Lady Eleanor Mary Cantwell, daughter of the Marquess of Salford, is a proper young lady. With her golden complexion, raven-black hair, and manners befitting a princess, Lady Eleanor has always been deemed a belle. There is just one problem.
Lady Ele...
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Eleanor's father arrived soon after she had dressed. He walked in quietly, not daring to really look her in the eyes. His eyes were far more bloodshot than it had been when he had first arrived and there was no cravat in sight. His face was also littered with grey whiskers – he had not shaved in days, something completely unlike him. All in all, he looked the worst she'd ever seen him.
Eleanor, on the other hand, was neatly dressed, no signs of her sleepless, savage nights. She was fully dressed in a lavender day dress after having had a hot bath and her wayward curls had been pulled back into a chignon. The maid had been aghast at seeing her state when she first arrived. She'd been wearing the same nightdress for the past four days now, the one she had changed into after the attack and the blood had coated the old. She had not bathed and her hair had been a dishevelled mess.
The maid was simply a miracle worker, in Eleanor's opinion.
When he finally lifted his head, he reeled back, shocked. He probably had expected the worst. Having not stepped out of the room in four days, not even letting in her maid to bathe and dress her, he would have expected her to look like a savage.
But there was no hiding the dark bags under her eyes – no amount of powder could conceal those.
Salford cleared his throat before cautiously looking at her, unable to speak. When he finally gathered the courage to speak, Eleanor held out a hand.
'My dear, I really am sorr –' he had started.
'Stop,' she said calmly, her palm held up. 'I asked you here because I have questions. You can answer them and leave.'
Her father gulped in response but then quieted. Eleanor turned to the chair next to her vanity and sat. Her father continued to stand and she made no move to offer him a seat.
'Tell me about my father,' she said plainly although her heart beat a staccato in her chest.
At this, her father's eyes bulged out. 'Your father?' he asked, incredulous.
Eleanor nodded and then clarified, 'My birth father.'
She didn't think his eyes could bulge out anymore than it already had, but he accomplished it, his expression betraying shock, confusion and a hint of fear.
'Your father,' he repeated, rubbing his jaw and looking around. 'Well, I never saw him. He was one of the men who staged an attack at Company Headquarters. You know the story.'
Eleanor shook her head. 'I know your recollection of it. But I do not know the story. I do not know what actually happened.'
'Eleanor,' her father said, gently. 'Your father died. You were taken from his arms because you were alive.'
'But I do not understand why he brought me along,' she stressed. 'Why would any man risk his child's life like that?' Ever since she had heard the story of her adoption, back when she had been ten years old, she had often wondered how any man could be so foolish. But the lack of an answer had never bothered her before as it did now. The question had started to fester on her skin like a parasite ever since she had arrived here. The more she thought about it, the deeper its talons sank until it was no longer on her skin. It was underneath it, a part of her, and it drowned her thoughts.
