Chapter 1
Chapter One
“Help! Someone help! Please! Oh God!” a woman’s voice shouted.
A high-pitched shriek sliced through the ballroom, dragging all the oxygen out with it like a cool blade. Violin strings screeched to a halt. The evening’s playfulness vanished.
Lady Eliza Newmont, the only daughter of the Earl and Countess of Ramersby, whirled toward the sound, her breath catching in her throat as she watched the crowd freeze.
Then came a second cry, higher, sharper, somewhere deep in the manor.
“Fetch Lord Fontaine, now! Quickly!”
Lord and Lady Fontaine’s ball dissolved into a frantic stampede.
The hiss of satin skirts and the scent of cold sweat swirled in the air as heads turned this way and that to see what was happening.
Some patrons rushed toward the exits. Others waited to see what was going on, clearly eager for the next bit of gossip.
Then, a gloved hand snapped tight around Eliza’s wrist.
“Do stay close, girl,” Eliza’s mother, Lady Ramersby, reprimanded, her voice trembling with theatrical alarm as she pressed her other hand to her bosom. “Oh, what could possibly have caused such a stir? Horace, do something!”
Lord Ramersby had already retreated behind his wife, his face pale as he looked around blankly. “Why yes… yes, of course, my dear. We should… well, we must… Perhaps, we should leave?”
Eliza’s parents pulled her closer as they began whispering to each other behind her, as though she were a shield rather than a daughter.
But Eliza wasn’t listening to them. Her eyes scanned the chaos, searching the sea of panicked faces for one in particular.
Where are you Abigail?
“I need to find her,” Eliza said as she yanked her wrist free.
“Eliza! What are you talking about?” Her father asked.
“Abigail, I must find her now,” Eliza said, her voice shaking.
“Eliza!” Her mother called out, her voice was already lost in the din. “Come back here this instant!”
Eliza pushed through the thick crowd, her heart hammering against her chest as she looked for her friend’s grey eyes and curly red locks.
Guests streamed toward the corridor, a current she fought against as she put her hands into fists and pushed with her elbows.
Shoulders jostled her, but she pressed on.
The heat of too many bodies pressed close made her skin prickle against her swelling anxiety.
She wiped her brow to push away stray hair that had fallen from her chignon.
“I heard it was on the balcony terrace…”
“Did someone fall?”
“Blood, I tell you, blood! So much!”
“Surely it can’t be one so beautiful and young!”
The whispers clawed at Eliza like passing vultures as she moved frantically toward the balcony. She slipped past a cluster of dowagers clutching their fans, ducked around a gentleman frozen in shock, and finally broke through to the corridor.
The French doors to the balcony stood open, night air spilling through. A small crowd had formed a half-circle at the threshold, nobody willing to step further.
The hosts, Lord and Lady Fontaine, were attempting to restore order, their voices strained.
“Please, everyone, remain calm,” Lord Fontaine said, though his own hands shook violently. “There’s been a terrible incident. We ask that you all—”
“Stand back!” Lady Fontaine added shrilly. “Give them room!”
What happened here?
Eliza’s heart lurched. She pushed forward again, ignoring the protests of those she elbowed past. When she reached the balcony doors, the dark breeze hit her, cool and sharp, carrying the scent of roses and something else.
Something metallic. Something wrong.
Two gentlemen knelt on the balcony, coats discarded, loosening the collars of women who had fainted to rouse them. A third man stood at the railing, staring down, his face grey as stone.
Eliza stepped onto the balcony. Her slippers made no sound on the stone. She looked over the railing.
Below, in the garden, shards of green glass caught the moonlight.
A wine bottle, shattered.
And beside it, crumpled in pale blue silk that gleamed dark and wet in the lamplight…
No… it cannot be…
Eliza’s breath stopped.
Red curls spilled across the flagstones. A pale hand, fingers slightly curled, as though reaching for something just out of reach.
Abigail.
Unmoving… and lifeless.
“Eliza! Open this door at once!” her mother yelled, knocking hard on her bedroom door.
Eliza pulled her pillow over her head, pressing it against her ears. The room was dark, curtains drawn against the afternoon sun.
She didn’t want light. Didn’t want sound. Didn’t want to be a part of a world that had stolen Abigail from her. There was only retreat.
“I know you can hear me, young lady!” Lady Ramersby’s voice sharpened. “You have wallowed in this room for five whole days since the funeral. Five days! This behavior is unacceptable, and you know it. I will not have it!”
