Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
“ P unctuality!” The Earl’s words shattered the uneasy silence in the drawing room.
The three women in the room flinched as if they’d been struck. Marjory, the youngest of Edgerton’s daughters, gasped. She dropped her embroidery on her lap as a bright bead of blood welled on her fingertip. She stuck it into her mouth while her wide eyes flicked nervously toward her father.
Lady Bridget sat beside her sister on the faded damask settee. She kept her face neutral and clenched her fists tightly, steeling herself for the tirade that was sure to follow.
Near the window, Lady Edgerton sat alone in an armchair. Her gaze remained trained outside as though she might will herself into the world beyond the glass and forget about the one behind her.
The Earl of Edgerton was, of course, oblivious to the taut undercurrent of tension that rippled through the room, too consumed by his own fury to notice or care.
“Punctuality is a virtue. Do you think His Grace will tolerate this kind of nonsense?” He paced before his wife and daughters with his hands clasped behind his back like a commander surveying his regiment.
Bridget glanced at her mother, hoping for some sign of support or intervention.
Lady Edgerton sat pale and silent, folding and unfolding her gloves with an absent rhythm. Her gaze darted toward her husband, then danced away again like a skittish bird.
Bridget would get no help there, not that she had expected any. She smoothed an imaginary wrinkle on her dress and murmured, “I’m certain Abigail will be down any moment, Father,” she replied. The practiced calm in her voice masked the unease coiling in her chest.
“She’d better be,” he snapped. “I’ll drag her all the way down the aisle myself if I have to.”
Bridget’s stomach twisted at his words. He would do it. She sent up a silent prayer that Abby would appear soon as her father resumed his pacing with fervor.
Five steps one way, a pause to glare at the ceiling; five steps the other way, a pause to sweep an angry gaze over his wife and daughters. And repeat.
The mantel clock chimed softly, marking another quarter hour. The Earl spun toward the empty doorway. His face darkened.
“I shall not have her embarrass this family,” he gritted through clenched teeth. “Go and fetch her. Now.”
There was no question as to who he meant. Bridget rose and dipped into a small curtsey, more out of ingrained habit than genuine respect.
“Yes, Father,” she said, keeping her voice steady.
Marjory’s wide-eyed gaze tracked her as she crossed the room. Bridget offered a faint, reassuring smile. If anything had gone awry upstairs, the blame would fall squarely on Bridget’s shoulders. It always did.
“This match is my salvation. If her tardiness gives the Duke even a moment’s doubt, I’ll be ruined,” he muttered under his breath.
Bridget silently fumed as she hurried from the room. Her father’s bluster about money and reputation—he’d long since gambled away both. Now, he sought to barter his eldest daughter like a well-fed autumn hog. She clenched her fists as she mounted the stairs, considering how best to coax her reluctant sister to face her destiny.
The last forty-eight hours had been a whirlwind, set off by her father’s sudden announcement that Abigail was to wed the most notoriously cold-hearted duke in the country. The Earl had crowed over his triumph, declaring it the match of a lifetime.
Abigail’s pale face flashed in Bridget’s mind. She’d sat silent, twisting her hands together until they turned white. Her sister had looked like she might shatter under the weight of their father’s plans.
Bridget had tried to offer comfort, but what reassurance could she give? That a life with such a man might prove tolerable? That perhaps the rumors of the Duke’s cold disdain and indifference had been exaggerated? The words had tasted like ash on her tongue, empty and bitter.
Ascending the staircase, she kept her steps measured, though her pulse quickened with every step. The Earl was correct about one thing. This match would steady the Finch’s rapidly sinking ship. If Abigail gave the Duke cause to back out of the arrangement, it would seal all their fates.
The upper hallway was silent, save for the soft creak of the wooden stairs beneath her feet. Morning sunlight filtered through the windows, painting pale patterns on the walls. At the far end of the corridor, Abigail’s door loomed slightly ajar, foreboding in its stillness.
Bridget’s steps faltered just outside the door. Unease swamped her. Her hand hovered over the latch as she hesitated. A dozen possibilities—none of them good—went through her mind. For a fleeting moment, she considered turning back, returning to her father with hollow assurances, but the thought passed as quickly as it came. Something was very wrong.
Taking a steadying breath, she pushed the door open.
The faint scent of lavender, Abigail’s favorite perfume, lingered in the air, calm and familiar.
“Abby?” she called.
Only silence greeted her.
The chamber was empty. The gossamer curtains filtered soft light into the room she shared with her sisters. Bridget’s stomach clenched as she absorbed the telltale signs of a hasty departure.
The wardrobe doors stood ajar, and several drawers were pulled out at odd angles with their contents jumbled. Abigail’s favorite shawl, a delicate confection of pale blue silk, was conspicuously absent from its usual place draped over the dressing chair. A hairbrush lay on the floor with strands of Abby’s golden hair still clinging to its bristles.
On the bed, amid the disarray of rumpled covers and discarded clothing, lay Abigail’s best dress, carefully arranged in stark contrast to the rest of the room. The fresh lace at the cuffs and neckline gleamed in the morning light, and the new ribbon at the waist was tied in a precise bow, as though someone had taken great care to ensure it was perfect.
Bridget moved closer and ran her fingers over the delicate lace. She swallowed down a sob as she looked around the disheveled room once more. The truth beginning to penetrate her disbelief.
Her gaze fell to the dressing table, where her mother’s brooch rested atop a neatly folded note. The brooch was an elegant oval, fashioned from gold filigree and set with a single lustrous pearl at its center. Bridget’s breath caught as she picked it up. The familiar weight stirred memories of her mother wearing it on better days when the house was more like a home, even if it was only an illusion.
