New Excerpt from Edwin Copperpot

This is the last excerpt I'll be posting from Edwin Copperpot, my WIP. This excerpt immediately follows my previous one, two posts down. I don't want to give too much away, so I think this is the perfect spot to end for now. As always please forgive any first draft typos and comments are of course welcome!

If you'd like to read the excerpts in their entirety, please go to http://www.nightshadecity.com/EdwinExcerpt.html
xoxo -- Hilary

Reasonably lovelorn, Maggie Rose slumped before the parlor harpsichord, tapping on its keys with her pinkies, the only digits on either hand which had yet to win their freedom. Her nose tickled, it needed adjusting. With lumpy knuckles she smashed the sagging feature skyward. As of late, it seemed to be sliding down her face, akin to unset pudding.

Perhaps, if she swooned and fell to the parlor floor Edwin might rush to her side, thereby falling deeply in love with her. Oh, the thought. After all, she had to be the reason he continued to reside at the manor.

It surely wasn't on account of ancient Mr. Parker or Monsieur Bastia; he spoke no English, barring a few obscenities, which he spewed out in his guttural accent at the most inappropriate of times. It couldn't be for Nurse Aldridge, even with a temperament sweet as marmalade, a governess would never be a proper choice for a man of Edwin's fine stature, not to mention she came with a nest of roaches that had chosen her generous belly as their eternal address. Yes, she decided with resolution, he must, in fact, be there for her.

Hearing Edwin's familiar footsteps nearing the front door, Maggie seized her chance. With the twist of the doorknob, she heaved her carcass backward, tumbling gracelessly onto the Oriental rug. She squirmed on the floor, feeling no pain being dead and all, but it was the effect she was going for. How could he leave a lady in such distress? She waited for his response.

Edwin trotted past the parlor, spotting Maggie Rose from the corner of his eye. She lay sprawled on the parlor floor in the most unladylike of positions. He tipped his hat in acknowledgement. "Miss Rose," he said, jogging up the stairs. Why give the pitiful dear false hope? Other things were weighing on his mind. He stuck a finger through his ear, adjusting the gray matter. Somehow it had been knocked slightly askance. ---------------

Lord Spencer Fitzroy took off his reading spectacles and rubbed between his eyes. He slumped back in his chair, concerned. Pulling on the end of his tapered beard, he mulled over the proposal, or to be more precise, the demand put before him. He didn't like the idea. It set precedents that shouldn't be set--ever. But he owed a debt and it needed to be paid. He would never be sitting where he sat now, had he not repaid his debts. A man in his position had to sometimes do things, take actions. Actions he dearly did not want to take, but if removed from his office, than who would be left in charge? What corrupt measures might they take? With the power his position granted, he did not want to risk finding out. A bit of collusion came with the title.

He swiveled around in his chair and stared out the window into the impervious dark. He wondered what could possibly be the driving force behind such a request. It seemed rather odd. As much as he disliked the idea of it, it would be honored. There was no other choice. His life had come back to haunt him--again. One mistake still hung over his head, now compelling him to make another, or in any event it felt that way.

Someone knocked on the door. Sitting up straight, Spencer Fitzroy turned back towards his desk. "Come in."

A man glided through the door. "Pardon me, sir."

Spencer Fitzroy looked up from his papers, as if hard at work. "Yes, what is it, Mr. Butcher?"

"The task, sir--it's done."

Spencer Fitzroy exhaled inaudibly. "I see. Thank you for your haste."

"Thank you, sir." The man turned to go.

"Mr. Butcher, wait a moment," said Spencer Fitzroy. "Out of curiosity, what was the response?"

"Happiness at first, same as most, I did in fact detect a hint of fret, smelled a smidge of panic, but maybe that was the gentleman's nerves getting the better of him, the excitement of it all. It plays with the head."

Spencer Fitzroy leaned back. "Perhaps, I'm sure you're right. He has nothing to be fearful of."

The man evaporated into the wall. Spencer Fitzroy turned back to the window. He knew his last statement bordered on a lie, but possibly not, only time would tell and that he had plenty of. There was much to distrust in all of this, an overwhelming feeling of foreboding he seldom experienced. He wanted to believe the requester's intentions altruistic, but something left him feeling hollow, an intangible feeling of ill will cloaked in the guise of purity--like unwittingly making a deal with the devil.