Eliza said nothing. She couldn’t. Her throat was raw from crying, her eyes swollen. She clutched the pillow tighter.
“You will come downstairs this instant,” her mother pressed. “We have a guest arriving for dinner, and you will be present. Do you hear me, Eliza? You will be present!”
“No,” she whispered.
A pause. Then footsteps receding, and her mother’s voice, sharp as a whip crack echoed down the hall.
“Margaret!”
Oh no.
“Yes, my lady?” Margaret’s voice was soft, cautious from outside the door.
“Give me the key to my daughter’s room.”
“My lady, perhaps if we gave Lady Eliza some more time to adjust. Grief does not mend the quicker when being pressed—”
“The key. Now. This has gone on long enough! I will not have such souring in my home!”
The metallic clink made Eliza’s stomach drop. She sat up just as the lock turned.
No—
The door flew open like a hurricane. Lady Ramersby stood silhouetted in the hallway light, her face a mask of cold fury. She strode across the room and grabbed Eliza’s arm, yanking her out of the bed.
“Mother!” Eliza protested, rubbing her hands where her mother had grabbed her.
“Look at you!” Lady Ramersby hissed, her grip back on her arms and bruising. “Still in your nightgown at three in the afternoon! Your hair is a disaster, your face is inflamed. You look like something dragged from the gutter!”
“I don’t care what I look like—”
“Well, I do!” Her mother’s eyes flashed. “Margaret, draw a bath. Immediately. And find something decent for her to wear. That pink gown with the rosettes will do.”
“Please, Mother. I’m in no state to entertain guests. I beg you,” Eliza said, her voice breaking as tears welled behind her hazel eyes.
“I don’t care what mood you’re in. You will bathe, you will dress, and you will come downstairs. This ridiculous display ends now,” her mother ordered.
Something inside Eliza cracked.
“Ridiculous? My best friend is dead! She’s dead, and you want me to sit through dinner as though nothing’s happened? You know nothing of grief! You don’t care about anything except your reputation and—”
Crack.
The slap came fast and hard, snapping Eliza’s head to the side. Her cheek burned, hot with pain and shame.
“How dare you,” Lady Ramersby said, her voice dangerously quiet. “How dare you speak to me that way, you ungrateful chit! I have tolerated your hysterics for long enough. If you are not downstairs in two hours, presentable and polite, I will make you regret it. Do I make myself clear?”
Eliza’s eyes stung with the tears she had tried to hold back. She said nothing.
Lady Ramersby turned to Margaret, who stood frozen by the doorway.
“Prepare the water. Make her presentable.”
Then she swept from the room, leaving the door wide open like a violation.
The garish pink gown felt more like a costume fit for the theatre than dinner.
Eliza stood in front of her mirror, barely recognizing herself.
Margaret had done her best, pinning her dark blonde hair into a simple yet elegant style, applying white powder to hide the redness around her eyes, fastening the ridiculous rosettes that cascaded down the bodice with precision.
But nothing could hide the hollow look in her gaze.
“You look lovely, my lady,” Margaret said softly, adjusting a final curl with a pin.
Eliza met her maid’s eyes in the reflection. Margaret was only a few years older than her, and they had always been closer to friends than servant and master. Her expression held genuine sympathy, for which Eliza was grateful.
“Thank you, Margaret,” Eliza whispered. “For trying.”
“I know it’s difficult, my lady. I cannot imagine how it must feel… What happened to Lady Whitfield… it’s a tragedy. You’re allowed to grieve.”
Lady Whitfield.
The title sent a chill through Eliza. Abigail had only been married six months. Six months of what Eliza suspected had been quiet suffering.
Eliza descended the stairs slowly, each step a walk to the gallows. Voices drifted from the drawing room. She noted her father’s nervous laugh, her mother’s bright, artificial chatter, and another voice. Male. Smooth and cultured.
She froze in the doorway.
It cannot be!
Lord Whitfield sat in her father’s favorite chair, a glass of brandy in hand, looking as fresh and composed as ever.
As if he hadn’t buried his wife less than a week ago.
His dark hair was perfectly groomed, his cravat immaculate.
No shadows under his eyes. No grief etched into his handsome features.
Nothing like a man in mourning.
“Ah, there she is!” Lord Ramersby said, his voice too loud, too cheerful. “Eliza, my dear, come in. Lord Whitfield has been waiting.”
Eliza’s feet wouldn’t move. She stared at Whitfield, and he gazed back with an expression of mild interest, as though she were a painting he was considering purchasing.