes use of them? No one.”

“I see them. They belong to me, and I will keep them here. In my house.”

“But…but…” The idea that Clara could refuse them, when she never had in the past, clearly hadn’t occurred to Mr. Ballantine. Or his wife.

They looked dumbfounded.

“Have a pleasant journey,” Clara said brightly, gesturing toward the front door.

As if stupefied by this unusual turn of events, the Ballantines walked together out of the parlor and down the corridor towards the front door. Clara trailed after them, much the way one might escort a wayward insect outside.

Their carriage was indeed still out front. The footman had their trunk down, but had yet to take it into the house.

“Get that back on the carriage,” Mr. Ballantine bit. He snapped his fingers at the coachman. “Don’t stop until we reach Cheltenham.”

“Yes, sir,” the mystified coachman answered.

“Help us in, damn you!” Mr. Ballantine growled.

There was much harumphing and to-doing as the Ballantines clambered back into their vehicle, assisted by their footman. With supremely sour faces, they glared out the window while their luggage was then secured.

“This was most ungracious of you, Clara,” Mr. Ballantine said tartly. “Most ungracious, indeed. Arthur would have been exceptionally displeased. And mortified.”

“As he is dead, sir, he cannot feel anything.”

Mr. Ballantine glowered at her.

“We shall not be calling upon you in the near future,” Mrs. Ballantine snapped.

“I hope you don’t run afoul of the highwaymen,” Clara answered. Then, before her in-laws could voice their concerns, called up to the coachman, “Drive on.”

The coachman snapped the ribbons, and the carriage lurched into motion. It jounced slightly on the untended path but continued to roll away. Clara waited until the vehicle disappeared at the end of the drive before turning back to her house.

Yet she couldn’t go inside just yet. Instead, heart pounding, breath coming quickly, she veered around the manor. The air was fresh in her lungs and brushed coolly against her flushed cheeks. She heard every bird in every tree, saw every leaf on every branch.

She took the side path that led to the glasshouse. Her sanctuary was ahead. She would pick something from one of the fruit trees, and savor it as a celebratory meal in the wake of banishing the Ballantines.

Pulling open the door, she stepped into the close damp warmth.

Desmond followed right behind her. He closed the door after them.