Haunted Hearts

1

London, England

February 1882

Lady Melphia Matson—Elphi to her close family and friends—was cursed.

Actually, Elphi silently corrected herself with an inward cringe; she was haunted and cursed.

And the more she pondered the issue as her carriage rumbled down the dark cobbled street to her destination, she wasn't sure which of the two was more distressing.

But either way, the two went hand in hand like pernicious best friends. It was more the fact Elphi didn't know the cause behind either or which one came about first.

Much like the chicken and the egg.

Or if it even mattered. Elphi didn't think so because she had no bloody idea what had occurred within the past six years to bring her to where she was now. At least, she assumed it had to have been something within that time frame because that was what Roderick, her obnoxious but lovable older brother, referred to as 'The Withering.'

The first time he'd used the infernal term, she'd stared dumbly at him over breakfast and begged for clarification, half dreading his answer.

He lowered his newspaper and arched a sardonic brow, "You've lost two fiancés in the space of two years, Elphi-"

"You make it sound as though I misplaced them along with my opera glasses," she muttered under her breath, interrupting him as she stabbed the last morsel of her sausage with more vigor than necessary before plopping it in her mouth.

And if one wanted to get technical—she inwardly seethed while chewing to keep her mouth occupied—there were two and a half years between her engagements. She wasn't a heathen.

First, there'd been her beloved childhood sweetheart, Lord Bradford Horatio Morris—tall, blonde, and as charming as he was good-looking. She'd adored everything about him.

He was her first love, her first kiss, and it had nearly shattered her entire existence when he'd suddenly collapsed and died while they danced at their engagement ball.

The empty, painful ache in her chest where her heart used to be was only soothed when she met Sir Fitzhugh Raycraft, Baronet, almost two years later.

Elphi winced and bit back a groan.

Poor Fitz. Not so tall or handsome as dear Bradford, but just as blonde; he'd stumbled into her life—quite literally—just as surely as he'd stumbled out.

Often laughingly proclaiming his penchant for tripping over thin air would be the death of him, Elphi had to admit it still came as quite a shock when she received the news that he'd fallen down the stairs while sleepwalking and broke his neck two weeks before their wedding.

"I can only imagine the toll it has taken on your heart," Roderick said, snapping her out of her maudlin thoughts and bringing her back to the matter at hand.

Elphi clenched her fist around her fork and slowly lowered it to the table as she stared at her empty plate. She willed herself to ignore the overwhelming temptation to hurl the pronged weapon at her brother's head or perhaps throw both plate and fork in quick succession.

She may be a little rusty, but she knew from experience back when they were younger that between the two makeshift weapons, one would hit her target despite any evasive maneuvers on his part.

Roderick watched for a moment as though sensing the quiet battle raging within her. His gaze flicked between her face and the utensil, inches away from her fingers drumming atop the table.