She tightened her grip around the brooch as she reached for the note. It felt heavier than the jewel, even though it was a scrap of paper. Bridget hesitated. To read it would make everything real. As long as the words remained sealed, there was a sliver of hope—a faint, fragile chance that Abigail’s absence was something less catastrophic, something that could still be undone.
Unfolding the note, she read the words that blurred through her unbidden tears.
I cannot do this. The thought of marrying that man terrifies me beyond measure. I know this will cause great difficulty for our family, and for that, I am truly sorry.
Please forgive me.
Abigail.
Bridget sank onto the edge of the bed with the note clutched in her hand. A torrent of emotions surged within her, shock and fear battling for dominance. Anger simmered just beneath them, and she struggled to contain it.
And yet, buried deep within the chaos, a hint of admiration stirred—a reluctant acknowledgment of her sister’s courage to do what Bridget herself never could. She had always stayed, always shouldered the burden of their father’s expectations, their family’s struggles. She would have never dared to write a note like this.
“Oh, Abby,” she whispered, “what have you done?”
Bridget drew in a deep breath, forcing herself to think clearly. There was no time for panic or recrimination. Action was her only option now. She had to act swiftly to mitigate the damage as best she could. Her mind raced, considering and discarding plans in rapid succession.
A delay—yes, that might work.
If she sent a note, carefully worded and vague enough to mask Abigail’s absence, perhaps it would buy her the time she desperately needed. Something urgent but not suspicious. It was a gamble, but the alternative was unthinkable.
Rising from the bed, she crossed to the writing desk and snatched up a fresh sheet of paper. She sifted through the assortment of quills scattered across the desk. Most were worn with ragged tips from Abigail’s heavy hand and lack of care. With a huff of frustration, Bridget selected the least damaged one. It wasn’t perfect, but it would have to do.
She dipped the quill into the ink, tapping it against the rim to remove the excess. The frayed nib forced her to write slowly with deliberate strokes to avoid smears or blots. It wouldn’t do to give the Duke any reason to think something was dreadfully amiss. They simply needed a bit of time.
Your Grace,
I hope this note finds you well. I regret to inform you that unforeseen circumstances have arisen within our household, requiring a slight delay in this morning’s arrangements. Lady Abigail is currently indisposed, but please rest assured all will be well.
I humbly request your patience and understanding in this matter. We are ever grateful for your generosity and kindness.
With the utmost respect,
Lady Bridget Finch
Folding the note carefully, she sealed it with a drop of wax. Bridget hurried to the bell rope and gave it an impatient yank, hoping the answer would be swift. They had less than an hour before they were to meet His Grace at the church.
As she stood there, her thoughts raced ahead to what awaited her downstairs—her father’s inevitable wrath, the repercussions she couldn’t yet see. One thing was certain: the Duke must not arrive before she could contain this disaster.
It was Mary who answered her call. Arriving slightly out of breath, the woman stepped into the doorway with her usual quiet efficiency. She had served the Finch family for nearly a decade and was one of the few remaining staff, juggling the roles of ladies’ maid to all the Finch women and general household maid.
“You called, My Lady?” Mary asked.
Bridget turned, relief easing the tension in her shoulders. “Mary, I need you to take this note to Wildmere,” she said, handing over the sealed letter. “Ensure it reaches His Grace right away. Please—hurry.”
Mary’s brow furrowed as her gaze swept over the disheveled room and back to Bridget’s face. Whatever questions she had, she kept to herself. “Yes, My Lady,” the maid said, tucking the note into her apron. With a quick curtsey, she slipped away, heading down the back stairs.
Bridget exhaled, her shoulders sagging for a beat before she forced herself upright. Mary could be trusted. She would carry out her task without fail.
She needed to focus now—not on her swirling thoughts but the tempest awaiting her downstairs. The impending disaster demanded every ounce of her composure, and there was no room for hesitation.
Checking her reflection in the mirror, she pinched her cheeks to bring some color to her pale face and squared her shoulders.
As she descended the stairs, she kept her head high and rested her hand lightly on the banister, looking for all the world as if she were coming down for tea. Her insides heaved and pitched. Every instinct screamed for her to delay a moment longer, to rehearse what she would say, but there was no time. Abigail was gone, and the truth would not wait.
As she neared the drawing room, her father’s voice carried into the hall, sharp and impatient. “What is taking so long? We cannot afford these delays, not today of all days!”
Bridget stepped inside and met her father’s thunderous gaze.
“Well? Where is she?” he demanded. “What nonsense has kept her this time?”
She held his eye, summoning every ounce of composure she could muster. “Father,” she said with a steady, levelheaded tone, “I need a word with you. Privately.”
His brow furrowed, and his eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Privately? Why can’t she come down here like the rest of us?” he asked, gesturing impatiently toward the empty space where Abigail should have stood.
“It’s important,” Bridget insisted, cursing his stubbornness. They needed cool heads and, for once, to work together. “Please, in your study.”
“I have no time for this dithering. Speak what you have to say.” He raked a hand through his hair as he glared at his daughter. “God’s teeth, but women are insufferable.”
Bridget’s spine stiffened, and her breath caught sharply in her chest. Fury surged through her, hot and unrelenting, extinguishing the trembling in her hands and replacing it with a cold, steely resolve. How dare he? How dare he reduce her—reduce all of them—to nothing more than nuisances in his grand schemes?
Fine. Let him face the mess head-on. He could figure out how to salvage his precious match without her. She straightened, lifting her chin as her voice cut through the air, sharp and unyielding.
“Abigail is gone.”