Until the Dawn Read Online Free

meals for the staff each day. I also do a little baking now and then.”
    He reached inside his coat and then threw a packet of Dutch cookies on the counter. “Are you responsible for those?”
    Her mouth went dry. She wasn’t the only one to sell goodies to the tourists who stepped onto the pier each morning, but Sophie’s baked goods were always the most popular. She sold cookies and sweet cakes to the vendors who manned the stalls near the pier and then gave the proceeds to her father. That money had paid for the town’s only telegraph station.
    “I am, but I haven’t done anything wrong,” Sophie said. “I don’t use Vandermark money for the ingredients, and there is no crime in selling food to hungry travelers.”
    “Then let me outline the crimes for which I have evidence,” he said in a clipped voice. “The servants at Dierenpark have participated in exploiting my home as an obscene tourist attraction. You have fueled malicious slander about the tragedies in my family. You have used this house in a manner I never authorized. You’ve done nothing wrong? Miss van Riijn, let me count the ways. Your wrongs surpass the depth and breadth and height a soul can reach. . . .”
    His ability to mangle the immortal sonnet of Elizabeth Barrett Browning would have been amusing if she weren’t so intimidated by him. She forced her voice to remain calm.
    “I’ve never met someone who can take one of poetry’s most remarkable passages about the purity of love and twist it into embittered screed on the spot,” she said.
    He quirked a brow, and for the first time, she saw a gleam of respect light his handsome features. “We all have our talents,” he said dryly. The flash of humor was fleeting. His face iced over again as he fired another question at her. “How many tourists have you allowed into my house?”
    “We don’t allow tourists inside,” Sophie said, wincing at the memory of telling Mr. Gilroy that on special occasions some tourists were welcomed in. Mr. Vandermark rose from the stool and stalked down the hall leading to the parlor where they relaxed once their daily chores were finished. It was an impressive room, with a bank of windows overlooking the river and a fire burning in the brick fireplace. A table beneath the window was full of antiques—a large Delft platter from the seventeenth century, a silver soup tureen embellished with arching dolphins for handles, even a few candlesticks from a medieval monastery. At the front of the table was a small card printed in Sophie’s own handwriting.
    Please don’t touch .
    It was proof they had allowed visitors into the home.
    Mr. Vandermark stiffened as he glared at the note. He picked it up and carried it toward her, leaning heavily on his cane as he approached.
    “If you allow no visitors, which of the servants need a reminder such as this?” he asked in a tight voice.
    Heat flushed her face. She needed to confess what they’d been doing, but there wasn’t an ounce of compassion or kindness in his expression. “On rare occasions we invite a select type of visitor—”
    He cut her off. “And on rare occasions I believe the staff at Dierenpark are conspiring to violate every principle of loyalty on earth. You’re fired. You’re all fired. You have ten minutes to get off my property, and don’t ever come back.”
    Sophie flinched. This estate was her refuge, her paradise on earth.
    Mr. Gilroy stepped out of the shadows. “Quentin, perhaps we should wait . . .”
    Sophie held her breath, praying for a reprieve. Mr. Vandermark seemed to sag and weaken as he hobbled toward a kitchen stool, easing onto it with a grimace. His face was ashen and drawn in pain. Perspiration beaded on his face, and when he dabbed at it with a handkerchief, Sophie noticed his hand trembled. Perhaps it was her imagination, but it seemed he was barely ahead of an avalanche of pain and sorrow gathering behind him. When he finally spoke, his voice was devoid of